“I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof.” – Psalm 102:7 (NIV)

Let’s talk about the room nobody mentions in grief therapy.

Not the kitchen where you still catch yourself making coffee for two. Not the living room where his remote control sits exactly where he left it. Not even the garage with all those tools we’ve already discussed.

I’m talking about the bedroom. The one place that’s supposed to be your sanctuary, your refuge, your safe space to fall apart—except now it feels like a sprawling monument to everything you’ve lost.

It’s too quiet. Too empty. Too big.

You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Earthling? That moment when you walk into what used to be your bedroom and realize it’s become the bedroom. Singular. Solo. A queen-sized reminder that you’re sleeping alone in a space designed for two.

Maybe you’ve tried to reclaim it. Rearranged the furniture, bought new pillows, lit candles like some kind of bedroom feng shui warrior. Maybe you’ve spread your stuff across his nightstand, claiming territory like you’re planting a flag on conquered land.

Or maybe—and this is more likely—you’re still sleeping on your side of the bed like he might roll over any minute and complain that you’re hogging the covers.

Either way, you’re probably wondering if you’re doing this whole widow thing wrong.

Let me save you some time: you’re not.

Here’s what nobody tells you about the bedroom after loss—it becomes the place where all your grief goes to hide during the day. You can put on a brave face at work, smile through grocery store small talk, even laugh at dinner with friends. But when you close that bedroom door at night?

That’s when the performance ends. That’s when the quiet gets so loud you can hear your own heartbeat echoing in the space where his breathing used to be.

That’s when you realize that sleeping alone isn’t just about the physical absence of another body. It’s about the absence of shared dreams—literally and figuratively. The absence of whispered conversations in the dark. The absence of someone to complain to about the neighbor’s dog or the weird noise the house is making.

It’s about the absence of witness to your most vulnerable self.

And Earthling, that’s a particular kind of loneliness that cuts deep.

So what are you supposed to do with all that space? All that silence? All that emptiness that seems to expand every night like some kind of emotional black hole?

Here’s my radical suggestion: absolutely nothing.

I know, I know. Every grief guru and self-help expert is going to tell you to “reclaim your space.” Buy new sheets. Rearrange the furniture. Spread out like you’re making snow angels in your newfound freedom.

But what if that’s not what you need right now? What if what you need is permission to keep sleeping on your side of the bed for as long as it takes? What if what you need is to honor the fact that some spaces hold love so deep that rushing to fill them feels like betrayal?

What if the “problem” isn’t that the bedroom feels too big—it’s that everyone expects you to want to fill it?

I’ve sat with hundreds of women who’ve confessed, like it’s some kind of moral failing, that they still only use half the closet. That they still fold down the corner of his side like he’s coming to bed later. That they’ve bought a body pillow just so there’s something taking up space where he used to be.

And you know what I tell them? The same thing I’m telling you right now.

There is no timeline for how long you get to keep his side of the bed sacred. There is no expiration date on sleeping like you’re still sharing space. There is no deadline for when you have to “move on” to using the whole cavernous bed.

Your grief doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. Your healing doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s healing. And your bedroom sure as hiccups doesn’t need to accommodate other people’s ideas about what “healthy” looks like.

If you want to keep sleeping on your side until the end of time, that’s your choice. If you want to put his pillow in a closet but keep his nightstand exactly as it was, that’s also your choice. If you want to burn the whole room down and start over, guess what? Still your choice.

The only wrong way to handle the bedroom is to let someone else tell you how to handle it.

Because here’s the truth that nobody wants to say out loud: some losses are so profound that the spaces they leave behind never get “filled.” They just get lived with. Honored. Carried.

Your bedroom might always feel a little too big. That doesn’t mean you’re not healing. That doesn’t mean you’re stuck in the past. That doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.

It just means you loved someone enough that even the furniture remembers.

And Earthling, there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing to fix about that. There’s nothing to apologize for about that.

Your bedroom is allowed to be a shrine for as long as you need it to be. Your side of the bed is allowed to stay your side of the bed indefinitely. Your healing is allowed to look like whatever the hell it needs to look like, even if it’s not what the grief books said it would.

So tonight, when you walk into that too-big bedroom and feel that familiar ache in your chest, remember this: you’re not failing at widowhood because you haven’t conquered the California King.

You’re just a woman learning to live with love that doesn’t have a physical place to land anymore. And that, sweet Earthling, is one of the hardest things a human heart can learn to do.

Be gentle with yourself. The bedroom can wait. Your healing can’t be rushed.

And you? You’re doing better than you think, even if you’re still only sleeping on your side.

Tired of feeling like you should be “over” the bedroom situation by now? Ready to honor your healing timeline instead of someone else’s expectations? Let’s talk about what it really means to rebuild a life when even your safe spaces feel foreign.