“Life Is Still Good”

A Reflection on Love, Loss and the Quiet Ways We Carry People With Us

It’s been one of those beautiful June weekends: sun shining, birds chirping, the kind that makes you stop and think, “life is good.” And it feels only fitting that the person I can still hear saying those words is my mom, because yesterday marked three years since she went to heaven.

For those of you that have been following my blog over the past year, you know I talk a lot about navigating grief and all the unexpected ways it shows up. Most of that has centered on my life as a widow after losing my husband, Matt. But a year before he died, I lost my mom too. And between Matt’s illness and the heartbreak that followed his death, I don’t think I ever fully grieved losing the person I know would’ve helped me through all of it.

That’s not to say that I don’t think about her daily and all the ways she impacted me, my family—and really, everyone who knew her. She was always the first person to step up when any of her family or friends needed her. She had a servant’s heart, and I always admired her generous nature when it came to her church community as well.

As an only child, my mom and I always had a very close relationship. I will always remember when I was young, and we’d drive around together in our Jeep, blasting the song “You’re So Good to Me” by the Beach Boys. And the words of that song could not be more true. My mom was always so good to me and everyone she loved. Always caring. Always giving. Always being our biggest cheerleader.

So, in an attempt to process her death, I’ve tried to keep her spirit alive in the way I live, even in grief. I keep going. I keep trying to help others where I can. I keep cheering my people on, even when my own heart feels heavy. Because that’s what she did. She made people feel like they mattered.

And maybe that’s the gift our loved ones leave behind. Not just the memories, but the example. The little blueprint for how to move through the world. My mom moved through it with joy, generosity and encouragement. And I’m trying to do the same.

As I reflect on ways I can manage my grief while carrying on my mom’s positive, giving, outlook, the snippet I shared in my mom’s eulogy comes to mind: “Whenever my mom was getting ready for an event or planning something and all the details had been completed, she would say “life is good.” That phrase struck me as appropriate for today. All the details have been figured out. An amazing life has been lived. She has shown such strength and courage and now she is at peace. Today we will celebrate that she was part of our lives, cherish the wonderful memories we made with her, and pray for her spirit.”

And maybe that is what I’m still learning to hold onto. That grief and goodness can exist in the same breath. That missing her and carrying her forward are both part of loving her. And that even on the hard days, especially on the hard days, I can still hear her voice reminding me that life is good.

“Still Showing Up”

Finding Signs of Love in the Milestones, Memories and Moments That Matter Most

My absence from this blog over the past couple months hasn’t been because I had nothing to say. It’s been because of pure MAYhem: three kids deep in high school sports, one graduating with all the awards nights, events, commencement and graduation party prep that comes with it, and another moving home from college for the summer.

And that’s just half the story. Emotionally, it’s been a full-on roller coaster, made even more bittersweet by the fact that my late husband, Matt, hasn’t been here for any of these once-in-a-lifetime moments: our daughters Emma and Maddie sharing the field for Emma’s final soccer season, our son Tynan pitching a perfect game, Emma’s honors ceremony and graduation, and our son Brendan heading to the Big 10 Tournament as a student manager with Michigan State University’s baseball team.

Don’t get me wrong, we have been celebrating all of these milestones with joy. Matt certainly wouldn’t want us throwing a pity party that he wasn’t here to share in them with us. And I think Emma said it best on the day of her graduation, a day that Matt, as her biggest cheerleader, would have relished. She was about to put on her cap and gown when I asked her if she wanted to wear something—maybe the gold necklace Matt gave her the Christmas before he passed—so she could have a piece of him with her as she graduated. She responded matter-of-factly, “Mom. . .Matt is always with me.”

Wise words from our newest high school graduate. Even though, at times, it doesn’t feel like enough to have Matt with us only in spirit, she’s absolutely right.

He was most definitely with us on her senior night for soccer, as the five us walked across the field with Emma’s name and accolades being announced. Just two years ago, Matt was on the other side of that microphone, and I can just hear him proudly declaring that a “pack of huskies” was about to come onto the field. And even after Emma’s last high school game—a heartbreaking, season-ending loss to their rivals—I know, though he wasn’t there to give Emma and Maddie one of his big bear hugs, they felt Matt’s presence.

The same was true when Ty pitched a perfect game a few weeks ago, toward the end of his junior baseball season. Just thinking about this makes me emotional on so many levels. Matt excelled on the baseball field growing up and was a star pitcher, so there was no doubt that one of the thrills of his life was coaching Ty for all those years—from little league through the travel baseball season the year before he died. Matt spent countless hours playing catch with Ty, teaching him different pitches and encouraging him to “outthink” the batter. I know without a doubt that Matt was looking down from heaven as Ty pitched that perfect game, saying “atta baby” and grinning from ear to ear.

Similarly, I know Matt has been smiling down on our oldest, Brendan, a sophomore at MSU, since he snagged a position earlier this year as a student manager for the baseball team. He and Matt also bonded over baseball, and Matt would’ve been thrilled to see him get this opportunity. As a first-year manager, Brendan hasn’t been able to travel with the team much, but he lucked out when the Spartans qualified in the 11th hour to the Big 10 Tournament in Omaha, Neb., and he was tapped to go. Omaha held meaning from the start because, after Matt was diagnosed three years ago, he, Ty and Brendan made a bucket-list trip there for the College World Series. I know Brendan felt Matt’s presence the second he got there.

But there was more. Matt always referred to Brendan as “The Brendan,” so in turn, Brendan would always call him “The Matt.” In the ultimate Godwink, Brendan called me when he got to Omaha, and said, “You’ll never believe the name of the restaurant next to our hotel. It’s called The Matt!” Talk about having a piece of Matt there with him.

As the saying goes, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Easier said than done, of course. Some days, the missing feels bigger than the smiling. But then there are moments like these—on soccer fields, pitcher’s mounds, graduation stages and even outside a restaurant in Omaha—that remind us Matt isn’t really missing them. He’s woven into them. In the stories we tell, the signs we catch, the words our kids say without even realizing how much wisdom they carry. And while I’ll always wish he were here in person, I’m learning to smile because he happened. And because, in so many beautiful ways, he still does.

“Mile Cry Club”

From Takeoff to Tides: Riding the Waves of Healing the Best You Can

On a recent flight home after an amazing senior spring break with my daughter, I suddenly found myself sobbing in the airplane lavatory mid-flight. Sure, there were multiple logical reasons for this emotional outburst. It was nearly 2:00 am, and I was exhausted after a week-long vacation, a full day of international travel and countless delays. I could feel a cold coming on and had just finished a “happily ever after” book that left me a little weepy. But there was something deeper behind the tears. Something that came on strong and drove me to the privacy of the tiny airplane bathroom.

Whether I chalk it up to out-of-the-blue turbulence as I grieve the loss of my husband, the loneliness of exploring new destinations without him or the sting of his absence on these milestone adventures, airplane tears have become my routine since Matt passed. Trying to compose myself before heading back to my seat, I realized I’ve teared up at some point on every one of the handful of flights I’ve taken in the almost two years since he died.

Why is this? Maybe it’s the altitude, maybe it’s the quiet isolation of cruising above the clouds or maybe it’s the way travel magnifies the absence of someone you wish were there. Something about sitting suspended between destinations, surrounded by strangers, makes the ache sharper and the memories louder. Each flight has become a space for me where joy and sorrow collide. Where I celebrate new experiences while carrying the bittersweet weight of missing my person.

Learning to “Hang Ten”

Often, these unexpected waves of grief come out of nowhere. You might be driving, walking down the street—or, in my case, soaring at 40,000 feet—when suddenly, it hits. There’s not always an obvious trigger. You don’t need to hear their favorite song or stumble across something that reminds you of them. For some reason, it just crashes over you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

But from my own journey, and from swapping stories with fellow grievers, I’ve learned a handful of ways to lessen the intensity when these waves come crashing in:

  • Ride the Wave: Instead of resisting, let the emotion wash over you. Picture it as a powerful ocean wave. It will rise, crest and, eventually, fade.
  • Feel It Out: Give yourself the green light to feel whatever comes—sadness, anger or even total overwhelm—without judgment.
  • Care for Yourself: Lean into gentle habits like deep breathing, journaling or simply giving yourself some “me time.”
  • Reach Out: Touch base with friends, family or support groups who understand that grief is not linear and has no timeline.
  • Honor the Memory: Recognize that this sudden ache is proof of how very deeply you loved.

So, remember, just because those sudden, overwhelming waves of grief crash into you doesn’t mean you’re stuck or doing something wrong. It means you’re actively navigating the messy, lasting impact of losing someone who meant the world to you.

These moments, like my unintentional creation of the “mile cry club,” are proof that, even when it doesn’t feel like it, we have the courage to keep moving forward. Each wave reminds us of the depth of our love and the bittersweet ache of absence. So, ride it out, feel the feels, practice self-care and connect with others when you need to.

Grief isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a reflection of your humanity and your ability to carry both sorrow and joy on the journey. Honor that and keep trying to “hang ten.” Because healing is not about avoiding the waves but riding them with heart.

“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.