“Patching Up After Loss”

Embracing the Imperfections of Memory and Moving Forward Together

“It’s ruined!” This was a tongue-in-cheek phrase my late husband Matt commonly said after he spilled something on his shirt—dramatically suggesting the stain was a death sentence for his wardrobe. The kids would giggle, I’d roll my eyes and feign annoyance, and Matt would flash his signature grin every time.

Most of the time, my laundering prowess, honed over years of washing sports uniforms, came to the rescue, and his shirt would live to see another day. Anytime I saved an article of his clothing he thought was doomed, I always made sure to tease Matt that his shirt was as good as new. And it never failed to have us laughing at his laundry drama!

But recently, a laundry incident left me crying instead of cracking up. Our oldest daughter Emma loves wearing a sweatshirt of Matt’s that we saw him in regularly, particularly in the last year of his life. It features “Huskies” across the front—our kids’ school mascot—because, as Matt always quoted from Seinfeld, “you gotta support the team.” That sweatshirt is a constant reminder of how much he cheered them on in all they did.

So last week when I walked into the laundry room, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Matt’s sweatshirt, carefully laid out to dry, had a glaring bleach spot on it! Somehow, the nearly empty bleach bottle had toppled from the shelf above and leaked right onto the shirt. I was alone in the house and sobbed aloud to Matt that this sweatshirt, loaded with memories, was now actually ruined!

Still beside myself, I reached out to two of my closest friends. Instead of joining me in mourning the demise of Matt’s sweatshirt, they immediately jumped in with ideas for what this now-scarred shirt could become. One suggested adding a patch. The other thought of an embroidered heart—maybe even with Matt’s initials and “it’s ruined” stitched alongside it. And when I told Emma about the mishap later that day, she didn’t miss a beat and said she’d still rock it, stain and all.

This experience made me think that just like Matt’s sweatshirt, grief comes at you with its own bleach bottle—unexpected, messy and seemingly catastrophic. When we lose our person, it feels like the fabric of our lives gets splashed with a stain we’ll never remove. The urge to declare “It’s ruined!” is strong. And for a while, it’s tempting to fold up the memories and tuck them away, convinced that nothing can ever look or feel the same again.

But those stains don’t mean the story ends. They become part of the pattern, woven into the fabric of who we are. Sometimes our hearts and lives wear their scars out in the open. And the world notices. But where we see ruin, others—friends, family even ourselves on a good day—see opportunity for transformation. Maybe we patch up the hole with new traditions, stitch in reminders of our loved one or even wear the “bleach spot” with pride.

Even with loss woven into our lives, we can still find moments of comfort and happiness, even alongside the scars and stains. Those marks remind us that joy and love remain, and that we can still support each other, share a smile or a laugh and handle the everyday challenges, one day at a time.

“Boxing Out After Loss”

How Shared Moments on the Court Shape Resilience and Remembrance

“Bumping into the box.” This is a phrase I recently picked up from another widow, and it hit home. Grief feels like a big box sitting right in the middle of your life. At first, it’s massive. You can’t help but crash into it every time you try to move. Bruised shins, stubbed toes, the whole deal. As time passes, the box shrinks a bit, and you sometimes find yourself navigating around it more easily. You still bump into it. Maybe not as hard, but it stings, sometimes worse than before.

In those moments, it’s an unexpected jolt of grief that sneaks up and catches you off guard. It’s opening the mailbox and seeing your spouse’s name on a piece of mail. It’s hearing a song that takes you right back to moments shared together. Or walking into a place you haven’t been since you were there with them, and suddenly, you’re back in that memory, the loss pressing in all over again.

I’m nearly two years out from losing my husband, Matt, and although the box isn’t as weighty as it once was, it’s still there. I bump into it regularly. Lately, I’ve had several run-ins with the box throughout our daughter Emma’s senior basketball season, which just came to an end last night at the regional playoffs.

Emma has always enjoyed sports, but she didn’t pick up a basketball in any formal way until we moved to Grand Rapids when she was in fifth grade. She joined a rec league with a bunch of her club soccer friends, and by her second season, Matt was recruited as their coach. He was a natural, and the girls hung on his every word as he transformed a group of soccer players into a solid basketball squad.

Even when Emma and our younger daughter, Maddie, weren’t playing in organized leagues, Matt was always helping them work on their game. They’d spend hours shooting hoops in our driveway or he’d take them to the Y, where they’d run through plays and practice free throws. For Matt, this wasn’t a chore. He genuinely loved every minute, and the girls did too.

Through middle and high school, even when Matt wasn’t officially Emma’s coach, he was always in her corner. Pre-game pep talks at the kitchen table, scribbled plays on scrap paper, encouraging texts before tip-off. After games, Matt was the first person she wanted to talk to for feedback on what she did well, what she could improve on and how to step up her game.

Last year, Emma had her first season without Matt, and I know she missed him. But this senior year? The box felt bigger. Her Senior Night a couple weeks ago was beautiful, yet bittersweet. She was all smiles, escorted by her siblings and me, but we all felt Matt’s absence. When Maddie got called up from JV to join Emma on varsity for the playoffs and their team clinched the District Championship last week, I could almost hear Matt’s voice cheering them on as they cut down the net. He would’ve been right there, grinning from ear to ear.

When grief catches you off guard in moments like this, here’s my advice: don’t bottle it up. Find someone who understands or at least is willing to sit with you and listen as you explain what “bumping into the box” means to you. Let yourself feel it, talk it out and don’t hold back from sharing.

That’s how you keep moving forward—step by step, bump by bump—instead of letting grief knock you flat and keep you there. Sometimes, the best way through is to simply remember that you’re not alone on the court. There are people ready to help you find your footing so you can take the next shot when you’re ready.

“Trading Cards of Grief, Badges of Joy”

How One Spirited Woman and a Circle of New Friends Showed Me Grief Isn’t the End

“Been there, done that…got the t-shirt.” This tongue-in-cheek quip came this week from an unlikely source in an unlikely place. There I was checking into a hotel in Atlanta on the eve of my first-ever widow’s conference. Sounds like a hoot, right?

Little did I know, standing at the front desk alongside a spunky, grey-haired woman decked out in dangly gold earrings and patriotic attire, that my life was about to take a sharp turn for the better. In short order, I learned she was an 86-year-old named Lucy, traveling alone from Florida (much to her daughter’s chagrin). She, too, was a widow. Her late husband Chuck, an Air Force veteran, had passed away within the year at 92.

In that moment, it became clear to me that grief truly knows no age. It doesn’t matter if you’re 23 or 92—the actual age range, I later discovered, of the women attending this conference. The ache of losing a spouse is just as deep and the impact just as profound no matter how many candles were on your last birthday cake.

The lobby quickly filled with women of all ages and backgrounds, each carrying her own story, but all united by the same purpose. Stepping into this circle of shared experience felt unfamiliar, yet the sense of belonging was immediate. We swapped hometowns and timelines of when our husbands had died like trading cards.

For once, I didn’t feel like the lone person in a crowd to be carrying this pit of grief in my stomach. I felt an instantaneous wave of relief wash over me. For these few days, none of us were alone. Very fitting, since the conference was sponsored by the Never Alone widow’s group.

With her check-in process completed, Lucy stepped away from the desk (one hand gripping her walker—another suggestion from her children, begrudgingly accepted), and she dug out a tattered Tupperware business card from her purse and handed it to me. She asked if I would call her later so we could meet up for dinner. No brainer.

That evening, Lucy joined a small group of widows I had previously connected with through various online widow’s pages and virtual grief groups (though most of us had never met in person until now). Lucy, quite frankly, stole the show—and our hearts. She kept us in stitches with corny bible jokes, snappy wisecracks and radiated a servant’s heart of pure gold.

Lucy truly became our conference “mascot.” Even though, like the rest of us, she bore the weight of losing her person, everywhere she went, she sparkled. She became instant friends with her fellow widows, her twinkling blue eyes, contagious smile and quick wit winning us all over.

The conference itself was a beautiful blend of camaraderie, prayer, teaching, music and—most importantly—the overwhelming assurance that, while this journey is painfully real for the 500+ women in that room, it doesn’t mark the end for any of us. There’s more out there. There’s hope. Grief isn’t the closing chapter. It’s the opening of something new.

By the end of the conference, as I watched widow after widow approach Lucy to get a picture with her (me included), I realized the “secret sauce” she so effortlessly embodies. We are meant to carry grief and joy at the same time, even when it feels impossible.

And one of those first lines she spoke to me, “been there, done that…got the t-shirt,” sums it all up. She’s worn both joy and pain like badges, proof that survival doesn’t just mean getting through it. It means collecting stories, forging friendships and wearing your experience proudly, even when it’s a little frayed around the edges.

Lucy—and all the women I was fortunate to meet and learn from at the conference—remind us that while grief may shape us, it doesn’t define us. We’re here to live. To laugh. To keep showing up, decade after decade, souvenir t-shirts and all. Because in this community, no one is ever truly alone. And that’s something worth wearing proudly.

“Loyal Hearts, Open Arms”

Honoring Friendship and Compassion When Grief Changes Everything

Growing up, it was impossible not to notice how my mom would drop everything to support friends and family, no questions asked. She lived by the motto, “to have a friend, you have to be a friend,” and that lesson stuck with me. Her unwavering loyalty became my blueprint, and I’ve always tried to show up for the people I love, no matter what storm I might be facing.

My mom’s steadfastness is something I deeply admired, and it’s undoubtedly one of the many reasons I was drawn to my late husband, Matt. No one embodied fierce loyalty quite like he did. He set the bar high, and if you were lucky enough to be on the receiving end, you knew it.

Everything is different now that these two pillars of loyalty are now in heaven. I am a different version of myself. Yet, my heart still has plenty of love and compassion for the people who have stuck by me and my family through it all. The tricky part? Sometimes, losing someone you love deeply can create an emptiness that quietly affects your other relationships too.

Our dearest friends and family, for instance, might hesitate to share their own struggles, thinking I’m already dealing with enough. But what they might not realize is that being excluded from their problems or even everyday ups and downs can feel extra isolating.

I know this is not intentional, and I’m truly humbled by the support and loyalty our friends and family have shown, especially through the worst moments of these past few years. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough. Now, I want the chance to “be a friend” and return the favor.

The thing is: you have to let me.

Even in the midst of heartache—I promise you—those of us grieving still want to be part of your world. But we can’t do it alone. So don’t hold back! Share your everyday drama, major dilemmas or funny little mishaps. We’re here, eager to stay connected and keep these bonds strong, no matter what life throws our way.

These connections aren’t just about reciprocating support for those who’ve stood by us (though that matters deeply). Staying involved also helps ease our loneliness and reminds us that, even as life changes, we remain a vital part of one another’s lives.

If you ever feel uncertain about leaning on someone who’s grieving, just remember that our loss doesn’t define us. We want to stand by your side, share in your joys and navigate both ordinary days and life’s toughest moments. That’s what true friendship is all about.

So, instead of tiptoeing around grief, let’s do our best to face it together. Let’s lean in and show up for each other, just as we always have. Life after loss may have changed me, but it hasn’t dimmed my loyalty or dampened my willingness to walk alongside you. Let’s choose connection and compassion, trusting that loyal hearts will carry us through—side by side, every step of the way.

“The Show Must Go On”

Performance After Loss: Everyday Life Unscripted

Over the holidays, my kids pulled me into a game on their phones I’d never played before called “Imposter.” The premise is simple: everyone gets the same secret word, except one person—the imposter—who doesn’t know what the word is. Each player tosses out clues, trying to figure out who’s faking it.

As they explained the rules, I had to laugh. The name of the game sums up how I’ve felt since my husband Matt died a year and a half ago. Most days, it’s as if I’m stumbling through life as an undercover imposter, hoping no one notices when I fumble my lines.

Grief has a strange way of making you feel like you’re starring in someone else’s movie with no script. One minute, I’m drowning in a flood of sadness, barely keeping my head above water. The next, I’m fueled by adrenaline, checking boxes, putting on a smile and hustling to “act normal”—as if I’m delivering an Oscar-worthy performance for everyone watching.

This instinct to put on a brave face isn’t just for the kids, or because Matt would want me to be happy (which he absolutely would). It’s because sometimes pretending is the only way forward. And what’s surprising is that sometimes pretending actually feels pretty great. There’s a weird freedom in stepping into the “old” version of myself, if only for a moment.

Ironically, Matt knew something about this too. During his cancer journey, he’d light up telling me about a conversation with someone who had no idea he was sick. For a little while, he could just be Matt. No pitying glances, no hushed tones, no “how are you feeling?” He could drop the role of “patient” and just enjoy being himself. I get that now in a way I didn’t before.

But here’s the real twist. Grief doesn’t just make you feel like an imposter; it can also change how people around you respond. I’ve found that sometimes friends and loved ones aren’t sure what to do. Some walk carefully around my emotions, hoping not to say the wrong thing, while others jump into cheerleader mode, eager to help even though there’s no easy fix. In the end, we’re all just improvising our way through the awkwardness together.

There’s a strange comfort in pretending, in slipping on the mask of “doing fine” even if it’s only temporary. And there’s even stranger comfort in knowing that everyone else is kind of pretending too. Trying to find their lines in a story none of us asked to be in.

Yet in the midst of all this uncertainty, there’s a quiet reassurance in realizing we’re all doing our best to show up for each other, one imperfect performance at a time. Even on the hardest days, we find connection and laughter in honest moments that remind us we’re not alone, and somehow the show really does go on.

“Nine Times the Memories”

Celebrating Connection Through Grief and Moving Forward

“What a difference a day makes,” as the old saying goes. Or a year. Or, in my case, nine. Yep, today marks exactly nine years since I first met my late husband Matt—at a Euchre fundraiser on the other side of the state—where, with a winning hand and charming smile, he trumped every expectation and turned my world in a new, wonderful direction.

If Matt were here right now and I told him that today was the ninth anniversary of us meeting, he’d undoubtedly grin and declare “…NIIIIIIINE TIMES,” quoting one of his favorite lines from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He never passed up a chance to make me laugh. Even now, heading into my second new year without him, I can’t help but crack up remembering how he relentlessly teased the people he loved most.

That’s the jovial spirit I’m determined to channel in 2026. I’m trying my best to set aside the ache I feel without him beside me at our daughters’ basketball games—where he’d be the loudest one cheering—or while watching football and basketball on TV, knowing he’d be animated as ever, dissecting every play or bad call with our sons.

I know Matt would want me to embrace the new year. Soak up every special moment with our kids and keep the laughter going with family and friends. And I’m doing my best to heed this advice, even when it’s tough. It’s hard to put into words, but grief seems to land differently as January rolls in, especially now, in this second year, with the initial haze gone and the reality of his absence settling in.

Moving Forward (Not On)

Despite the ache of missing Matt and the other challenges this flip of the calendar brings to my grieving heart, I’m choosing to cling to the hope of new beginnings. Even on days when memories appear out of nowhere and bring me to tears, I’m actively striving to keep going and take life one breath at a time.

Through this journey, I’ve found that connecting regularly with others who have lost spouses or partners has been a lifeline. While each of our stories is uniquely our own, there’s an unmistakable bond that forms through our shared losses, offering both comfort and encouragement as we navigate new paths. The understanding within this circle reminds me that I’m not alone, and it’s okay for grief to look different for everyone.

One such group I joined this year, fittingly called “Moving Forward,” is designed to help those of us feeling lost without “our person” find clarity, confidence and resilience. Its purpose isn’t to “move on” as if those we’ve lost are simply chapters closed, but to move forward with them still a part of us.

Matt’s influence remains woven into the fabric of who I am and who I’m becoming; his presence is never left behind. In fact, the group encourages each of us to seek out a “proving ground”—an activity, pursuit or adventure that demonstrates we are still growing, learning and embracing life mentally, emotionally, physically and even spiritually.

For me, writing this blog has become that proving ground. Putting my thoughts into words has been incredibly therapeutic, helping me honor both the laughter and the love that Matt brought into my life as I continue moving forward. Each post is a testament to my ongoing journey, reminding myself and others that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, but rather finding strength and meaning in the memories we carry.

Grief may not fade, but neither does the spark Matt lit in me—or the resilience it quietly builds. So, as we kick off a new year, here’s to making the most of each day, finding joy in laughter and letting hope outplay heartache. Because, as I learned all those years ago over a Euchre hand, what a difference a single day can truly make.

“It’s All Part of the Experience, Honey”

Grieving with Grace Griswold-Style

It’s official. The holidays are in full swing. There are festive gatherings and events galore. Amazon packages pile up at the door, last-minute gifts wait to be wrapped, peanut butter blossoms bake in the oven and “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” (our family’s favorite) plays on repeat.

This is just a snapshot of the “hustle and bustle” happening in my world; and, I’m sure, in many others’ lives right now too. On the surface, it might look like everything is rolling along as usual. But honestly, the holidays make the struggle hit even harder.

As someone spending my third Christmas without my mom, my second without my husband and my first without my grandma, I can say with confidence that this time of year presents grieving hearts with a fresh layer of ache. Traditions have been altered or discontinued altogether; and, for me, the daily absence of my partner makes tackling the holiday madness feel heavier.

That’s where the title of this piece—and the name of my blog—comes in. It’s a line Matt used to toss out whenever things got hectic, a simple phrase that helped us laugh our way through the mayhem. Turns out, he was quoting Clark Griswold all along! Even now, that little bit of borrowed humor nudges me to find some lightness in the chaos and keep my spirits up, especially as I stumble through the bittersweet holiday season.

Despite all the upheaval of the past few years, I’m doing my best to show up. My house has been decorated since Thanksgiving weekend. My shopping and to-do lists are all checked off, and I’ve been attending holiday concerts and parties— all with a smile on my face (in public anyway).

I keep reminding myself that our loved ones wouldn’t want us to lose ourselves in sorrow. They’d encourage us to celebrate with family and friends, cherish our memories and continue traditions as best we can. Still, the noise of grief seems so much louder this time of year.

Thanks to the wisdom of fellow widows, family and close friends, I’ve been trying to cut myself some slack—learning to show myself the same compassion I’d freely to give someone else. For instance, if “Christmas Dream”—the song I shared with my mom—triggers a wave of tears, or if wrapping the kids’ gifts leaves me feeling gut-punched as Matt’s favorite Christmas movie lines echo in the background, that’s perfectly fine. I’m allowing myself to feel it.

So, as the “little lights keep twinkling” and the Griswold’s Christmas chaos starts over again, I’m realizing it’s okay to embrace the season, no matter how tangled my emotions might be. Grief may tag along for the holidays, but it doesn’t get to steal the whole show.

There are still sweet moments, belly laughs and the warmth of family and friends to wrap around me. This year, I’m giving myself permission to feel it all, honor what’s been lost, but also celebrate what remains. And that, I think, is a gift worth unwrapping.

“It’s Not a Total Lie”

Finding Hope and Helpers Amid Life’s Struggles

“How are you doing?” Arguably the most frequently asked question in the English language. It’s pretty much the verbal equivalent of small talk autopilot. More of a reflex than a real question. Yet this seemingly simple, friendly conversation-starter is enough to make many a widow squirm.

Does the person asking really want to know how I’m holding up, or is this just a polite way to say “hello?” After chatting with plenty of fellow widows and widowers, I can safely say that this question makes almost all of us uncomfortable. No judgment to anyone trying to be nice, but here’s a little window into what it feels like on the receiving end.

Whether it’s been a week or two years since we lost our person, odds are we’re not exactly thriving. Our world got flipped upside down, and while life keeps spinning for others, ours is permanently changed. Yes, we’re doing our best to move forward and grab little pieces of happiness where we can, but if you’re asking how I’m really doing, are you sure you want the honest answer?

To give you a little perspective, whenever someone drops that question on me, my brain immediately goes into overdrive. I’m suddenly scrambling, asking myself how well I know this person or if it’s the right time and place to spill the real story. Are they hoping for the raw, unfiltered truth, or is it safer to stick with a breezy “I’m hanging in there?” At least that response isn’t a total lie, but it doesn’t exactly dive deep.

Truthful or not, I typically opt for the path of least resistance. So, here’s a little unsolicited tip as we head into the holiday season, which, to be honest, isn’t exactly “the most wonderful time of the year” for everyone dealing with loss. Skip the automatic “how are you?” and go for something real. Try a genuine greeting like “It’s great to see you” (if it truly is) or “Long time, no see!” It makes all the difference.

Look for the Helpers

Speaking of making a difference, this weekend’s church sermon took me straight back to one of the most comforting icons of my childhood: Mister Rogers. Kicking off the season of Advent, the pastor correlated the themes of hope and love with Mister Rogers’ unforgettable “look for the helpers” mantra. It’s all about the people who show up and step in when life gets messy, the ones who offer help when things crumble.

This message packs a punch because it’s grounded in love. It reminds us that even when life throws us curveballs, there’s always a current of kindness flowing through the cracks (if you intentionally look for it). Every time things fall apart, someone steps up with a small gesture, a quiet show of compassion or even just a smile. It’s proof that while heartbreak and hardship are part of the deal, so is the steady presence of human goodness and connection.

When you’re wrestling with grief and the world feels out of sync, those helpers – the ones who appear with a casserole, a text or simply a genuine “I’ve been thinking about you” – become lifelines. Their hope and love don’t erase pain and loss, but they certainly soften their sharp edges. It’s that mix of honest acknowledgment and everyday support that helps us keep going, even when we’re just “hanging in there.”

So, in a season obsessed with cheer, maybe real comfort comes not from surface-level greetings but from those small, true acts that say, “you’re not alone.” It’s the homemade treats dropped off at your door, the unexpected message that makes you feel remembered or the friend who sits beside you without needing words.

Sometimes, the greatest gift isn’t holiday sparkle or perfect joy. It’s simply the presence of someone who cares enough to show up, listen and let you be exactly where you are.

“Better Than We Found It”

How Everyday Thank Yous and Simple Gestures Make a Lasting Difference

With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I’ve been thinking more about gratitude, and it makes perfect sense that this was my late husband Matt’s favorite holiday. Sure, he was a sucker for the turkey, the mashed potatoes, having family all together, and, of course, watching the annual Lion’s game. But it was more than that.

We were about a year into dating when I discovered one of Matt’s remarkable habits. Every Monday morning, like clockwork, he’d pull five blank thank you notes out of his desk at work. Even amid his many responsibilities as a school superintendent, he made time every week to write out the notes. These weren’t boilerplate work emails or professional letters. They were genuine, handwritten thank yous to students, staff or anyone in the community who’d done something a little extra. Just his way of shining a light on others, simply because he cared.

And it didn’t stop there. As the head coach of our son Tynan’s travel baseball team, Matt’s post-game huddles were legendary (to me, anyway). I loved catching snippets of him talking to the boys as I folded up chairs and lugged snacks. With his classic blend of tough love and kindness, he challenged the boys to call out what they did well and where they needed to step up—always balancing grit with encouragement. And the part that truly resonated with me was when he’d finish his talk by reminding the team to clean up the dugout: “Let’s leave it better than we found it, boys.”

That was Matt to his core. Consistently brightening someone’s day with a thoughtful gesture or a gentle reminder to do a little good. Giving back wasn’t just a task to him, it was part of who he was. Matt devoted countless hours to community service, rolling up his sleeves for organized events or quietly assisting someone in need—never seeking recognition. He even volunteered as the announcer at our daughter Emma’s high school soccer games, a role he continued up until a month before he passed—always bringing his trademark energy, heart and humor.

Though I doubt Emma’s soccer team knew much about Matt’s health struggles, they were certainly aware of his character, and the way he’d enthusiastically announce each name or proclaim that “a pack of huskies” were about to come out on the field. A week or two after Matt died, I attended the team’s District semi-final game with my friend. It was difficult to be there cheering the girls on without Matt by my side or hearing him announce. After the game, which they unfortunately lost, Emma and I were in the car, getting ready to leave when I noticed “LLM” written on her wrist in marker. At every game, the team did this with an acronym—usually some sort of competitive abbreviation to fire them up. When I asked her what the latest “tattoo” stood for, she said that one of her teammates came up with it and that it meant “Live Like Matt.”

I really love that motto. It’s simple, clear, and, honestly, exactly what we all need, especially as Thanksgiving rolls around. Matt showed us how to lead with gratitude, how to lift others up and how to leave the world just a bit better than we found it. He wasn’t perfect, but the way he lived taught me, our kids, and everyone lucky enough to know him that real thankfulness isn’t just reserved for the holidays; it’s something you carry with you, every day, in every little act. And for that, I’m truly grateful.

“The Fog Is Real”

Navigating Life’s Hazy Moments with Humor, Grace and a Little Help from Dad

I can still picture it. Me as a little girl, squinting into the grey mist outside as my dad grinned and announced, “It’s ‘froggy’ out!” That was his go-to fog joke, and he cracked it every time without fail. It’s just one of those quirky father-daughter moments that’s stuck with me. But fast-forward 40-some years and it’s a wonder I can recall that, considering I’m hard-pressed to remember what I had for breakfast this morning!

The struggle is seriously real. Over the past couple of years, I’ve started noticing all those “classic” aging brain blips—walking into a room and immediately forgetting what I went in there for or leaving the store without the one thing I actually needed. My late husband Matt never missed an opportunity to tease me during these moments (particularly when I frequently misplaced my phone). Nevertheless, I insisted that these things happen to everyone. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

But lately it’s gotten a little out of hand. In the past few days alone, I brought home the wrong item from Trader Joe’s (that I specifically drove there for), sent my Target pick-up order to a location on the other side of town and realized deep into a five-hour road trip that I had left my purse at home. Awesome.

When Memory Hops Away. . .

Not only are these occurrences making me feel like I’m losing my marbles, but they are also just plain annoying. Sure, I could chalk these things up to aging, perimenopause, not getting enough rest, spreading myself too thin, etc. Since the magnitude and frequency of these episodes has intensified since Matt died, they could also be attributed to “grief fog”—the mental haze that can happen days or even years after losing a loved one, where you can’t focus, can’t remember and feel like your brain’s stuck in low gear.

Regardless of the cause, I’m realizing—after being reminded by multiple friends—that I need to give myself a little grace. Amid the significant losses my family has endured over the past few years, life hasn’t exactly slowed down. It’s second nature for me to just keep trucking along, even when my brain and body are surely encouraging me to take a time-out.

Perhaps it’s time I listen. Not to say that I never take a break, but when life is happening at full speed around me and I’m feeling overwhelmed, I should probably stop and take a breather. Literally. I’ve often told my kids to “take a deep breath” when they have too much on their plate and need a moment to chill. It’s high time I heed my own advice.

So yes, the fog is real. And sometimes, it’s thick enough that you can lose your phone, your purse or even the thread of your own thoughts. Despite my recent moments of “frogginess,” my dad’s joke came full circle on the weekend when he hopped in (pun fully intended) and texted me a photo of my driver’s license so I could continue on after forgetting my purse. Thanks for saving the day, dad!

It’s one more reminder that we all need a little rescue now and then, and it’s okay to pause, breathe and offer ourselves the grace we’d so easily give someone else. Turns out, even in the fog, there’s always a way to find your way back—or at the very least, to laugh about it on the other side.