Author: Amy Goebel

“Weather Ball Green. . .No Change Foreseen”

Love, Loss and the Forecast of Resilience

In my last blog, I wrote about the weather ball—a literal beacon of light near my home with changing colors that predict the weather. Of course, if the forecast is favorable, we keep our fingers crossed for a green weather ball, indicating continued good weather ahead. But life isn’t like that. More often than not, we get the blinding, blinking weather ball forecasting stormy weather.

Grieving the loss of my husband, Matt, has been like stepping into a downpour – no warning, no umbrella – just me and the storm. Along the way, however, there have been occasional breaks in the clouds. Moments where I can catch my breath, accept that my life is forever changed, yet still manage to see the sunlight. But just when I think I’ve gotten used to the shifting weather of grief, along comes another cold front: the reality that everything’s about to change all over again.

With a new school year in full swing, I’ve been met with bittersweet feelings. While I’m excited for my kids and their new adventures, it’s also a time of sadness since Matt – a lifelong educator – can’t experience it with us. That, and the fact that fall was his favorite time of year—and mine. Football games, cooler weather, changing leaves. . .and did I mention football?

Flying the Coop

I thought back-to-school time last year was the ultimate gut punch—sending our oldest off to college just months after Matt died. On top of that, the rhythm of our household changed overnight as our scheduled time with my bonus kids shifted considerably, and what used to be a bustling home of six suddenly became two in the span of three months. But this year? A new set of curveballs. The house somehow feels bigger, quieter and a little emptier—and it’s only going to get more echoey.

Our oldest daughter has started her senior year of high school, which means next year at this time it’ll just be me in the nest. Not trying to have a pity party here, but this isn’t what I pictured. Social media wants me to “embrace” this empty nest era, but instead, I’m feeling a strange combination of sadness, nostalgia and trepidation for what’s to come.

Even with a chance of rain, I’m doing my best to steady my course—finding the strength to weather whatever comes next. I’m leaning into the whirlwind of college visits, senior Sunday posts, the last Homecoming, senior photos and other twelfth-grade milestones. I’m genuinely thrilled for what’s ahead for my senior (and for all my kids), but I’d be lying if I said the thought of what happens to me after they’ve flown the coop doesn’t weigh heavy.

Honestly, there was never a real blueprint for this stage—just the reassuring thought that, whatever came, I’d be tackling empty nesting with my best friend. Now? I’m winging it solo, and it’s a whole new forecast. But as Matt would sometimes say, I know this is my time to “suck it up, buttercup.” I’m scared as hell but know I can do it. As the ever-wise Bob Marley once said: “You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.”

Resilience, I’m discovering, isn’t about waiting for clear skies—it’s about moving forward even when things feel overwhelming or uncertain. Some days bring doubts and anxiety, but I remind myself that these feelings are natural and don’t have to hold me back. Each day is a new opportunity to keep going, to show up for myself and my family, to honor Matt’s memory and to find strength in the progress I’ve already made.

While I certainly didn’t choose this part of my journey, I’m learning to dance in the puddles left behind by the storm. Even when the weather ball is anything but green, I’m making a conscious choice to seek out moments of laughter, love and resilience—guided by the hope of another break in the clouds.

“The Real Deal Holyfield”

Weathering Loss, Chasing Sunsets and Cherishing the Real Deal

When I moved to West Michigan more than seven years ago, my late husband Matt wasted no time introducing me to the many memorable charms of what he called “the land of sunshine and rainbows.” Of course, I was skeptical of this ever-present sunshine he joked about. But he was right about one thing: living just a half-hour from the beach was undeniably awesome.

I will never forget it—our family of six clustered around the dinner table, when someone would say “isn’t it the perfect night for Lake Michigan?” In no time, we’d pile into the car, and in less than an hour the kids were launching themselves into the waves while Matt and I soaked in the view of our children having the time of their lives. And the pier and gorgeous sunset weren’t too shabby either.

Before heading home, we’d treat ourselves to ice cream from the Pier Peddler (Matt and I, anyway—the kids always went for those high-priced, neon-shaved ices). And as we cruised home from our lakeshore adventure, Matt would always point out the new-to-me, local phenomenon known simply as “the weather ball.”

About half-way through our trip back, Matt would smile and point out the quirky landmark proudly maintained by a local TV station. For decades, this glowing orb has been a reliable staple in the West Michigan community, its changing colors forecasting the weather at a glance, complete with its own little rhyme: “Weather ball red, warmer ahead; weather ball blue, cooler in view; weather ball green, no change foreseen; blinking bright, rain or snow in sight.”

Empty Seat, Heart Full of Memories

Since Matt’s passing, my emotions shift much like the weather ball. Always changing, always unpredictable. Some days, grief rolls in like a thunderstorm—sudden, loud, drenching everything. Sometimes it lingers like a heavy fog, refusing to lift and obscuring any sense of direction. But every now and then, a shaft of sunlight breaks through the overcast, and in that rare calm, I find myself able to breathe more easily, warmed for a moment by memory or laughter before the winds shift again.

I’ve discovered that my best line of defense as I weather this grief storm has been the power of memories—and laughter is my secret weapon. Swapping stories about Matt with family, friends or even total newcomers has become my lifeline. This past year and a half, I’ve found myself sharing tales about him with people who didn’t really know him (this blog being one of those outlets), and it makes my heart happy when they say things like, “I wish I’d met him” or “he sounds incredible.” Whenever someone asks to see a photo, I show them that classic grin of his, and their faces say it all: Matt was the “real deal Holyfield,” a line he would always say about something or someone that was one-of-a-kind. And he certainly was.

I was reminded of Matt’s legacy just this past week. One of his lifelong best friends, who was a rockstar baseball player throughout high school (and beyond) was finally going to be inducted into their school’s Athletic Hall of Fame—recognition Matt had thought was long overdue. I was honored to attend the induction ceremony, which not-so-coincidently was held at a venue where Matt used to work. Throughout the night, countless people approached me to share Matt stories – some hilarious, some touching – about the laughs, the loyalty and the pure goodness he brought into their lives.

During the ceremony, with a seat painfully empty next to me, the ache was real. He should’ve been there, showing his pride for his “brother” and cracking jokes with his best buddies. But as the stories poured in, what hit me was this—Matt’s impact rippled far beyond our circle of family and friends. He wasn’t just missed; he was unforgettable.

“It’s Not You…It’s Me”

Grieving, Seinfeld-Style (No Festivus Pole Required)

I pride myself on being fairly knowledgeable when it comes to pop culture. However, for years, I was admittedly behind the eight-ball about one of the top American sitcoms of all time…you know, that little “show about nothing.”

Enter my late husband Matt Goebel, and all that changed. While I had previously seen a Seinfeld episode or two, Matt fully indoctrinated me to the show to the point where I’ve now seen all of them multiple times. I can even quote specific lines and correlate the antics of Jerry and friends into daily life. I’m especially proud of this feat, because what started as a way for us to “have a laugh” every night — especially after Matt’s cancer diagnosis — now serves as a literal series of reminders of him and something that never failed to elicit that contagious chuckle of his.

Even during the not-so-funny moments now, as I grieve the incredible loss of Matt, a particular Seinfeld line keeps popping into my head: “it’s not you…it’s me.” Not the context of the phrase — which involved George Costanza being told those words as he was getting broken up with via the routine he supposedly invented — but more of the deeper meaning now that I am a widow.

Let me preface this by saying that I am truly grateful for all the love and support that my family and I have received over the past year and half, and I certainly don’t want to downplay that whatsoever. I’m not referring to the kindness you have generously extended, but more of the loneliness that exists within me despite your kindness.

For instance, I whole-heartedly appreciate being included in get-togethers with other couples. They are so sweet to invite me, and I’m almost certain they aren’t thinking that I’ll feel like the “fifth wheel.” That’s where the whole “it’s not you…it’s me” comes in.

This is my issue to deal with, not yours. You keep being your awesome, inclusive selves, and I’ll continue trying to give myself grace when I feel alone at times—even in a group of people. After all, as Matt and the title of this blog say: “It’s all part of the experience.”

Giddy-Up

There’s just no sugar coating it. I can’t speak for anyone else, but Matt’s absence has created a black hole inside me that is difficult to describe. Even though I have an amazing support system, and I am taking steps to move forward (such as writing this blog), facing life without my person is difficult—even if I don’t always show it.

One of my closest friends, who’s been by my side through all of this, recently told me I “present too well” for someone deep in grief. She’s seen me at my worst and expects my outside to look as tattered as my heart feels. Another friend confessed last week that she’s never seen me cry, which honestly made me giggle. If only she knew the ocean of tears I’ve managed to keep behind closed doors.

Maybe I’m just fumbling my way through this, hoping that a perma-smile and put-together exterior will keep my pain neatly tucked away from view. I’m no expert at grieving, and most days I’m just trying to figure out how to show up. Sometimes that means looking braver than I feel, and sometimes it’s pure luck if I don’t fall apart right in front of you.

My behavior isn’t a total façade, though. I like to think I’m channeling my inner Matt. He would often say we needed to “saddle up” for whatever challenge we were facing or an adventure we were about to embark on. It cracked me up every time, even when I’d rather run for cover than face whatever was coming.

However, as we learned all too well during Matt’s battle with cancer, there is no sidestepping this disease—or the crater it left behind. He faced down every twist and turn with grit and humor to the bitter end, and that’s the energy I’m channeling now. If he could saddle up and stare down the tough stuff, so can I.


Festivus for the Rest of Us

Here’s another classic Matt-ism for you: nothing beats the satisfaction of grumbling “these people” with a dramatic eyeroll when someone’s driving you up the wall. I’ve passed this gem onto family and friends—I highly recommend giving it a whirl. Very cathartic.

If you know Seinfeld, you’ll remember the Costanza’s Festivus tradition: the annual “airing of grievances.” I’m not staging a full-blown Festivus or calling out “these people” by name, but trust me, if you’re grieving, you get it. Again, no hard feelings. It’s not you…it’s me.

I know my nerves are a little frayed right now because I’m grieving. And honestly, my gripes aren’t all aimed at people; some are just the unavoidable, messy realities that crash down on you when you lose your partner. That’s where I’ll kick things off.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, nothing prepares you for the avalanche of paperwork that comes with losing a loved one. But let me tell you about a curveball I didn’t see coming: the dreaded emergency contact update. There I was, in the doctor’s office lobby, blindsided by a simple kiosk prompt—cue total meltdown. Sure, it’s logical to update that information, but grief doesn’t exactly operate on logic. Just this week, the universe decided to take another swing at me when I renewed my driver’s license online. Up pops “Would you like to change or remove your emergency contact information?” Absolutely not—but I suppose I should. Sigh.

Here’s another grievance for you—and a universal truth for anyone who’s been sucker-punched by grief, heartbreak or any number of life’s challenges. Hearing “I know how you feel” is like nails on a chalkboard. No, you don’t—and honestly, I barely know how I feel half the time! We’re all walking our own wild paths, and those shoes fit differently for everyone. So next time you’re tempted to dish out that line, do yourself (and me) a favor and skip it.


Yada, Yada, Yada

So, as I carry on—armed with Seinfeld quotes, Matt’s “saddle up” spirit and a rolodex of grievances worthy of a Festivus miracle—I’m learning that it’s okay to be a little messy, a little lonely and a whole lot human.

Grief may not come with a laugh track, but I promise to keep showing up, finding humor where I can and loving fiercely in the face of it all. If you’re riding your own emotional rollercoaster, remember: it’s not you…it’s me. And together, we’ll just keep giddy-upping through the wild, unpredictable and strangely beautiful ride of life after loss.

“Sign, Sign … Everywhere a Sign”

What to make of Godwinks, 11:11 and Other Signs from Lost Loved Ones

What’s your sign? By this, I don’t mean anything about your horoscope or astrological sign. Or even the song (which is now stuck in my head, by the way). I’m talking about the signs you get from people you love that have passed away. Just little moments where they show up to brighten your day and remind you that they’re still there watching over you. 

I realize that not everyone believes in this sort of thing. Yet for me and some of my friends and family, these signs — that can come in various forms — serve as comforting and reassuring messages from above. 

The key is that you have to look for them. 

 
Just a Godwink and Smile 

Years ago, I was introduced to the concept of “Godwinks” when my dear friend Shelley gifted me the book When God Winks: How the Power of Coincidence Guides Your Life by Squire Rushnell.  

So, what exactly is a Godwink? Defined as “a seemingly coincidental event that can be interpreted as a sign of divine intervention,” a Godwink is a quirky “coincidence” that feels just a bit too on-the-nose to be random—like the universe is giving you a little nudge or a cosmic fist bump. These aren’t just chance happenings. They’re signs that someone is looking out for you, guiding you or just dropping by to brighten your day. 

Back when I first got the book, I loved reading the stories of people experiencing Godwinks, and I would be sure to let Shelley and other friends and family who knew about the Godwink theory whenever so-called “coincidences” happened in my life. But until I experienced true loss, I never fully recognized the sense of peace Godwinks can bring. 

In the context of grief, Godwinks take on a whole new meaning. They’re those oddly perfect moments — maybe a favorite song playing at just the right time or spotting a penny or a dime when you need encouragement — that make you stop and wonder if a loved one is saying, “Hey, I’m still here!” For me, these little winks from above are like spiritual comfort food: warm, reassuring and a gentle reminder that love never really leaves us. 

After Matt passed away, I started noticing the signs he was sending, and they’ve given me so much comfort. The very first one happened on the day of his funeral. 

Our oldest son Brendan’s varsity baseball team had a big district semi-final that day. After the service and luncheon, he went straight to the game, where his team was already trailing. But as soon as he arrived, things shifted. The team rallied and pulled off a wild 8-2 win in extra innings! 

Later that day was the district final against a team ranked #2 in the state. I slipped away from the post-funeral gathering at our house to catch the game with close friends and family. No one expected us to win, but somehow, we did—3-0! As Brendan held up the District Championship trophy, he looked up and gave a little nod, as if to say, “Thanks, Matt.” It certainly felt like he’d had a hand in this unlikely victory. 

 
Dig These Digits 

Truth be told, I’ve always been more into words than numbers, but it’s been hard for me to ignore the number 17 as it was prominent in my relationship with Matt. We met on 1.7.17, got engaged on June 17, 2018, and decided to get married on the 4th of July that same year (which turned out to be … you guessed it, 17 days after our engagement!)  

In numerology, the number 17 is viewed as a symbol of new beginnings and divine power. When I first recognized these correlations between the number 17 and our relationship, it made total sense to me. We truly were each other’s “new beginning,” having met after our respective divorces and creating our blended family.  

I like to think that the “divine power” part of the definition pertains not only to the importance of faith in our relationship, but now in Matt giving us signs through the number 17 that he’s still with us.  

A couple of examples occurred last summer, just months after Matt’s death. Our daughter Emma (now 17) and I went on a trip to Boston and Nantucket as a belated birthday gift. As we started our vacation, I was feeling strong reminders of Matt (especially since he and I had just visited Boston the previous Labor Day).  

My heart felt heavy as we left Boston and made our way to the ferry that would take us to Nantucket. Once we got there, the dock porters directed us to stow our luggage in a bin that was not in numbered order like the rest … it, of course, had the number 17 emblazoned upon it. Once we got to the island, I pulled out our Airbnb reservation information, and sure enough, our address was 17 Washington Street. Sure, these could just be considered simple coincidences, but during an especially emotional time, these signs gave me comfort that Matt was there, helping guide us on our trip. 

The numbers 11:11 (generally seen on a clock or a receipt) are another sign recognized by many as a message from angels. It’s a reminder to stay positive and trust in God’s plan—sentiments that Matt and I often spoke to each other. 

I really knew nothing about the concept of 11:11 until Matt passed and other widows mentioned it to me. From that point on, I started seeing it pretty frequently—particularly at times when I needed extra encouragement or a nudge from Matt that he had my back.  

Our oldest son, Brendan, and I had a major 11:11 occurrence this past Father’s Day. Of course Matt was top of mind that day, and we were all really missing him. We had gone golfing, and on the way home Brendan was giving me this smile and asked, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”—something Matt often did when he not-so-slyly hinted for us to get ice cream. I, of course obliged, and we both stood there with our jaws on the ground when the cashier at Frosty Boy told us our bill came to $11.11. Brendan didn’t miss a beat and wished Matt a “Happy Father’s Day” right there. 

For the birds? 

Another sign that can hold symbolic meaning — particularly in the form of hope, love and guidance from loved ones who have passed away — is a cardinal.  In various cultures, these beautiful, red birds are seen as messengers from the spirit world, offering comfort, reassurance and a sense of connection to those who have departed.  

On the same Nantucket trip last summer, I was having a particularly tough day, missing Matt. I was holding back tears as Emma and I boarded a shuttle to another part of the island. First, I saw a “penny from heaven” sitting directly on my seat, and then right as we got off the bus, a beautiful cardinal was waiting to greet us in one of Nantucket’s famous hydrangea bushes.  

This spring and summer we’ve also had a regular cardinal visitor on our back deck. It’s uncanny the way this bird keeps showing up, especially when I’m having a rough day and missing Matt. While its constant presence has been powerful itself, the cardinal almost always perches on the stand that holds a personalized wind chime with Matt’s name on it and a special quote that a family friend gave us when he passed. 

Not everyone believes in Godwinks or special numbers, but for me these “signs from above” are comforting reminders that our loved ones haven’t left us, and they will always be in our minds and hearts as we move forward.  

“Don’t Throw a Fit”

How to Heed This and Other Crazy Advice During Life’s Disasters

“It’s all part of the experience.” This tongue-in-cheek phrase is something my late husband, Matt, would often say when something less-than-ideal would happen to us. He typically said this with a twinkle in his eye and a wry grin on his face as he deadpanned about some trivial hardship that had come our way (having to wait in a long line at the grocery store, getting the wrong order served at a restaurant. . .you get the idea).

While many of his euphemisms have stuck with me, this one has spoken the loudest as I attempt to collect my somewhat random, occasionally humorous and (hopefully) inspiring ramblings on life, love, parenthood and grief into a blog — and perhaps someday a book — with that title.

Akin to telling a toddler “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit,” Matt’s sarcasm was meant to downplay the circumstance, emphasizing that although these little setbacks can seem hugely annoying to us in the moment, we just need to accept the situation, laugh it off and move forward. After all, it’s all part of ultimately enriching OUR experience.

I’m not going to lie. It’s taken me a minute to accept this notion (and some days I’m more accepting than others). Throughout my nearly half-century of life, my children and I have experienced significant losses — particularly within the past decade — that have caused me to ask “why?” or weep about the utter unfairness of it all.

And, believe me, when I was navigating low points such as the death of my mom weeks after Matt’s stage IV cancer diagnosis or trying to keep some semblance of our tight-knit blended family after Matt died (still a struggle to this day), it hasn’t been easy to “not throw a fit” and chalk life’s punches up to being merely “part of the experience.”


What choice do we have?

Borrowing another one of Matt’s signature phrases — “life is full of choices” — I have made the difficult choice to try to be positive and find the silver linings amid the series of unfortunate “experiences” my family and I have had. Though, I promise you, I didn’t face these nightmares without punching the lights out of numerous innocent pillows, using what seemed like more tissues than Kleenex could produce in a year, and having my faith tested more than I thought was humanly possible.

So, I guess, in a way, I have thrown my fair share of fits.

But, like a good cry, those fits (mostly in the privacy of my own home or in my therapist’s office) have helped me clear my head, let out my frustrations and recognize that I have the strength to move forward despite seemingly insurmountable “experiences.”

By no means do I pretend to have all the answers. But, like I often tell my disbelieving teenagers, I actually do know “some stuff” and that “it’s not my first rodeo” attempting to overcome challenges. At the very least, I’m hoping that communicating how I’ve waded through and lived to see the other side of some of life’s daunting challenges, will help you understand that you are not alone in the trials and tribulations of your own life.

And, at the end of the day, sometimes it helps to cry about it, sometimes it helps to laugh about it. . .but no matter what, you have to do something about it.


Wanna arm wrestle?

I can’t count the times I’ve had people ask me “How do you do it?” or “I don’t think I could be as strong as you’ve been through everything.” My first thought in these instances was to respond with “Welp. . .I don’t really have a choice.”

But upon further reflection, I realized I did have a choice (see, Matt, you taught me well). I could’ve stayed in bed with the covers pulled over my head and not interacted with people for months after Matt died. And, honestly, part of me wanted to do that. Just retreat from the world that had failed me. That had taken my best friend.

But what good would that have done me? I had my children who were also grieving and looking to me for strength. I had a full-time job to get back to and mountains of paperwork to tackle in the wake of Matt’s death. In the immortal words of Sly Stallone’s character from one of Matt’s favorite ‘80s movies, “Over the Top,” about a guy determined to win the World Armwrestling Championship: “The world meets nobody halfway. When you want something, you gotta take it.”

So, I chose to take it. Take my life back.

I dove into the bills, forms and mail with Matt’s name on it. I made endless phone calls and choked back the tears when I had to say the dreaded words that “my husband died” or be asked to send in Matt’s death certificate to have a particular bill or service changed to my name. I chose to go to friends’ parties (even though no part of me wanted to go without Matt), put a smile on my face and wear my best “fake-it-till-you-make-it,” cheery outfit.

And you know what? There was satisfaction in checking off my to-do list, feeling somewhat human in my “party clothes” and sharing moments of laughter with friends and family. I never would’ve had those gratifying feelings or won my arm wrestling match with grief if I’d stayed in bed.

Now… over a year after Matt’s death, am I still in the depths of grief? Hell yeah, I am. I continue to arm wrestle this beast daily, but I can feel myself starting to get a little bit stronger each day. (And then a wave of grief will hit me — particularly on the weekends — and I’ll feel like I’m back at square one.) All told, as I work through my emotions, lonely situations and solo parenting, I’m starting to see some glimpses of joy.

I don’t win every match, but I can feel it in my bones that Matt is proud of me for trying—and giving me that knowing grin and an “Atta girl, you’ve got this!”

Though I miss Matt so much my heart literally aches, I know I need to keep pressing on — while throwing fewer fits and smiling more — for me, for our kids and for Matt. It goes without saying that I will forever carry his love, laughter and lessons in my heart. But at the same time, I’m choosing to move forward—one arduous step at a time.

That, I would agree, my wise husband, is “all part of the experience.”