Dan died six weeks after our wedding. I had no idea he was struggling

We all know we’re going to lose our life partner one day. If you’ve ever pictured it, your brain has probably aged you as nonagenarians or centenarians, having enjoyed an extraordinary 60 to 70 years of laughter and love. To imagine anything less is too painful.

Yet, according to the last census, many Australians experience this heartbreak at a time when peers are still raising families and building lives. The data shows 55,000 Australians under the age of 55 are widowed, 18,000 of them younger than 45. And of the 1 million-plus Australians who are widowed, eight out of 10 are female.

Rebecca Adams and her first husband, Daniel Collins, in 2013.Credit:

The challenges of young widowhood include financial insecurity and social isolation. Researchers at Edith Cowan University found widows are also at a heightened risk of poor adjustment, with two-thirds of respondents surveyed reporting decreased functioning and high rates of psychological distress.

What does it take to start over without your partner? Three women share their stories.

‘My husband died six weeks after our wedding’: Rebecca Adams, 45

“Daniel was the sort of person people fell in love with as soon as they met him. He was wickedly funny, but because he was also so kind, he always looked for the best in others. We met online in 2011, and when he proposed just shy of our one-year anniversary, I couldn’t say yes fast enough. We were both in our early 30s and knew we’d each found ‘our person’. We married in June 2013; Dan died of suicide just six weeks later.

Rebecca Adams says surviving the death of her husband isn’t just about finding new love, but learning to live with the grief.Credit:

I didn’t know how deeply Dan was struggling; he protected everyone who knew and loved him from that, so his death came as a huge shock. I was still going through the process of taking my marriage certificate around and changing my name on various documents. But very quickly I had to pivot to the process of carrying a death certificate and organising a funeral. The trauma and pain of losing Dan were all-consuming, and being 33, I honestly believed I’d lost my only shot at happiness and having children.

When we think of widows, we tend to think of older women – I only knew one other widow at the time, and she was in her 90s, so I felt alone. It felt like everyone I knew was either getting married or having children, so they couldn’t quite understand or support me in the way that I needed. When I found a Facebook group dedicated to connecting younger women who’d lost their partners, I realised how helpful it was for me to meet up with others who truly understood what I was going through. In 2016, I launched First Light Widowed Support, a peer-support model of care – whether it be catch-up programs, an online forum, speaking events or resources – to help others find hope, inspiration and understanding through their journey.

Three years after I lost Dan, I met Nick, a wonderful man who made space for the love I still have for my first husband. In the years that followed, we had our sons (now seven and five), but this isn’t about a finish line or about equating happiness with finding love. It’s about how you learn to live with the grief. For me, that means keeping Dan’s photos around the house (the boys refer to him as ‘Uncle Dan’) and keeping his memory central to the work that I do. It wasn’t the life I planned, but it’s a beautiful one.”

‘We didn’t have the tough conversations’: Melissa Reader, 50

“Mauro was this gentle giant with beautiful corkscrew curls, but he was also full of personality without a hint of arrogance. We met in a dingy Darlinghurst [Sydney] bar in ’97 and moved through all the major milestones quickly over the next few years. We started a business, got married, bought property and had three beautiful babies. With three kids under seven, life was busy, but it was wonderful.

Melissa Reader wishes she and her late husband, Mauro, had more “tough” conversations before he died.Credit:

It was only after our youngest was born that I realised Mauro wasn’t quite his usual self. He’d been complaining of constantly feeling unwell, but by the time he finally got around to getting things checked out, an ultrasound revealed a significant tumour in his kidney – advanced renal cancer. While Mauro went into treatment, I dived headfirst into logistics, juggling being the sole income earner with taking care of our children, but also remaining Mauro’s wife and caregiver. I spent that first year of his 15-month battle lying awake at night, gripped with fear. It seems so obvious now that he was dying, but your brain plays tricks on you to allow you to cope.

Mauro died in intensive care during one of his many admissions over the final months. I don’t remember much from that period – I was barely coping – but I remember thinking how sad it was that his death was so clinical, and how we never found the strength to have those difficult conversations like, ‘How are you going to raise the children without me?’, and, ‘How will you organise the finances after I’m gone?’

It was a couple of years after Mauro’s death that I saw an opportunity to create Violet, a tech-enabled initiative that helps families talk about, plan for and manage the last chapters of life. At the same time, I met a wonderful man, Mark, who swooped in to love and care for a young family dealing with grief and trauma. I’m a much braver person as a result of what I went through with Mauro – I take bigger risks, and I’m far more decisive – but to be able to work on a legacy piece for Mauro? What a gift, and if I can help others navigate this space a little easier, well, that’s even better.”

‘It was like someone took our world’: Mitch Gibson, 61

“I met Mark online and what was supposed to be a quick drink turned into seven dates in seven days. Mark was instantly likeable and we both knew straight away that this could be the start of something. We ended up having 17 years together, with Mark pouring his creative energy into producing theatre, a comedy festival and countless events in the arts and corporate sectors, while I ran my own yoga studio.

Mark was only 52 when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2018. Although he’d experienced some niggly back pain for some time, nothing could have prepared us for the phone call that basically said, ‘It’s stage four; unfortunately you’re not a candidate for surgery, good luck with everything.’ It was like someone took our world, turned it upside down and shook it violently. I was already bearing the load of taking care of my elderly parents, and as Mark grew sicker, I had to sell my yoga studio. I just couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Mitch Gibson lost her husband to cancer after 17 years together.Credit:

The grief that hit me when Mark died in 2021 was staggering. Throughout his illness, I’d been receiving psych support at Chris O’Brien Lifehouse [in Sydney]; after his death it took me a year to find the right grief support. That year, alone in lockdown with this fresh grief, was brutal. I longed to speak with someone who’d been through grief and really understood the isolation and disorientation.

My friends did what they could to be there for me emotionally, though I still felt isolated within my grief. It’s impossible to comprehend what you go through without lived experience. Curiously, while loved ones try to lift you out of your grief and this pain, a huge part of you wants to stay immersed in it; it’s our connection to our lost person.

My decision to become a counsellor specialising in grief and bereavement and caregiving felt purposeful after Mark’s death. I know what it’s like to be a carer at capacity and exhausted, and I know what it’s like when you’ve lost your person – and you’d trade anything to revert to being at capacity and exhausted. Whenever I meet a new client, I can talk with them about what’s happening with their person, discuss their main concerns and priorities, and get them moving forward rather than just spinning. Having been through it myself, I now understand you can never underestimate the importance of an experienced, empathetic ear and a guiding hand.”

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