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"After my husband's death, I was forced into rituals and practices to prove my loyalty to my late husband and his family. I feel humiliated and dehumanized – like I am being punished."

The Rituals That Took My Voice

"After my husband's death, I was forced into rituals and practices to prove my loyalty to my late husband and his family. I feel humiliated and dehumanized – like I am being punished."

My world shattered the day I lost my husband. But before I could even begin to mourn, I was dragged into rituals that felt more like punishment than tradition. I was no longer seen as a grieving wife but as an object—something that had to be purified, controlled, and stripped of any autonomy. They told me it was to honor my husband, but in reality, it erased me.

Every morning, I woke up to the suffocating weight of their expectations. They dictated everything—what I wore, how I spoke, how I moved. Even my grief wasn’t my own. I was expected to perform these rituals, as though my sadness and loss weren’t enough proof of my love.

Every step of the way, I felt like my dignity was being torn apart, piece by piece.

• How can I honor my husband when I feel like I've lost my own identity?

• Why does my grief feel like a burden to bear rather than a process to heal?

The hardest part wasn’t just the pain of losing him; it was the pain of losing myself. These traditions, these ceremonies, I had no choice but to follow them. If I resisted, they threatened to cut me off from the family, from the community. It was as if my identity was swallowed by their customs, leaving me with nothing but silence and shame.

The Blame and Isolation

"They blame me for his death. Can you imagine? They act as though my presence, my very being, somehow caused it."

I am unclean, they say. Something to be purified, cleansed. As if mourning wasn’t already hard enough, they made me endure rituals that left me feeling dirty, like I had brought this tragedy upon myself. The pain of loss is compounded by the humiliation of their accusations. I’ve been forced into isolation, cut off from everyone I know. They control my every move—my financial resources, where I live, how I live. I am not just mourning my husband; I’m mourning the life that was stolen from me. I’ve lost my freedom, my voice, my humanity.

• What did I do to deserve this blame and isolation?

• Will I ever be free to mourn and heal without judgment?

I try to push back, to say no, but every time I do, they threaten me with more isolation. They tell me that if I resist, I’m dishonoring my husband’s memory, that I am a disgrace to the family. The fear of being completely alone, cast out by everyone, keeps me locked in this suffocating world of rituals. But it’s killing me inside.

All I want is to move on, to grieve and heal in my own way. But I’m trapped—trapped by expectations, by customs that see me as nothing more than an extension of my husband’s legacy. My voice is silenced, my choices stripped away, and my dreams—if I still have any—are suffocating under the weight of tradition.

If this is your reality, if you recognize this pain, know that you are not alone. There is hope; there are people who understand.

Take a moment to reflect on the emotional weight that comes with widowhood. It’s important to recognize the complexities of cultural practices and the personal struggles faced by many. Your feelings matter, and acknowledging them is the first step toward healing.