Tag: memories

“Life Is Still Good”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still Showing Up”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Patching Up After Loss”

Embracing the Imperfections of Memory and Moving Forward Together

“It’s ruined!” This was a tongue-in-cheek phrase my late husband Matt commonly said after he spilled something on his shirt—dramatically suggesting the stain was a death sentence for his wardrobe. The kids would giggle, I’d roll my eyes and feign annoyance, and Matt would flash his signature grin every time.

Most of the time, my laundering prowess, honed over years of washing sports uniforms, came to the rescue, and his shirt would live to see another day. Anytime I saved an article of his clothing he thought was doomed, I always made sure to tease Matt that his shirt was as good as new. And it never failed to have us laughing at his laundry drama!

But recently, a laundry incident left me crying instead of cracking up. Our oldest daughter Emma loves wearing a sweatshirt of Matt’s that we saw him in regularly, particularly in the last year of his life. It features “Huskies” across the front—our kids’ school mascot—because, as Matt always quoted from Seinfeld, “you gotta support the team.” That sweatshirt is a constant reminder of how much he cheered them on in all they did.

So last week when I walked into the laundry room, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Matt’s sweatshirt, carefully laid out to dry, had a glaring bleach spot on it! Somehow, the nearly empty bleach bottle had toppled from the shelf above and leaked right onto the shirt. I was alone in the house and sobbed aloud to Matt that this sweatshirt, loaded with memories, was now actually ruined!

Still beside myself, I reached out to two of my closest friends. Instead of joining me in mourning the demise of Matt’s sweatshirt, they immediately jumped in with ideas for what this now-scarred shirt could become. One suggested adding a patch. The other thought of an embroidered heart—maybe even with Matt’s initials and “it’s ruined” stitched alongside it. And when I told Emma about the mishap later that day, she didn’t miss a beat and said she’d still rock it, stain and all.

This experience made me think that just like Matt’s sweatshirt, grief comes at you with its own bleach bottle—unexpected, messy and seemingly catastrophic. When we lose our person, it feels like the fabric of our lives gets splashed with a stain we’ll never remove. The urge to declare “It’s ruined!” is strong. And for a while, it’s tempting to fold up the memories and tuck them away, convinced that nothing can ever look or feel the same again.

But those stains don’t mean the story ends. They become part of the pattern, woven into the fabric of who we are. Sometimes our hearts and lives wear their scars out in the open. And the world notices. But where we see ruin, others—friends, family even ourselves on a good day—see opportunity for transformation. Maybe we patch up the hole with new traditions, stitch in reminders of our loved one or even wear the “bleach spot” with pride.

Even with loss woven into our lives, we can still find moments of comfort and happiness, even alongside the scars and stains. Those marks remind us that joy and love remain, and that we can still support each other, share a smile or a laugh and handle the everyday challenges, one day at a time.

“Boxing Out After Loss”

How Shared Moments on the Court Shape Resilience and Remembrance

“Bumping into the box.” This is a phrase I recently picked up from another widow, and it hit home. Grief feels like a big box sitting right in the middle of your life. At first, it’s massive. You can’t help but crash into it every time you try to move. Bruised shins, stubbed toes, the whole deal. As time passes, the box shrinks a bit, and you sometimes find yourself navigating around it more easily. You still bump into it. Maybe not as hard, but it stings, sometimes worse than before.

In those moments, it’s an unexpected jolt of grief that sneaks up and catches you off guard. It’s opening the mailbox and seeing your spouse’s name on a piece of mail. It’s hearing a song that takes you right back to moments shared together. Or walking into a place you haven’t been since you were there with them, and suddenly, you’re back in that memory, the loss pressing in all over again.

I’m nearly two years out from losing my husband, Matt, and although the box isn’t as weighty as it once was, it’s still there. I bump into it regularly. Lately, I’ve had several run-ins with the box throughout our daughter Emma’s senior basketball season, which just came to an end last night at the regional playoffs.

Emma has always enjoyed sports, but she didn’t pick up a basketball in any formal way until we moved to Grand Rapids when she was in fifth grade. She joined a rec league with a bunch of her club soccer friends, and by her second season, Matt was recruited as their coach. He was a natural, and the girls hung on his every word as he transformed a group of soccer players into a solid basketball squad.

Even when Emma and our younger daughter, Maddie, weren’t playing in organized leagues, Matt was always helping them work on their game. They’d spend hours shooting hoops in our driveway or he’d take them to the Y, where they’d run through plays and practice free throws. For Matt, this wasn’t a chore. He genuinely loved every minute, and the girls did too.

Through middle and high school, even when Matt wasn’t officially Emma’s coach, he was always in her corner. Pre-game pep talks at the kitchen table, scribbled plays on scrap paper, encouraging texts before tip-off. After games, Matt was the first person she wanted to talk to for feedback on what she did well, what she could improve on and how to step up her game.

Last year, Emma had her first season without Matt, and I know she missed him. But this senior year? The box felt bigger. Her Senior Night a couple weeks ago was beautiful, yet bittersweet. She was all smiles, escorted by her siblings and me, but we all felt Matt’s absence. When Maddie got called up from JV to join Emma on varsity for the playoffs and their team clinched the District Championship last week, I could almost hear Matt’s voice cheering them on as they cut down the net. He would’ve been right there, grinning from ear to ear.

When grief catches you off guard in moments like this, here’s my advice: don’t bottle it up. Find someone who understands or at least is willing to sit with you and listen as you explain what “bumping into the box” means to you. Let yourself feel it, talk it out and don’t hold back from sharing.

That’s how you keep moving forward—step by step, bump by bump—instead of letting grief knock you flat and keep you there. Sometimes, the best way through is to simply remember that you’re not alone on the court. There are people ready to help you find your footing so you can take the next shot when you’re ready.

“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.

“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.