‘At 30, I was resigned to celibacy after my soulmate died. But eight months later I downloaded a dating app’

When my fiancé died of terminal cancer, I was sure I’d never fall for anyone again

In the early aftermath of Ben’s death, the pain was so all-consuming, that I wondered if it might kill me. 
The grief was overwhelming, raging like a wildfire inside me, that even running a brush through my hair or putting on clean clothes seemed beyond me. We had been together for six beautiful years, and I couldn’t imagine a future without him in it. The idea of being with somebody else was horrifying and inconceivable.
“At least you weren‘t married,” people said. I guess they wanted to make me feel better but when you’re navigating profound loss, those two words “at least” at the start of any sentence never help. Others said things like: “you’re so young, you’ll meet someone else.” I was 30 at the time and they were well-intentioned sentiments, of course, but they only undermined the weight of my pain.
I knew from the moment I met Ben in 2014, that we were meant to be together. He felt like home in human form to me. It was as if we’d met each other before in another lifetime, and our paths had collided again. We quickly became inseparable, travelling the world and falling deeper in love. But five years later [2019] my world was turned upside down when he was diagnosed with stage three soft tissue sarcoma, a rare type of cancer.  
We learnt it was terminal the day after his 36th birthday in lockdown in March 2020, but even then, we were still determined that Ben would survive. He had chemo, surgery, second, third and fourth opinions – and we tried every alternative treatment too, setting up a GoFundMe account to raise money for therapies outside of the NHS. We even flew to an alternative treatment centre in Mexico in a last-ditch attempt to save his life. The disease was finally beginning to retreat, but things took a devastating turn when he caught Covid-19. After 24 days in intensive care, he died of kidney failure and sepsis. 
The months after he died were the darkest time of my life. I was offered antidepressants but didn’t take them. I tried therapy, listened to podcasts and devoured books. I spent countless sleepless nights scrolling through different hashtags on Instagram like “#partnerloss” and “#widowhood”, in the hope of finding other grievers who had also lost their partners. I tried to live out the same routine in the same place with familiar faces, only now the biggest piece of the puzzle was missing. Every tube stop, every street corner reminded me of Ben. 
In those early days, I’d decided that dating wasn’t for me. I’d resigned myself to a lifetime of celibacy instead. But after you have experienced suffering and death so intimately, there is a real urge to do something, anything, that makes you feel alive. 
By the following summer, as the world was beginning to open up again, my curiosity was growing. I wanted to remember what it had felt like to be a normal, 30-year-old woman before caregiving and grief had consumed me. I’d returned to our flat in North London and attempted to live out the same routine with the same familiar faces – only nothing felt normal anymore. I craved novelty.
A friend and I decided to travel to Lisbon that May. I’d thought about leaving London behind, and wanted to do a recce of the city. I was surrounded by too many triggers and I needed a fresh start. When we picked our hire car up from the airport, I turned to my friend and said, “I think I want to have fun on this trip, and by fun, I mean I want to meet someone.” I was ready. 
It turns out “widows’ fire” is a real thing, my body needed to come alive again. It would be strange to kiss someone else and whether it was months or years after Ben’s death, it was always going to feel complicated. There would never be an ideal time. 
Eager to rip the plaster off and face my fears head-on, I went on a date with a man I’d met at a local bar in downtown Lisbon one evening. We spent the evening orbiting each other, exchanging glances and small talk.  When the lights came on I gave him my number, and he came over one evening. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I didn’t feel guilty or upset at any of the things I feared. Eight lonely months had passed since Ben’s death – 11 since I’d experienced the slightest bit of intimacy. After a long drawn-out winter of solitude, to feel the embrace of another man was more than welcome. I realised you don’t “move on” after the death of a partner, you “move forward”. 
That weekend, I made another huge step – I downloaded a dating app. It felt so alien to me, and I never expected to meet anyone significant, until I swiped right on Manu’s profile, a 32-year-old Portuguese photographer. I told him about my past during our first socially-distanced date wandering through the city. The conversation flowed effortlessly. He asked me lots of questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.  When he asked: “So why are you thinking of moving here?” I hesitated for a moment, but Ben’s death was so recent, my grief was so present still, I was completely honest about it.
I told him that Ben’s pictures were all over my Instagram and he said: “It’s fine, he’s part of you and your story”. 
During that trip, I decided to make Lisbon my permanent home. I’d planned to move by the end of the summer, but not long after I returned home, my dad was diagnosed with cancer and Alzheimer’s disease. He was gone within a few weeks.
His death called for radical action; I realised that it was either now or maybe never to make the move. I booked a one-way ticket to Lisbon due to leave at the end of October. When I landed in Lisbon, Manu was waiting for me at arrivals. We picked up where we left off and continued to get to know each other, taking things slowly. It’s been a long and bumpy road to get to this point, but now, we’re officially dating.
One of the biggest misconceptions people have when it comes to dating after partner loss is that it “cancels out” your grief, or indicates you’ve “moved on”. It does neither. I know widows who have received comments like “she can’t have loved her late partner that much,” and “he can’t have been the love of her life.” But love is limitless – and joy can exist alongside grief. Being with someone else does not negate the grief we carry every day. 
Navigating a new relationship has of course been very challenging. For a long time, I felt very guilty and confused. It was as if I was cheating on Ben. When Manu eventually introduced me to his friends and family I felt like screaming from the top of my lungs, “I’m also a widow! I’m still grieving for my fiancé!” I drew comparisons and made note of all the ways he was different. But I’ve since realised that these differences are actually a good thing. 
Grief is ever-changing. Next June I will turn 35, and as I get closer to the age Ben was when he died, there are different elements of my grief to unpack. It’s strange to think that in just a couple of years, I will be older than him. It’s difficult for me to imagine life beyond 36, and to envisage the future with much clarity. I’d love to have a family, but I have learnt by losing Ben there are no guarantees in life. You cannot control what happens.
I met my new partner far sooner than I anticipated, but my love for Ben hasn’t stopped. There is space for both of them. Love comes in many different shapes and forms.
As told to Susanna Galton
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