The Fog

 Grief doesn’t always shatter you.

Sometimes… it slowly erases you.

It comes in so quietly you don’t even notice at first. You’re still getting up, still answering texts, still packing lunches and folding laundry and showing up where you’re supposed to be. From the outside, everything looks… fine.

But inside, something is slipping.

Your laughter feels thinner.
Your joy feels borrowed.
And the person you used to be feels like someone you once knew… but can’t quite reach anymore.

That’s where I’ve been.

Because life didn’t just hit—it layered.

My dad—my strong, steady, “everything is going to be okay” dad—fought cancer for two years before he passed in 2018. I watched strength look like weakness. I watched a man who carried everyone… slowly need to be carried.

And I didn’t know how to hold that.

I still don’t, some days.

Two years before that, my grandfather passed away. Another piece of my foundation gone before I was ready. And maybe we’re never ready—but knowing that doesn’t make the silence any less loud.

And when you’re an only child… there’s no one else standing in that exact space of memory with you. No one who remembers the same stories in the same way. No one who can look at you and say, “That was our childhood.”

So you carry it.
All of it.

The memories.
The grief.
The questions you never got to ask.

And while all of that was happening, I was raising three kids—beautiful, growing, needing kids. And I did what so many of us do…

I gave them everything.

Every ride.
Every practice.
Every moment of being needed, I showed up for. Because loving them felt like the one thing I could still do right when everything else felt out of my control.

But no one really tells you what that kind of pouring out does over time.

No one tells you that one day, you might look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back.

Not because she’s gone…

But because she’s been set aside for so long.

Now my kids are 21, 19, and 16. They don’t need me in the same constant, all-consuming way. And I am so proud of them. Truly.

But there’s this quiet now.

And in the quiet, the questions get louder.

“Who am I?”
“What do I even enjoy?”
“Where did I go?”

And some days, if I’m being honest… that realization hurts more than I expected it to.

Because it feels like grief all over again.
Not of a person this time… but of myself.

But somewhere—gently, quietly—something has started to shift.

The fog isn’t gone.
But it’s thinning.

And one of the unexpected places that helped me start to see again… has been where I work.

There were days I walked in carrying more than I could explain. Days when I smiled because I had to, not because I felt it. Days when I wasn’t sure I had anything left to give.

And somehow… it became a light.

Through conversations.
Through small moments.
Through people who probably didn’t even realize what they were giving me.

It reminded me that I’m still here.
That I still matter.
That there’s still something in me worth showing up for.

And maybe that doesn’t sound dramatic—but when you’ve felt lost for so long, even the smallest light can feel overwhelming.

It can make you cry in your car.

(And yes… that has definitely happened.)

And in the middle of all of this… I’ve realized something else.

Somewhere along the way, my husband and I had slipped into survival mode. We were teammates, problem-solvers, schedulers of chaos—doing what needed to be done to raise a family and keep life moving.

But now, in this quieter season… we’re finding each other again.

Not just as parents.
But as friends.

We’re talking longer.
Laughing more.
Remembering who we were before life got so full—and slowly learning who we are now.

And it’s not perfect. It’s not some movie moment where everything suddenly clicks. It’s small, intentional, sometimes even awkward steps back toward each other.

But it’s real.

And honestly… it’s been one of the most unexpected and healing parts of this season.

So I’m starting small.

I took my bike to get fixed.
And I can’t even explain why that felt emotional—but it did. Like waking up a part of me that had been sitting still for far too long.

I signed up for a pottery class.
Which honestly could go either way. I might discover a hidden talent… or I might create something that looks like it melted halfway through. Either way, I think I’ll laugh. And right now, that feels important.

Because maybe finding yourself again isn’t one big, powerful moment.

Maybe it’s this.

Tiny steps.
Soft courage.
Trying again… without needing to be perfect.

Letting yourself feel the grief… without letting it define the rest of your story.

Every family carries something heavy. We’ve carried our share. And for a long time, I think I let that weight convince me I had to stay buried under it.

But I’m starting to believe something different now.

That I can carry it… and still move forward.

That I can miss them… and still find joy.

That I can be a mom… and still rediscover me.

So here I am.

A little broken.
A little healing.
A little unsure.
A little hopeful.

Learning how to breathe again in spaces that once felt heavy.

I’m not fully “found.” Not yet.

But for the first time in a long time…

I feel like I’m finally coming back.

And somehow… that feels both heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.

Year Three

When my dad passed away, I figured once I got through that first year (the birthdays, anniversaries, holidays) without him, I thought the next year would get easier. It didn't...it just made it more real. The more time that passed, the longer I went without seeing him or hearing his voice. 

Tomorrow is three years since he passed away. It's a day that is really tough on me. The only thing I want to do is be alone. I don't know if that's the best therapy or not, but it's what I need in that moment. 

I expected each year to get a little easier and I would start a steady climb upwards in the healing and grieving process. Some days are better than others, but everyday I think of him. I think of words never said, I think of those last moments. I think of moments and memories that never got to be made. I think of how alone my mom is. I think of the loss my grandmother feels every day. I think about how I can't make myself go to the cemetery to visit his grave. I want to...so badly, but I just can't face it. And guess what, that makes me feel bad. I should visit his grave. I should have said things in those last moments. I should have said things through the years I had with him. But I didn't and I don't.

There have been so many emotions since the day he passed (and even the days leading up to his passing). Shock, sadness, anger, guilt.... My mom texted me last night and asked the question, "How do I get over this?" My response, "you won't, you'll just learn to eventually get through it." The pain doesn't ever go away, we just learn how to accept it and move on without him. He was taken in such a cruel way, he suffered so much in his last moments, which just isn't fair. He was in pain. He was so very sad. He didn't want to leave. The last time I saw him will be forever etched in my mind, which isn't fair. It's an ugly picture, a picture of pain and so much sadness.

It's weird when I'm going about my day and something triggers a memory. A song. A picture. A moment, its usually a quick glimmer of a memory that stops me dead in my tracks and leaves me breathless. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and try to remember. Because that's all I have - memories. Sometimes tears roll down my face. Sometimes those tears turn into a few minutes of complete sobbing. That's when I wonder when it will get easier.  I wonder when "Let's breath" by Pearl Jam or seeing a corvette won't leave my heart aching. Because I've heard that it does get easier. I've heard that the heart ache will turn into just a dull ache. I've heard that it won't be so sad in a few years. I've heard it won't be so bad in a few years. It will get better...someday...

I've heard that one day, memories will make me smile instead of weep.

It's not fair that all these new and exciting events going on in my families life: a new house, the kids' accomplishments makes me feel a little sadness in my heart. Sadness because dad isn't here to see it. The bitterness I feel sometimes overwhelms and consumes me. People say to live your best life, because "your dad wouldn't want you to be sad, that is not what he would want." But it's so so hard.

When I lost my dad, it wasn't like when I lost my grandfather two years before. My grandfather lived a long a beautiful life. My dad was a bitter loss. An unfair loss. He was still young (69). It was a loss that left me doubting life, doubting things I could have, should have, done. I should have called him more. I should have visited him more. I should have helped more. These are cruel thoughts, constantly reeling through my brain like a hamster on a wheel. 

I try not to let these thoughts eat me up. But somedays it's hard. On his birthday or Father's day I spend the whole day wishing I could call him. I wish I would have called all those previous years. I spend the whole day thinking of him. They are hard days. And just another constant reminder that he isn't here.

So as tomorrow comes around (September 28), it will be a hard day. I plan to take off work, go for a bike ride and be alone. Perhaps I will visit his grave, or just sit on my sofa and cry. And I guess that's OK. I can cry. I can still grieve. I guess there's no time limit on grief. I can take this process for as long as I need to. Maybe I'll never get over it. I'm not crying everyday, but I'm still grieving in my own way. And that's OK. There may always be a part of my heart that is broken from loss. I hope I find something that repairs that broken piece.  Grieving doesn't make you weak. It makes you human.

I was watching a television show with my daughter last night (she loves it, I'm not a fan, but hey, spending quality time with her is the best) and in the episode it was talking about a parent's death. In the episode, the main character had his shadow keep following him because he was afraid to face his past...he never visited his mom's grave. He refused to acknowledge his mom was gone and said it was so much easier on him to not visit. I get it. I haven't visited my dad's grave since the funeral service. I can't. Even now just thinking about it makes my whole posture and outlook on the day change. After my grandfather passed, I visited his grave numerous times. Did it make me sad? Yes. But it also brought closure. I was able to talk to him and remember him. Why can't I do that with my dad? My mom has invited me to go along numerous times with her and I can constantly come up with an excuse as to why I can't. I carry on each day sometimes with just a fleeting thought of my dad, but he's always on the back of my mind. There's always something that reminds me of him or something he had said or something he had done...but I'm able to push it down and carry on...focus on work, focus on the kids, focus on the house. Anything to not think about him as gone.
I wonder to myself why I can't face this. September will be 2 years since my dad passed.

Year One

I feel like I've gone through the past year on autopilot. I can't believe it's been a year since my dad passed away. Many months I felt like I was stuck in a dream, feeling like this isn't really happening. I've filled my days being strong for my mom and my kids. Because confronting and accepting the pain that is there is so scary to me. Pushing the pain below the surface is exhausting but it makes every day for everyone else a little easier. When I do have an outburst of emotion I'm either in my car alone driving to or from work or sitting in my office listening to a song that reminds me of my dad. I took a lot of strength from my dad and to lose him was crushing. I've found myself idolizing my dad. Why? Maybe because he was my parent and I respected and loved him but also because I can't bear to criticize him in anyway because he isn't around to defend himself. But I read something the other day: "It's important to keep in mind not everyone is perfect, and it's OK to have negative memories as well as positive ones." Man, that's hard to do.
I've gone through the day my dad passed away (also the weeks and months leading up to his death) and I've thought about what I could have done differently. I left my parent's home that night around 10pm thinking I would go back first thing in the morning and spend the whole day with my mom helping her take care of dad. I received a call around 3am. I knew I had messed up, missed my chance to spend his last living moments with him. This absolutely kills me. I wasn't there for him, I wasn't there for my mom in the very last moments. That night before I left dad opened his eyes one last time and said, "Love ya kid." He wasn't awake all day, but he was able to whisper that as I touched his hand one last time. Why didn't I say, "Love you." Why didn't I hug him? I had to get out of the room after he said that and as far as I could tell he was sleeping again before I even stood up. When I got to my parents house around 3am the morning of September 28, my mom was lying beside dad. She looked up and me and said, "he's gone." I immediately jumped into strong mode. I led my mom out of the room while the hospice nurse took care of some things. I called the funeral home. I waited for them to arrive all the while standing in the corner of the kitchen not even looking at my mom. Not shedding a tear. I left them in the house, led them to the bedroom. My oldest son was comforting my mom. I sat in the corner of the kitchen while they wheeled my dad out. I put the garage door down. I turned the lights off. I put mom in her bed and gave her a drink. I went to bed. That's when the dream started. The dream that has lasted the last year. Turn on autopilot and go. I can't do anything to bring him back, so must move forward. I'm not going to lie. It's been a tough year. The next days after his death were filled with filling out papers, getting funeral arrangements taken care of. Trying to make mom move forward. It's been difficult to say the least, but we were busy. The cards poured in, the visits from family and friends kept coming. It's like you're sleepwalking. I can't remember who all came to visit. I can't remember what all was said, it's like a fog. But I know I was busy. Then came the viewing and the funeral. So many people came to pay tribute to my dad. Again, it was like a dream. I remember standing for hours, watching the line grow and grow till it was out the door and around the corner of the building. So many hugs. So many tears from people. But I couldn't cry. Again, it was like a dream. And in dreams it's hard to scream or cry. I delivered the eulogy. I didn't work hard on it, it came to me one day while sitting at work before my dad had even passed. I knew it was coming, but I had no idea that I wouldn't actually be ready for it.

Below is a copy of my eulogy:

"Dad is gone. I was wondering if it would be any less painful if dad died at a later age, after a very full and complete life? Maybe...I think part of the grief I feel is because dad was so vigorous and full of life before he got sick. His cancer robbed him of that vitality long before it took his life.

As I thought about the daunting task of paying appropriate tribute to my father, I was at times overwhelmed at where to begin. To chronicle and praise my father’s achievements would be impossible: he quite simply did a lot and excelled at it all. And he wouldn’t have liked that anyway, he would have viewed it as boastful. I also thought about my fondest memories of my dad, but knew immediately that I had no hope of getting through those without sobbing incomprehensibly.

I thought about what dad would have wanted me to do today, and it quickly became clear. Life, for my dad, was always about lessons - lessons taught and learned. He looked for the lesson in everything he did, and he relished the opportunity to share them. And while he certainly could make any setting feel like a business meeting it was always clear that he did it out of an intense curiosity, a joy for human interaction and a belief in constantly trying to make the world a better place through mutual understanding.

So today, it seems most appropriate that, on my dad’s behalf I share with you two essential lessons that he imparted to me over the last 40 years.

1. Family First:

Dad was there for us, opinionated, ready to help. His love for his family, although rarely said in words, came through loud and clear in his actions. His last thoughts were what he could do to make sure mom, JD and I and our kids were taken care of. Dad’s dedication to and love for my mom is the stuff of fairy tales. She was his inspiration and his rock, and he was hers. Dad worked tirelessly to provide for mom and me, and raise me to be strong, moral and self-sufficient. When his three grandchildren, Kemper, Joey and Emma came along, dad was a grandfather in the model of his father. And for those of you who knew my grandfather, you know there is no higher compliment. It was sometimes hard to know, because dad rarely spoke about his feelings, when he was proud of me or disappointed. But in the end, I don’t think it really matters. He loved me, whether I succeeded or failed in my endeavors.

His last instructions to me were that we love and take care of each other.

2. Do It Now

It is an understatement to say that dad’s life was tragically short in time. I find solace, however, in the fact that dad didn’t waste any of it. He devoured life. He always had a project or an idea. If there was something that interested him, he would study it and master it, seeking out the experts in the field to hone his understanding.And I used to marvel at both his capacity for learning information, and the confidence and ease with which he would strike up friendships with highly talented people he didn’t know at all. Even more extraordinary was his ability to tell these experts that they were wrong about something on which they were the expert. Getting sick didn’t change any of this. In the last 2 years he approached life the same way he always had - living every day to its fullest.My dad’s example always reminded me that each of us does not know when we will leave this earth, so if you want to do something, do it now.

Dad leaves behind memories - all of our memories - of a hard-working man who was always there for his family and friends. I will miss his laughter, his bright smile, his stories that poked gentle fun at people, how he never complained how unfair life can be, his strength of will, and his unconditional love.

Dad would want to thank many of his family and friends for their love and support over his lifetime, but particularly, since he became sick.

May his journey continue in peace and the knowledge that he is loved and deeply missed.

But now we are at the year anniversary (is that the right word? Anniversary seems like such a positive inspired word). People forget you are grieving. They get on with their lives and it hurts. This doesn't make me angry, they have their own losses they are dealing with.  Some of them just can't relate to the fact that on some days, the pain I feel is still as raw as September 28, 2018.

Sometimes I will be doing OK and managing, when something catches me off guard. And then suddenly a surge of powerful emotions hits me like a tidal wave. When I watch a movie where someone's dad dies, or when a song comes on the radio that reminds me of him. It hurts. But these moments even though they are hard, sometimes they are the perfect way to let go of some of the emotion I've tried so hard to keep from bursting.

If you're reading this, and feel so inclined. Say a little prayer today for all the people that are missing someone. A prayer for strength and a prayer for joy in the memories.

the small things

There are days when certain small things happen: A certain song plays on my Pandora station, someone says a phrase to you, a photo pops up on Facebook. These tiny things seem so small, but have such a large impact on the day.
This post is not bout me being morbid or is it about me feeling sorry for myself. Over the past six months since my dad died, I feel like I've made progress in the grieving process. But THEN, something tiny happens and it sends my day into a whirlwind. I've also come to realize that when someone you love dies, you don't don't just have to say goodbye to them at the time they pass, but also at every crossroad. I've discovered that there are endless firsts and tough moments to get through, not just obvious ones like holidays and big events, but many others that are equally challenging to struggle through under the blanket of grief.
Losing a parent has been the most difficult thing I've dealt with. It's strange that I have seen family and friends lose parents but haven't heard much from them about what it's been like. As I travel through the firsts and other moments in the midst of sadness and loss, I'm forced to let go, one finger at a time. Some milestones like my 40th birthday, Christmas and Easter have been super hard, but some of the most difficult ones to get past are one's I didn't see coming
When my grandfather died, I knew it was hard for my dad. He would talk about him and tell me childhood memories of him. But I never saw him cry or exhibit pain over the loss. I assumed that because my grandfather was elderly when he died, losing him was just a part of growing older and that people had it in them to deal with that.
I have had friends lose parents. They seemed very strong in dealing with it. I never head anything from them about the difficulties they faced dealing with the loss. Again, the impression I got was that it was a normal phase of life that we go through and we're built to deal with it.
Flashback moments have been hard. The first time someone else passed away after my dad had passed away was one of my friends' mothers. I was all dressed and ready to go to the funeral to support her, but couldn't get my feet to move. I stayed home and cried on the kitchen floor. When I hear about friend's losing their parents, I flash back to how I felt. Or when I see grandfather's holding their new grandchildren. I flashback to when dad was happily rocking my newborn son in the rocking chair at the hospital. The biggest smile on his face. He was so proud. There's the flashback of him singing songs and me realizing I will never hear him singing again except in my dreams. One of the toughest flashbacks is walking into my parent's home. Walking in there and knowing he's not there and never will be again. My mind is constantly pulled back to another time. Sometimes it is to a happy time, but more often it's to darker days that let me know I am still heavily in the midst of grieving.
I'm learning it's not as easy as people make it seem to be. It doesn't matter how old you are or your parents when they die, their passing is one of the most difficult things in the world to deal with. And it's crazy that people all around you tend to hold in their emotions while in front of others. People (I) seem to think that I need to be strong for others. I do this all the time. I don't want my kids to know I'm in pain over the loss of their grandfather, I don't think they've seen me cry over his loss. If they are around and my dad is brought up, I'll put on a strong face, and even a smile, and talk about him lovingly.
So has it gotten easier six months on? Nope. Not for me. I had a couple of good weeks where I felt the pain was easing. Most significantly, I stopped thinking of my dad as I saw him in the last hours of his life. Covered in blankets, skin sunken in, groaning in pain. That phase was the most difficult and unfortunately those images still enter my mind from time to time. About 2 months after his death I started getting more normal images of my dad when I thought of him. Smoking his pipe with me on his lap when I was a young child, my dad working in the yard (one of his passions), going arrowhead hunting and getting lost in corn fields with him. The sudden weeping hadn't stopped, but it became less frequent and less intense.
I experience stinging moments, the moments that rub salt into my wounds. The times when I am watching TV and the story line is one in which a character is dying or has cancer. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night and all I can picture is the image of my dad's frailty at the end. The times when I'm searching for a contact on my phone and his name pops up. One saving grace for me has been bike rides. The first time I went for  ride after my dad died, I got about a mile from my house and the tears started. Being there on the road by myself, away from distractions and so aware of the empty space beside me, was tough. The first time we gathered for a family holiday, with one less. We can all feel dad's absence so strongly. The first time I did something that I knew he would be proud of and I had to feel his pride in my heart because I couldn't hear it in his voice or see it in his eyes. The time when I needed to ask him a question and he wasn't there to give the answer that only he knew.
But six months later it seems I'm going through another phase. It's the worst when I'm driving to work and alone and a certain song comes on or someone says something to me that reminds me of him (who am I kidding, I can mostly trace everything back to dad and relate it somehow). I've also been dreaming about dad a lot. In all my dreams, he's laying in his bed under blankets, sunken skin and groaning in pain. They are not pleasant dreams. Sometimes he wakes up and looks at me and says, "Love you kid." The last words he said to me when he was still cognizant.
I also experience stand-in moments: Moments when I have to do things my dad should've been here to do: Worry about my mom, tell his grandchildren he is proud of them, give my mom the advice she thinks he would be giving were he still here.
I wish people shared more things they go through when they experience happy and difficult times. Just to know that you are not alone, that other people have felt what you are feeling. So many things we go through are just a normal part of this journey and sharing those things and having people share them with you helps along the way.
Losing my dad at the ripe age of 39 was one of the most difficult things I've had to deal with. Being able to share with you all has made it just a tiny bit easier.

The Only

It's been a long time since I've posted...and it's been almost two months since my dad died. It's so hard to type those words...they seem surreal. I still wake up some mornings and think it's all a dream, but then I realize it's not. That it is so real. I won't talk to my dad again. Ever.
I thought it was hard losing my grandfather, I loved him dearly. But that was nothing compared to losing my dad. I haven't truly grieved, and I know that. I think as adults, we get busy in daily life and sometimes in order to function, we force our grieving or pretend it isn't there. Sometimes it just feels easier. Dealing with emotions of grief feels downright crippling and suffocating. I was back to work 2 days after they buried my dad, I dove into work. Diving...Running...Escaping. When I'm not working I am taking care of our three kids, explaining to them that their emotions are normal. All the while not letting my own emotions flow. My youngest asked me the other day, "Why does it seem everyone has forgotten I lost my pap-pap? Time is moving too fast." My heart broke, I understood exactly what she was talking about. Life is supposed to go on. And sometimes it moves on too fast. People forget, people get busy with their own lives. It happens. My oldest finds solace in helping. Trying to help me, trying to help my widowed mom. But it's too much for a 14 year old. Another thing I worry about...how is this affecting him? Has he truly grieved, or has he dived into helping like me?  My 12 year old is the sensitive one. He shows emotion. Usually. But not this time...why?
My dad was 69, passed away from an almost two year fight with Colon cancer that spread to his liver.
I'm an only child. There's no one to talk to about my memories of my dad. I can talk to my mom, but she doesn't have the same memories. She has the memories of a spouse, a high school sweetheart. Not a parent. Most days I feel like I'm floating in space somewhere. I know I'm not alone in life, I have a loving husband and three wonderful kids. But I feel alone. I feel alone in trying to grieve. In trying to keep my mom going. In trying to keep my family going.
My dad fought a good fight. And he made me promise him that I would take care of my mom. He knew she would be lost. They've been together since high school. I wish I had a brother or sister to call to say, "I need a break and just can't deal right now, can you?" And they would say, "Sure, you've done the past two days, let me do the next two." Hahaha...that's a perfect world, right? I'm sure not all siblings react that way. But it sure would be nice to recall memories with someone who went through them with me. But there's no one. So I dive into work, cleaning, being a mom, being a support for my grieving mom. What will it be like to fully grieve? I have my moments where I cry, but then I push it away for another day.  Maybe tomorrow.

Rough day.

The week before my dad's diagnosis, he was fine; mowing the lawn, working everyday at his business, playing with the grandkids, day trips with my mom.
The journey began last October. Anticipatory grief they call it. It's a blessing and a curse. It gives us time to do and say and experience things we want to. But with this comes the thoughts of: This is the last Christmas, the last birthday, the last Easter with my dad. Will he make it to Father's Day?
I never loved him the way I do now, never fully appreciated him, never needed him as much as I do now. It infuriates me that I wasn't able to feel all that until now. It infuriates me that he had to get sick for me to realize everything he's done for my mom and me.
I'm overwhelmed. So many stories to talk about but so little energy to speak them. Maybe if I cling to the good, I'll forget all the bad?
I see the discomfort, the frustration, and his incredible ability to get up and try again. I feel guilty for going to my own home because I need to, instead of staying and helping my mom and dad.  They tell me they are fine. They are still protecting me.
I cannot imagine what it must feel like when you have to let go of life itself, knowing that people you love will have to live on.
Even when you know death is coming, it surprises you, and nothing will really prepare me for the day it happens. I'm sure I will have regrets of not telling him what I really wanted to say, not asking questions I really wanted to ask, and not saying goodbye while he is still here. These things, although we know are coming, are not appropriate to do when he is still full of life. Death will not wait for all the profound words that need said.
I hate even writing about it, because that somehow makes it all real. I'm really good at ignoring stuff and diving into work and home life and forgetting all that is going on around me. But some days it hits me so hard.
This is one time that being an only child truly sucks. I can't call my siblings and talk about memories of childhood. Blah...I'm having a rough day.