“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death.” – Song of Songs 8:6 (NIV)

Oh, the ring. The ring.

The one that’s been on your finger so long it’s worn a groove in your skin. The one you twist when you’re nervous, slide up and down when you’re thinking, catch the light with when you’re trying to remember what your hands used to do when they belonged to half of a couple.

The one that’s become the subject of more unsolicited opinions than your haircut, your dating timeline, and your decision to keep his coffee mug combined.

Let me guess the comments you’ve been getting, Earthling:

“Oh, you’re still wearing your ring! That’s… sweet.” “Don’t you think it’s time to take that off?” “How will people know you’re available if you keep wearing it?” “Isn’t that just keeping you stuck in the past?”

Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe you took it off and now you’re getting:

“You took your ring off already? Wow, that was fast.” “I could never do that—doesn’t it feel like you’re betraying him?” “My friend waited three years before she could take hers off.”

Here’s what I want to know: when exactly did your ring finger become community property? When did a piece of jewelry you chose to wear become a topic for public debate and amateur grief counseling?

Because that’s what’s really happening here. People are using your ring as a barometer for how you’re “doing” with this whole widowhood thing. As if the presence or absence of a circle of metal can tell them whether you’re healing “properly” or moving on “too fast” or being “appropriately respectful” of your late husband’s memory.

It’s bullsmoosh. All of it.

Your ring is not a grief progress report. It’s not a dating status indicator. It’s not a public declaration of anything except whatever the chicken pickles you want it to be on any given day.

Some days it might feel like armor—a protective barrier between you and a world that suddenly sees you as a “single woman” instead of a grieving wife.

Some days it might feel like a lifeline—a tangible connection to promises made and a love that doesn’t disappear just because death showed up uninvited.

Some days it might feel like a prison—a reminder of a role you’re no longer sure how to play, a weight that keeps you tethered to a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore.

And some days? Some days you might not feel anything about it at all, and that’s allowed too.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me when I was spiraling over my own ring situation: there is no right answer. There is no perfect timing. There is no universal wisdom about what widows “should” do with the physical symbols of their marriages.

There’s only what feels right for you, on this day, in this moment, with the woman you’re becoming.

Maybe that means wearing it forever because it still feels like home on your finger.

Maybe that means taking it off immediately because the weight of it makes you feel like you’re drowning.

Maybe that means moving it to your right hand, or wearing it on a chain, or putting it away for now and seeing how that feels.

Maybe that means taking it off for work and putting it back on at home. Maybe that means keeping it on for special occasions and leaving it off for regular days.

Maybe that means changing your mind seventeen times and that’s perfectly “holy gravy” normal.

You know what’s not normal? Other people thinking they get a vote in your jewelry choices.

You know what’s not okay? Strangers, friends, or family members treating your ring like a public referendum on your grief timeline.

You know what needs to stop? The idea that there’s a “right way” to handle the physical remnants of a marriage that ended in death instead of divorce.

Because here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud: your ring was never about other people anyway. It was about you and him. It was about promises you made to each other, not declarations you made to the world.

And now? Now it gets to be about you. Period.

If wearing it makes you feel connected to something beautiful you once had, wear it.

If taking it off makes you feel like you’re finally giving yourself permission to become someone new, take it off.

If you want to wear it sometimes and not others, do that.

If you want to replace it with something completely different that represents who you’re becoming instead of who you used to be, do that too.

The only person who gets to decide what your ring means, when you wear it, how long you keep it, or what you do with it is you.

Not your mother-in-law who thinks you’re “moving on too fast.” Not your friend who thinks you’re “stuck in the past.” Not your co-worker who keeps dropping hints about “getting back out there.” Not some grief expert who wrote a book about the “stages” you’re supposed to be moving through.

Just you, Earthling. Your finger, your heart, your choice.

So whether your ring is still exactly where it’s always been, or tucked away in a jewelry box, or hanging on a chain around your neck, or sitting on your kitchen counter while you figure out what feels right—all of those choices are valid.

All of those choices are yours to make.

And anyone who has an opinion about what you should be doing with your jewelry can take that opinion and put it on the shelf as it’s pure silly sauce.

Your love doesn’t live in a ring anyway. It lives in you. And no piece of metal—worn or unworn—can change that.

Tired of other people having opinions about your ring? Ready to make choices about your grief based on what feels right for you instead of what looks right to everyone else? Let’s talk about what it really means to honor your own timeline in a world full of grief police.