Another Christmas Without You — And a Little More Peace - December 2025

 

It’s another Christmas without you here. Fourteen years, and somehow it still feels like both a lifetime and yesterday. But this year… something feels different. Softer. A little lighter. A little more OK.

I noticed it the other day when I turned on the Christmas tree and asked Google to play some Christmas music. I wasn’t expecting anything special—just another December moment in another December without you. But then I stopped, looked at the tree glowing in the corner, and I smiled. Not a forced smile. Not a “trying to be strong” smile. A real one. And in that moment, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Peace.

I don’t know where it came from or how it found me, but I’m grateful for it. Grief still comes in waves, of course. It still hits hard sometimes, and I still have days where the “blah” settles in or where I ache for you to be here—to see everything you’ve missed, especially with our boys. But I’ve learned that you would want us to live fully, to keep moving, to keep loving, to keep growing. And that’s what I try to do.

Ethan is in Australia now, playing soccer and chasing his dream. Can you imagine how proud you would be? I can. I feel it. I see it. I know you’re right there with him in all the ways that matter. I miss him, but watching him step into these opportunities fills me with so much joy. He stays in touch, and every message reminds me that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

I've loved again, not in spite of my loss but shaped by it. And I’ve seen the incredible way Wayne has accepted my grief, held space for it, and loved me and our boys so deeply. His strength and compassion have only made me love him even more. I am so proud of our boys — they are each building an amazing life, growing into strong, thoughtful men who love in their own way. Watching them become who they are meant to be is one of the greatest gifts of my life.

So yes, we will miss you this Christmas just as much as every Christmas before. You’re always in our hearts, and you took a piece of us with you when you left. That hasn’t changed. It never will.

I still remember another widow standing in front of me at your funeral, telling me, “You will be OK.” I was furious. I didn’t want “OK.” I had better than OK. I had you. I had our life. I had everything that was ripped away without warning. How could I ever settle for “OK”?

But now… I understand what she meant. I had to walk through the fire of grief to see it. Maybe I didn’t fully understand it until this year, when I stood in front of the Christmas tree, smiled, and whispered to myself, “You are OK.” And even now, I can’t quite put into words what that moment meant.

There is no time limit on grief. Not when you lose a part of yourself. There’s no rule book, no timeline, no judgment. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint. It changes, it shifts, it softens, it surprises you.

I’ve learned a lot in these fourteen years. I’ve grown in ways I never expected. And as I look toward the coming year, I want to work on being more present. Life has gotten so busy that I sometimes forget to slow down, to breathe, to notice the moments happening right in front of me.

So in 2026, that’s my intention: to be here. Fully. Not dwelling in the past, not dreaming too far into the future, but concentrating my mind—and my heart—on the present moment.

Because that’s where peace lives. And this year, I finally felt a little of it again.

Fourteen Years Later: A Day, A Lifetime - July 2, 2025

Fourteen years.
It seems like yesterday.
And it also feels like forever.

Words don’t really describe it. A date only marks it.
This is just a day—one day—when our world shattered into a million pieces.

Some people mark this day with rituals.
Some dread it.
Some want to do something special to remember their loved one.
For me, it’s always just been a day.
Because every day is a challenge—not just this one.

This day is only a marker of when it happened.
I remember the morning.
I remember the moment I knew he was gone.
And I remember the moment God and D told me I couldn’t go too.
That moment—leaving him, knowing I couldn’t follow—was the hardest decision of my life.
But it was also the best one.
Because our boys couldn’t lose us both.

We all went through the why, the what ifs, the anger, the sadness, the depression.
The emotional, mental, and physical pain that makes you want to give up.
But I couldn’t.
I had to fight to survive—literally.
Because my number one concern was our two young boys, who lost more than any of us.

We had the memories.
We knew D as the wonderful man he was.
But they didn’t get that chance.
They lost the opportunity to know him as adults.
And I knew that would be a lifelong struggle.

So what does it look like, 14 years later?

Some days, I still don’t know.
I just get up and put one foot in front of the other.
On the hard days, that’s all I can do.
Most days, we make the best of the life we’ve been given—the life D was taken from far too soon.

In these years, we’ve found a new kind of happiness.
It’s never the same after loss.
But in a way, it’s more sacred—because we know the depth of pain, and we’ve chosen to keep going.

I was lucky.
God placed a wonderful man in our lives—someone who helped us heal, who showed us love again.
It wasn’t easy.
The guilt. The fear. The confusion of holding space for someone new while still grieving someone who shaped your past.
It’s a dance between two worlds—one no one prepares you for.

Somewhere between the ache of missing him and the courage it takes to keep going,
I found a new version of myself.
One who didn’t ask for this, but still rises with heart.
Still hopes. Still builds a life he’d be proud of.

We’re all still walking this road of loss.
Grief isn’t just missing them.
It’s learning who you are without them.

Some days I did it right.
Some days I stumbled through.
And I still do—because there’s no manual for this.

But today, I choose to remember the good.
The memories. The love.
The moments that move us forward and help us heal.

Grief is forever.
But so is love.

 

Fourteen Years Later

 

2025 - Almost fourteen years. You’d think it would be easier by now. And in some ways, it is. Time softens certain edges, and you learn how to carry it. But then there are days when the weight feels even heavier, because the longer it’s been, the more you realize what’s been missed.

Watching our boys grow into young men—men that I am so incredibly proud of—fills me with both joy and heartbreak. Joy because they are becoming exactly the kind of people I know D would be proud of. And heartbreak, because I know how much he would’ve loved this stage of their lives. He would’ve cherished every moment, every laugh, every hard conversation, and every proud moment. Seeing them now, in all their complexity and strength, makes me miss him in a way that words don’t quite cover.

There are times they struggle, when I know they need their dad—not just a mother or father figure, but him. His advice, his comfort, his way of showing up. And while they have good people around them, and I couldn’t be more proud of who they’re becoming, the reality is that D’s absence is something that never fully leaves.

Being a dad was the most important thing in the world to D. The love he had for his boys—it was powerful. It was something to witness. And unless you've lived through this kind of loss, it’s hard to explain. What hurts me the most isn’t just my own grief—it’s theirs. That’s why I’ve grieved in my own way, in my own space, since that day. Fourteen years ago, laying in that ditch, I wanted to go with D. My heart was broken, shattered. But God—and D—showed me that our boys couldn’t lose us both that day. Staying was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

He was my heart and soul, outside of our boys.

And still, as much as I lost, nobody lost more than they did. Because while the rest of us had years with D, memories, stories, time—they only had the early years. Their memories are snapshots. They won’t get the chance to know him as adults, or to have him know them as the men they are becoming. That kind of loss—it's a different weight. One I carry for them every single day.

So we live. We live fully, with purpose and with love. Because we knew him. We loved him. And we carry him with us in everything we do.

I couldn’t be more proud of our boys and the lives they are building. D would be, too.