How to Make a Decision

When You Can’t Trust Your Own Judgment

Even the smallest choices can feel heavy when you’re making them alone.

And every one you make is proof you can trust yourself again.

The first year without Gary, our toaster died.

And not just any toaster. It was his toaster. He made toast in it every single morning. When it quit, it felt like one more little piece of our life together was gone. I needed a new one, and I just couldn’t make myself pick.

First I hunted for the exact same model. Couldn’t find it. Then I looked for one like it, and none of them felt right. I mean, they were all toasters. I knew that! And I still spent well over fifty hours researching a fifty-dollar toaster.

I can laugh a little about that math now. Back then? It wasn’t funny at all. I was trying to replace a piece of our ordinary life, and Gary wasn’t there to talk it over with me.

After your person dies, the decisions just keep coming. Some can’t wait. There are calls to make, arrangements to handle, papers to sign. Others sneak up on you in the middle of a regular Tuesday. Do I go to that get-together? What do I do with his clothes? Do I keep wearing my ring? Which toaster do I buy?

You’ve probably heard the advice not to make big decisions during the first year. If something can wait, you can give yourself time. But widowhood doesn’t stop asking you to choose.

So many of us used to make decisions with our person. We’d talk things through and lean on what each of us knew. If a choice didn’t work out, we dealt with it together. Now, even when friends and family offer their opinions, it can feel like the whole thing is sitting on your shoulders.

Of course you’re second-guessing yourself. You’re making choices while you’re grieving, worn out, and learning how to live a life you never asked for.

What I’ve learned is that a choice does not have to be a test of whether I can manage without Gary. Especially with everyday decisions, I can choose, see how it goes, and use what I learn to make the next choice.

The toaster I bought wasn’t a perfect replacement. It was a toaster on my counter. Did it make decent toast? Yes. Did using it make me miss Gary? Also yes. Buying it didn’t make the missing go away, but it gave me something real to work with instead of fifty hours of what ifs.

When a decision feels too big, these are the questions I come back to.

When does this actually need to be decided?

Some things have a deadline. A lot of things don’t. I could have gone a couple of weeks without toast. I did not have to solve that problem the day the old one broke. It helps to ask who is setting the deadline. Is it real, or does leaving the question unanswered just feel uncomfortable?

Can I change my mind later? Some decisions are hard to undo. Others are more flexible than they feel. Taking off your wedding ring once doesn’t mean you can never put it back on. I kept mine on for years, and I still wear it whenever I feel like it. And if I didn’t like the new toaster, I could give it away and try another.

What other options do I have? When I was toaster shopping, I’d decided I had to find Gary’s toaster or one exactly like it. That made everything else feel wrong. But I could buy a different one. I could borrow one for a while. I could eat something other than toast. The same question helps with bigger choices, too. You can go to a gathering and leave early. You can ask for help before you decide. You can make a temporary choice while you take more time with a lasting one.

What are my reasons? You can jot down what draws you toward each option and what makes you hesitate. Then take a look. Are you choosing what you want, or trying to keep someone from being disappointed? What does your gut tell you? You can also imagine what your person might have said. I’m pretty sure I know what Gary would have said about fifty hours of toaster research! But you’re the one living with the choice now. Your needs and wants get a seat at the table, too.

What support do I need? You can make your own decision and still ask someone to think it through with you. Maybe you need information. Maybe you need a hand with one part of the task. Maybe you just need someone who will listen without steering you toward the answer they would choose.

Sometimes, even after I ask those questions, I notice I’m stuck on one story: I can’t make good decisions without him. When that happens, I try turning the thought around. What if I can make this decision? I don’t have to believe that completely. I just need enough room to consider it. I wrote more about that practice in The 180 in Widowhood.

Then comes the part that has helped me most: once I decide, I try to have my own back.

That doesn’t mean pretending I love every outcome. It means remembering that I made the choice with what I knew at the time. If I learn something new, I can make another decision. I don’t have to spend weeks telling myself I should have known everything before I began.

Eventually, I did buy a toaster. It wasn’t Gary’s toaster, and I still missed him when I used it. But I picked one, brought it home, and found out that I could make that decision.

Since then, I’ve made some much bigger ones. I changed jobs. I moved out of our house and into the next town. I retired from my career and started a business. I didn’t feel completely sure before any of them. Little by little, I learned that I could think something through, choose, and deal with whatever came next.

You might not feel ready for the big decisions in front of you right now. That’s okay. Start with the one that’s here today. Find out when it needs an answer. See what your options are. Ask for the support you need.

And when you choose, have your own back. Trust can grow one decision at a time.

If decisions are feeling heavy right now, I’d love to talk with you. My free Holding the Ember call is a place to tell me what’s weighing on you and think through what you need next.