Tag: loss

“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 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.

“Wearing the Love, Not the Loss”

Channeling What We’ve Lost into How We Live

This past week, I said goodbye to my grandma, my last living grandparent, who passed away at 99. Nearly a century packed with love and selflessness, she raised 10 kids and showered her 20 grandchildren and 28 great-grands with the sweetest attention. Her magical way of making everyone feel special—along with her cabinet brimming with “fun fruits” for visiting grandkids—is part of the joyful, generous legacy she leaves behind.

Funny enough, I was the only grandchild that never called her “grandma.” Ever since I was a toddler, she’s been “Gabby” to me. My grandpa jokingly encouraged this nickname as a nod to her “gift for gab.” As I grew older, I realized that she not only lived up to this moniker, but that I may have inherited her tendency toward chattiness.

Reflecting on the unique way this remarkable woman touched all our lives, I realize that each goodbye carries its own weight. As my kids would say, losing Gabby “hit different.” But not in a bad way. In fact, her passing felt like somewhat of a relief; she’s been asking for years why it was “taking God so long to call her home.” She’s now at peace, and I’m reminded that grief isn’t one-size-fits-all—it changes with the person and the story.

When my husband, Matt, died at the age of 48, grief felt like a tidal wave crashing down, relentless and suffocating. And some days it still does. With Gabby’s passing, I’m feeling more of a gentle ebb than a riptide. Missing her doesn’t pull me under—she was blessed with a long, full life, unlike Matt, whose time was heartbreakingly cut short.


Comparison is the Thief of Joy

But here’s what I’m learning: you can’t compare grief. It’s apples and oranges, heartbreak and heartache—each loss leaves its own mark. Our minds may try to stack our sorrows like a scoreboard, but there’s no winner. There’s no right way to mourn; every goodbye writes its own rules.

So, in the aftermath of loss, what if we rebel a little? What if, instead of shrinking under pain, we start weaving bits of the people we’ve lost into our everyday? Wear their unique qualities like armor and dive into life with their unstoppable spirit.

When I’m feeling a wave of grief coming on, I can channel Matt’s contagious laughter and obvious way of changing the subject in awkward silences. I can toss around Gabby’s favorite sayings like “my dogs are barking” or “nothing but the blues.” I can make Matt’s best-ever guacamole or bake Gabby’s famous banana cream pie.

Keeping their memory alive means living louder, loving harder and chasing every day with the kind of joy they’d want for us. That’s how we honor them—and how we remind ourselves that loss, as gut-wrenching as it is, can fuel a life lived even bigger.

“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.