I remember when Sally came to our grief support group all excited, practically glowing. For the first time in her entire life, she had bought a car — by herself. She walked us through every detail: how she’d gone to the dealership alone, sat down with the salesperson, signed her name on the paperwork, and drove off the lot in something entirely her own.

Her husband Ed had died around the same time my first Bob died. We had actually met both of them during one of the cancer support groups we attended back then. It’s strange how certain memories resurface decades later, unprompted. I don’t know why this one came to me now, but it did — and it got me thinking about the decisions we make that shape our lives.

For those of us who’ve lost someone we counted on to help with decision-making, even if it was just to bounce ideas off them, trusting ourselves to make decisions alone can feel like an entirely new skill we have to learn.

That person who used to be your built-in second opinion, your voice of reason when you were overthinking, your gentle reality check when you were being too cautious or too reckless? They’re gone. And suddenly you’re standing there with a choice to make, reaching for a phone that won’t ring back, turning to ask someone who isn’t there anymore.

Because our worlds have been altered in unimaginable ways, the question creeps in: Can I really trust myself to make the right choices? And if the answer feels shaky, another question follows: How do I make a decision if I don’t trust myself?

It’s not just about buying a car.

It’s about the first time you sign your name on something big without checking in with the person who used to be your sounding board. It’s about standing in the middle of the showroom — or the bank, or even the grocery store — realizing: This decision is mine alone.

That can feel like freedom. It can also feel like standing on the edge of a cliff with no one holding the rope.

After loss, decision-making changes. Sometimes we overthink every possibility, running through every “what if” until we’re paralyzed. They call it “analysis paralysis,” and it’s exhausting. Other times, we swing the opposite way, leaping into choices just to prove to ourselves that we can still act without falling apart.

But there’s a middle ground between those extremes, and finding it becomes part of learning to trust yourself again. It’s the space where you can sit with a decision long enough to consider your options without getting stuck there forever. Where you can gather input from people you trust without needing their permission to proceed. Where you can make a choice knowing it might not be perfect, but trusting that you’ll figure out how to handle whatever comes next.

I had small victories at first: booking a trip without anyone else’s input, choosing a paint color for the living room, picking out a new outfit without wondering if Bob would like it. Those may sound like everyday decisions, but at the time, each one felt like an act of courage.

Then came a bigger one that scared the hell out of me: quitting my job to start consulting. It felt reckless and impulsive and completely against everything that made sense for someone trying to rebuild stability after loss. But something in me knew it was right, even when I couldn’t explain why. That decision changed everything—not just my career, but the entire trajectory of my life. Had I stayed safe, stayed in that job, I never would have met my second husband. I never would have discovered this version of myself, capable of taking calculated risks.

It wasn’t luck that made that decision work out. It was learning to listen to that little voice inside that knows things your logical brain hasn’t figured out yet.

What I’ve learned is this: trust isn’t built all at once. It’s built choice by choice.

So start small. Pick a restaurant without polling the group. Rearrange your living room just because you feel like it. Say yes to an invitation even if you’re not sure you’ll feel “ready.” Each time you follow through, you give yourself proof that you can choose — and that the world won’t end if it’s not perfect.

Building a New Kind of Sounding Board

Here’s something that took me longer to figure out than I’d like to admit: you can create new ways of processing decisions without trying to replace what you lost. It doesn’t look the same as having that one person who knew you inside and out, but it can be just as valuable.

Maybe it’s a trusted friend who asks good questions without trying to give you the answers. Maybe it’s a therapist who helps you sort through your thoughts without judgment. Maybe it’s journaling your way through the pros and cons, having conversations with yourself on paper. Or maybe it’s learning to sit quietly with a decision for a day or two, noticing how it feels in your body before you act.

The goal isn’t to never feel uncertain. It’s to get comfortable making choices even when you’re not 100% sure, trusting that you have the resilience to course-correct if needed.

When the bigger decisions come, remember that you’ve already been living with uncertainty. You’ve been navigating days you never thought you’d survive. That’s proof enough that you can handle what’s in front of you.

The truth is, there’s no perfect decision. There’s only the one you make, and what you choose to do with it after.

And here’s something I wish someone had told me earlier: if you make a choice and it turns out differently than you hoped, it doesn’t mean you can’t be trusted with decisions. It means you’re human.

If you can accept that, then even the “wrong” choices can become part of how you grow.

Here’s your thought for the week: What’s one decision you made after your loss that helped you trust yourself again?