calliemm

Let’s talk about celibacy, yep, the quiet choice few are talking about and unsure how to bring up in polite company, or on a third date. Mind you, I chatted about it on a date (my first as a widow), just a few months ago. Applause please. Dinner was nice, and we’re friends, or at least still friendly.

After Bren died, I made a decision I didn’t broadcast but quietly stood by. Right from the beginning, I chose not to rush into anything physical with anyone, out of pain, fear or grief. Choosing celibacy was a matter of deep, instinctive knowing. I needed space, and I needed sovereignty over my body and emotions while I recalibrated a life built around the man I loved, and would never see again.

I made a conscious choice to forgo intimacy, enhance self-discovery, and prioritise personal growth and my well-being, along with that of my children, who were only thirteen. Thirteen is an incredibly impressionable age.

Celibacy is a choice that has supported the healing I have experienced and continue to experience since losing my husband. And it prevented me from falling quickly into dating or hookup culture that I wasn’t ready for, especially early in my grieving process, in pursuit of that healing. 

The choice, for me, hasn’t been about waiting for a cosmic sign, the perfect person, or the perfect moment to break my celibacy. It’s been about not having to think about intimacy until I‘m ready. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not just for monks and nuns. Naturally, my friend from dinner was curious about how it all works, but honestly, it’s not that complicated. I’m definitely not a nun. I am resourceful. Aren’t we all, from time to time? In fact, it’s so refreshingly uncomplicated, it’s not that easy to give up.

Now, eight years on, having said yes to dinner, I may also say yes to a coffee, drinks or a movie with some (hot) new guy in the future. Will my vow be at risk of tumbling? That may depend entirely on how good the coffee is. (Jokes)

In all seriousness, if I meet someone who sees celibacy as a red flag before we’ve had the chance to get to know each other, then, lucky for me I’m resourceful. Ideally, though, they’d recognise it for what it is: a sign I’ve taken time to consider both my heart and theirs before making other choices. I know for sure that celibacy, like grief, has taught me presence, clarity and patience. And about listening to my body, my intuition, and my longings, not just my loneliness. I’m grateful for that.

If I happen to meet someone whose chemistry is so undeniable that my celibacy packs its bags and leaves the minute they say hello, well, that’s okay too. Am I back pedalling here? Maybe a little. What I’m really saying is, if intimacy feels right, I’ll know I chose it with every part of me. Not out of fear, or to make someone stay, or because it felt expected. But because my heart, body, and mind all said yes, together. Celibacy, like love, isn’t about denying myself. It’s about honouring my needs, until I’m ready, if I’m ever ready, to share myself again.

Dear Reader,

If you’re walking this path too or a similar one, whether you’ve chosen celibacy, are contemplating it, or are simply trying to figure out where intimacy fits into your healing, I see you. Navigating intimacy after loss is not easy, and it’s rarely talked about, but it is real and it’s valid. And it deserves a place in the conversation.

If you get it, I’d love to hear your story. No pressure, just a gentle invitation to connect. Sometimes the most honest conversations are the ones we’ve been quietly waiting to have.

With love and respect,

Callie x

(this is an updated version of a previous post)