Shortly after he died, I bought a red purse. I knew I needed to have it, but I didn’t know why. For years it sat on my dresser, untouched.

The Red Purse documents a journey, my journey, from young widowhood, where I struggled in the darkness, to today, where I live —confidently—in the light.

After my husband passed, a swell of emotions hit. Some emotions were expected—grief, fear, loneliness—but others shocked me: a rush of femininity, a burst of sexuality, a pulsing energy flowing through my veins. Alone with two young children, I struggled with these confusing, and even shameful, in-congruencies. He had been ill for a long time, and I craved for a sense of normalcy. I wanted what I had lost.

I had trouble thinking of myself as a widow, unwilling, at first, to join that club. I did not want to raise my boys under a shroud of loss. I did not want people to pity us. I slowly, cautiously, stepped outside of my grief.

Rejoining the world did not come easy. When I had fun, guilt ate away at me; when things did not go well, shame prevailed. I alternated between ups and downs, exhilaration, and embarrassment. Confusion reigned, for years. Gradually, I became bolder; I dared to experiment, trying out new roles, new personalities, new styles. I flirted; I dated; I risked. I felt, almost, like an actress in my own movie, sometimes a film noir—full of danger, drama, and suspense.

The red purse stood as a daily reminder: despite the enormity of the tasks at hand, I needed to make room for femininity, for frivolity, for spontaneity. It gave me permission to experiment with who I would become, both real and imagined.

We all, at times, need to reinvent, to rewrite our stories. The Red Purse is meant to inspire, to prompt conversation, to pay tribute to those who have lost and to those who have survived.