Tag: family

“Breaking 48: Living Louder Than Loss”

A Birthday Rebellion Against Grief and Playing Small

This week, I turned 49. Let’s be honest, most people wouldn’t even blink an eye at that. It’s not a headline-grabbing birthday—everyone’s eyeing next year’s big 5-0, that infamous “over the hill” milestone. But for me, blowing out those 49 candles felt like a giant exhale after holding my breath for too long. And there’s a bigger story behind that sigh of relief.

I’ve mentioned in previous blogs that I’m more into words than numbers. So, call it irrational or superstitious or whatever you will, but for the past few years the number 48 has haunted me. It’s not just a number; it’s a line in the sand. Not only did my late husband pass away at this age, but so did my ex-husband. My two biological children lost both of their fathers at the way-too-young age of 48. Ugh.

So, for me, hitting 49 wasn’t just another birthday; it was my stake in the ground. A loud, rebellious shout against the shadows of grief. This birthday wasn’t just about adding a candle; it was about flipping the script. I’m here, living wide open—not just for my kids and myself, but for my late husband and ex-husband whose lives were cut short.

Most importantly, I want my children to see – in real time – that heartbreak can’t stop us from embracing life. It’s a promise to them. We don’t just survive after loss. We live, love and keep moving forward.

Carpe Every Damn Diem

I’ve never exactly been afraid of dying. In fact, since I met my father-in-law, I can’t help but grin whenever he cracks one of his favorite one-liners: “None of us are getting out of here alive.” It’s blunt, it’s true and it’s the ultimate reminder that we’re all on a one-way ticket. So, what’s the point of tiptoeing through life? Might as well go all in, squeeze every drop out of it and live it up while we can.

I can still picture my 13-year-old self, watching Dead Poets Society, and hanging on Robin Williams’ every word as he encouraged his students to “Carpe diem. Seize the day. Make your lives extraordinary.” Fast forward to my thirties, and suddenly everyone was shouting “YOLO”—you only live once. But honestly, it’s true. We get one go-around. Why waste it?

Particularly after losing Matt – someone who truly impacted so many and lived life to its fullest – I realized how fleeting life can be. His death taught me something that movie quotes and inspo slang never could: Life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. It keeps spinning, even if you’re sad, anxious or deep in grief. I can’t let my emotions slam the brakes on living—and that’s the lesson I want my kids to see in action, not just hear about.

Sometimes, the only way to heal is to push yourself into new experiences, to believe that the world has more to offer than pain or fear. That’s what I’m chasing now. So, while plenty of people cringe at the idea of turning 50, I’m not one of them. I’m charging into the next year, candles blazing, grateful and ready. Bring it on, big 5-0—you’ve got nothing on me.

“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.

“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.”