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.
