Love, Loss, and What I Wore
What to wear while working 9 to 5 and grieving 24/7.
Allow me to reintroduce myself…
Hello to all my followers! As always, I am sorry to see you here. I wanted to start this post off by reintroducing myself to all the new followers that have joined here (hi!!!) and maybe explain to longer-term followers who might not have seen what’s been going on.
For the new followers - my name is Mackenzie, and I will try to keep this short. Nearly nine months ago, my wife Megan passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Within just a couple of hours, I went from having the life of my dreams to losing my wife and becoming a widow at the age of 28. I became the only widow my age and certainly the only gay widow I knew. I found myself only physically and mentally capable of reading the work of other grievers and writing daily about my own experiences.
I started this blog/newsletter/whatever you want to call it less than three months in. I had two goals in mind: First, I wanted to talk about grief openly and honestly with the hope of making grief feel less isolating. Second, I wanted to share my wife, Megan, with anyone who would listen. Recently, I have gotten the opportunity to do just that.
For those who have been around - back in June, I posted an essay about my experience attending an adult grief camp retreat. My post received way more views than normal (no clue how, thanks algorithm?), and a couple of days after posting, a journalist from CNN reached out to me. She had stumbled across my essay, and wanted to share more about the concept of adult grief camps and interview me to tell my story. At first thought, I panicked. But then I thought about my goals with writing. If I really wanted to help facilitate open conversations about grief, and share Megan with the world, well then this would be just that, wouldn’t it? I agreed, and a few weeks and a few conversations later, CNN published this article early on a Sunday morning. (Hilariously, due to the timing of other world events that day, there was a moment when the front page of CNN was the announcement of Biden stepping aside from the nomination and then my face next to him. It was a wild day.)
The article linked to my Substack here, which is how so many new people have found me! Seeing how many people wanted to connect, I also decided to start a public-facing Instagram account. Who knows where it may go, but I thought it could be a place to share more of my writing and other grief musings. Inspired by my time at grief camp (and because I was shocked that the handle was available), I am now officially @deadwifeclub on Instagram. If you have ever thought “wow I sure wish Mackenzie would post even MORE about death and grief,” then boy do I have good news for you.
Megan loved my writing. She always wanted me to do more with it. I always told her that first, she was biased, and second, what would I do with writing. Using my writing to honor her only makes sense. I hope she is proud.
That’s all for now. Back to our regularly scheduled programming!
I wish I could tell you that all I do most days is write and grieve. I wish I could spend all my time with loved ones and filling my cup up by participating in activities that make me feel close to Megan. But spoiler alert - that’s not how capitalism works. My rent doesn’t care that my wife died, and my health insurance does, in fact, require me to be an employee.
Six weeks after Megan died, I booted up my work computer to start working again full time. I am grateful that my job is remote, so I was able to sit on the couch in my pajamas wrapped in a heated blanket, and start reading through emails. That first week, I wasn’t sure if this was going to work. I had to spend my lunch hour napping, as trying to slightly focus on work tasks absolutely zapped the little energy I had in the tank. I could barely understand what was being said in meetings because my brain fog was still so thick. My coworkers were the most accommodating, offering to continue helping me as much as possible. I kept going, hoping I would be able to re-train my work muscles.
When I talked to people in my life about returning to work, I was fascinated by the responses. I received many variations on the comment “it must be nice to have a distraction.” I was so confused by the comment. A distraction from what? That my wife was dead? That just weeks previously I had watched the love of my life die? That my entire future was broken and my heart and soul were in shambles? In what world could anything “distract” me from the things I knew so deeply in my bones. No meeting or email could make this better.
The idea of work being a “wanted distraction” is, I believe, a product of just how uncomfortable people are with grief itself and hard emotions. If difficult thoughts and feelings cause great discomfort, then it makes sense that you may want a distraction. But that wasn’t how I felt. My pain, my sorrow, my agony — these were my new friends. Hard feelings weren’t uncomfortable; they were my most comfortable companions because they felt honest. I wasn’t afraid of my grief because it was the reminder of the great love and the great loss at the center of my entire existence. I wanted to spend my time honoring that. I wanted to spend my time talking about Megan, writing about our memories, noting every little inside joke. And I wanted to hold space to fully mourn the future we had planned.
I have been back to work about seven months now and many aspects have gotten easier. I no longer require a daily nap (I said I don’t need it daily, not that I never need it at all). I can complete my daily tasks. It has gotten easier, but I still won’t say it is easy. I have taken on my normal responsibilities, and started adding more to my plate. I am able to dissociate enough successfully to make it through. And that’s the best I can hope for these days.
Last week, I pulled my suitcase out from the closet and began packing for a work trip. I had taken one other work trip since Megan died, but this was my biggest, longest, and most business formal one yet. As a (mostly) remote worker, packing my bags for work travel is always a bit of a struggle. I generally don’t wear professional wear day-to-day in Zoom meetings, most often opting for the comfortable pant and presentable shirt combo. When I had to pack work-appropriate outfits, I almost always had to give Megan a call at work.
“Honey can you bring your black blazer home with you so I can take it with me next week?”
Megan put the power in power suit. As an attorney, she had plenty of opportunities to show off. She was already a force of a human, but when she put on a suit, it felt like the gravitational pull of a room shifted to be around her. Megan always kept a couple of her suit blazers in her office for court, and the couple times a year I needed to look somewhat presentable resulted in a game of wardrobe musical chairs.
“Let me look at my court appearances next week… Okay just two… Yeah I can wear the blue and the tan. Go ahead and pack the black pants and I’ll bring home the blazer!”
I honestly lost track of when our wardrobes first began merged. It could have even been before we moved in together. From the first sleepover onward, we wore each others t-shirts and lounge pants. Unlimited wardrobe possibilities was an unexpected perk of being gay and similarly tall women. It’s not that our wardrobes doubled, but more that we realized we only needed one of most items. In our early relationship days, Megan was in law school full time and I was working a rather low-salary nonprofit arts job. It was simply the economical choice to Merge.
I remember ordering a new winter coat during our second winter together. I had been watching for sales, and I found a very cute mustard peacoat deeply on sale at J. Crew. When the box arrived, I excitedly tried on my new coat and twirled a bit to show Megan, expecting her normal infatuation,
“It’s nice!” she said, far less animated than normal.
“What’s wrong? Does it not look good???”
“No, you look amazing! It’s just… I don’t think that color is going to look very good on me.”
A few years passed, a few raises helped the household budget, Megan graduated law school, and we we could be slightly less frugal with our clothing budget, but the core of our wardrobes being shared always stayed the same. I might have styled a mock neck turtleneck with a long flowy skirt, and then Megan would match that same turtleneck with black jeans and a sweater vest. When I say that we shared everything in our life together, I truly mean that.
I have read so many stories of widows deciding what to do with their deceased spouse’s clothes. How long should the widow keep her husband's shirts hanging in the closet untouched? Should he donate his wife’s dresses? Pack them up in storage? When do these articles of clothing, waiting for a wearer to return who never will, get taken off rack and out of the drawers and moved on to their next fate?
This one of many scenarios where my experience as a gay widow was different. When I returned to our bedroom, I faced clothes we both wore, we both shared, we both lived in. It would make no sense to bag up and store all of Megan’s work clothes, because then what would I wear! I hear stories of widows who wear their husbands shirts for comfort. I understand that, because I certainly gravitate more toward certain t shirts or sweatshirts that Megan wore more than I did. But in just wearing my own clothes, I am also wearing a piece of Megan everyday. It may be less obvious to onlookers. I don’t look like a petite woman wearing a large oversized men’s button down. I just look like myself, except I have the knowledge that these shared threads envelope me. That something that used to hold Megan now holds me. It’s the most comforting secret in the world.
I returned to my empty suitcase, trying to pack for my work trip. I pulled out Megan’s suits to try on and prayed that my grief-stricken would still fit in them. A giant sigh of relief. I packed the old reliable black suit. I packed a newer green suit Megan had just purchased a month before she died. The green suit honestly looked great, which isn’t shocking because I loved Megan’s style. It looked better on her, though.
Work can be difficult because it feels so disconnected from my reality. The biggest thing in my life, the monster that is in my stomach yelling and screaming and tearing up my insides, the sinister, thick, heavy fog that rolls in and surrounds me on a moment’s notice, is my grief. And on the lighter side, the fire within me that allows me to see through the fog and scare off the monster is my love for Megan. I treasure the moments in my workday when someone checks in on me personally or asks about Megan. Those moments ground me, because I am able to acknowledge that monster, the fog, and the fire. I feel seen as a whole, complete, messy person.
I showed up for my work conference, and in preparing for day one, I dressed in the black suit. Reliable. Classic. I thought of every time I would Facetime Megan at her lunch hour and see the blazer hanging up behind her. I remembered her calling leaving the courthouse, excited to update me on how everything went. Most weeks, wearing this blazer. These pants. If she could do that while wearing this suit, I could handle a full day of a work conference.
Later in the week, I had to present and lead at two sessions. I was lightly terrified. Surprising to many people, but I am such an anxious public speaker. There is a reason I am writing these reflections. I prefer to express myself like this, where I can take my time, choose my words correctly, reflect and revise. Presenting captivatingly and speaking off-the-cuff charmingly were Megan’s superpowers, not mine. When my alarm went off, I knew exactly what I wanted to wear that day. I needed to wear the green suit.
This was the last outfit Megan ever purchased. As I slipped it on and looked in the mirror, I could only picture her. I could see her confidence. I could see her command of a room. And I remembered that while that was how I saw Megan, I knew she also thought the same of me. I cried, and I felt every inch of the fabric against my skin, holding me tight. I knew I could handle the hard things, because I knew I had my biggest supporter all around me.
I had found a way to bring in my reality to the workplace, and to acknowledge to myself the devastating hardship that I carry with me even as I “look” like I am a fully functioning person. It gave me a way to bring her into conversations too. My coworkers complimented my outfit and I cheerily responded" “Thanks! It was Megan’s suit!” At this point, they are used to me excitedly saying the most devastating things. But my cheer was genuine; I loved sharing my little secret with people I am close with at work. At a large conference, 99% of people would have no idea about my life, because I don’t walk around with a sign that says “ASK ME ABOUT MY DEAD WIFE!” But I know. And a few others know. And by sharing my little wardrobe secret with them, maybe they too would think about Megan when they saw me. And maybe by wearing her clothes, maybe she would be able give me a boost of confidence when I needed it. And maybe she could be in the room with me. And maybe she would see me. And maybe she would be proud
Griefy Reads
Hey new followers! Usually this is a section where I share grief-related (and not-grief-related) books I have read recently. This section also expands to Griefy Listens for music, Griefy Watches for TV and movies… Maybe I need to workshop the title. But today I don’t have anything to feature, because I have about five books stockpiled on my Kindle to read on vacation soon! I’ll have more to report back on next time, I promise.
You made it to the end! Thanks as always for holding space for me and my ramblings. I hope it helps you in some way with whatever you are going through. I linked it up top, but I’ll put this down here too - if you want to connect, find me over at @deadwifeclub on Instagram. Because I’ve got tons more griefy thoughts to share in between when I get my brain to focus and write!
Until next time, take care of yourself out there.
Mackenzie
"But that wasn’t how I felt. My pain, my sorrow, my agony — these were my new friends. Hard feelings weren’t uncomfortable; they were my most comfortable companions because they felt honest. I wasn’t afraid of my grief because it was the reminder of the great love and the great loss at the center of my entire existence." So well said, Mac, as always.
god the grief of sharing a closet really rang true with me. the perks of sharing clothes, and the inevitably heartbreak too. 🖤