On a blazing hot Cape Town day, I walked into one of the city’s oldest hotels for a solo lunch. I was wearing a summer dress.

The male staff standing at the top of the entrance steps welcomed and complimented me as if I were Salma Hayek.

They do it for the tips, I hear you say, but I don’t care. Their greeting reminded me that no matter what my inner voice tells me about my not-size-zero body, my flabby arms and squishy belly, my body is a piece of work that has not only survived, but is thriving.

If you had told me two years ago that I would be enjoying male attention, I would have lobbed a snot-and-tear-soaked tissue at you. I had just lost my husband, and that broke my world. I was never, ever going to get myself back together again.

My life was over, and all I needed to do was get my son to be self-sufficient and then fade to black (cremated) or beige (graveyard sand)!

I was not expecting to ever survive that kind of loss. I was certainly not ready to enjoy life or be desirable ever again. But on that glorious summer day, I somehow found me again.

Yes, I’m older — my creaky joints tell me so. I have a softer outlook. Things are no longer so black and white, there are a lot of grey areas – hello grey hair! But I’m ready to be a version of me that is mostly recognisable, and has a lot of living left to do.

Yes, grief broke me, but I am still standing. The fire in my eyes has returned. My shoulders feel lighter. I have confronted my nasty inner voice and set her straight. She no longer has any hold over me. I made her understand that I am under new management and will not be entertaining any of her shenanigans.

Being a widow means you become a double-edged sword. You are the recently single woman in your circle, and the wives and girlfriends raise your threat level ever so slightly. But you also become invisible as a woman.

On the one hand, society expects you to be quiet, careful of stepping on toes or feelings and not doing anything that will attract the attention of men. So you try to just blend into the background. On the other hand, you have just emerged from the darkest pit after being hollowed out by grief, and you’re carefully tilting your head to the sun again.

Do you celebrate your survival and enjoy this different version of you, or do you hide your magic and allow societal expectations to stifle you?

Maya Angelou’s Phenomenal Woman  has always resonated with me. And now that I am post the biggest plot twist of my life, I feel even more charged by this poem.
“It’s in the reach of my arms, the span of my hips,” she wrote. Man alive, do I feel that! Every one of my lady lumps (all the yoyo diets) and every scar from childhood tells the story of where I have been.

I was reading an article on Wagyu beef, and the “marbling” that makes it so special. That was it for me. I no longer refer to my stretch marks, I call them my magical marbling!

Maya Angelou didn’t write about having a tiny waist and bowing your head. She wrote about taking up space and owning the room, without saying a word. Thanks to my wonderful new self-love, I am that woman now, and I’m fearless.

As Emmy Meli sings, “I am woman, I am fearless, I am sexy, I’m divine!” At my age, I dress up or down, as the mood takes me. I especially love the woman staring back at me in her swimming cossie, with her marvellous marbling, enjoying her post-coffee swim and not trying to cover up her “imperfect” body.

So, here’s to me.

I got back up quietly.
I’m rebuilding my life with soft hands and a strong back.
I know how I want to be loved.
I’m not defined by what I lost.
I’m defined by how fiercely I’ve been loved and how fiercely I love.

My story is not over. It’s just getting good. I’ve been slowly patching my broken tile of a life back together.

Yes, there’s lots of marbling, but the marbling is where all the fun is at, I’ve been reliably told!