Tag: love

“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.

“Better Than We Found It”

How Everyday Thank Yous and Simple Gestures Make a Lasting Difference

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”