grief

Loving Senior Dogs

Nobody tells you how quietly it happens.

One day your dog is bounding through the house, nails clicking, tail wagging so hard it knocks into furniture. And then one day you notice they hesitate before jumping on the couch. They sleep a little deeper. Their face starts to gray in places you swear were brown yesterday.

Having senior dogs is a lesson in noticing.

You notice the way walks get shorter but more intentional. The way they follow you less and watch you more. The way their eyes still light up for food, sunshine, and your voice—even when their bodies don’t cooperate the way they used to.

Senior dogs change the rhythm of your life.

Schedules revolve around medications, vet visits, special diets, and accommodations you never thought about before. Ramps replace stairs. Rugs appear where floors used to be bare. You learn where the nearest emergency vet is without thinking. You start measuring time differently—not in years, but in good days.

And yet… there is something deeply sacred about this stage.

They no longer care about impressing anyone. They aren’t interested in chaos or novelty. What they want is simple: comfort, consistency, and you. They choose their spots carefully. They soak up warmth like it’s their job. They love slower mornings and familiar routines.

Their love becomes quieter, but no less fierce.

There’s a weight to loving a senior dog because you’re always holding two truths at once. You’re grateful they’re still here, and you’re painfully aware that time is not infinite. Every limp, every off day, every vet appointment carries a question you don’t want to ask yet.

But loving them anyway—fully, intentionally—is the whole point.

Senior dogs teach you how to be present.

They teach patience when plans change. Compassion when bodies fail. Acceptance when things are out of your control. They don’t need grand gestures. They need you to show up, again and again, in the small ways: refilling the water bowl, adjusting the blanket, sitting on the floor because they can’t climb onto the couch anymore.

They give you everything they have left.

And if you’re lucky, you get to give it back to them in the form of dignity, comfort, and love at the end of their story.

Loving a senior dog is not for the faint of heart. It’s emotional. It’s expensive. It’s exhausting. And it’s absolutely worth it.

Because when they look at you—old, tired, still trusting—you realize something important:

They were never just a phase of your life.

You were their whole life.

Joy, Reba, Lilah – that is a responsibility, and an honor, I will never take lightly.

Blessings y’all – Amy

When Did We Stop Listening?

I almost never watch the news. Honestly, I can’t stand it.

But this week, during an hour-long nail appointment, the television was on. In that short time, I heard stories of a shooting at an ICE facility in Dallas, a semi-truck being pursued by police in Anaheim, and a stabbing at a school on the East Coast. And of course, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard about the Charlie Kirk shooting.

It struck me how much heaviness, violence, and grief can fill just sixty minutes of airtime. For me, that’s exactly why I usually avoid tuning in. Still, the stories linger, and they’ve left me chewing on something deeper: when did we stop listening?

Over the last twenty plus years, we’ve gotten very good at talking. With social media, 24-hour news, and endless platforms, everyone has a microphone, and everyone wants to be heard. But somewhere along the way, listening seems to have fallen out of practice.

When did we stop breaking bread with friends and neighbors and really trying to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes? Right, left, polka dot, or rainbow—it doesn’t matter the label. When did our brains stop stretching to see the world from another vantage point? When did the sound of our individual voices grow louder than the sound of voices bonded together—as Americans, as human beings, as family by blood or by choice?

Lately, I’ve struggled most with understanding the tragedy around Charlie Kirk. The things I’ve learned about him since his death make me wish I’d paid more attention before. But more than that, I keep coming back to his widow. Watching her carry herself with such strength in public, knowing the depth of pain and grief she must be enduring, moves me deeply. I imagine how all she must want is to pull the covers over her head and wish it all away.

And I find myself asking: when did the world become a place where taking another person’s life was seen as an acceptable way of dealing with conflict? When did celebrating the loss of someone’s husband and father become okay?

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the season of life I’m in. But I feel like I see things through different glasses now. I long for a time when I could keep my babies close and not have to trust this cruel world to spare them. These days, my heart aches as I wonder where all of this is headed.

I don’t have tidy answers. But I do know this: the more cruelty I see, the more convinced I become that compassion is the only way forward. Listening doesn’t mean agreeing. It doesn’t mean silencing your own beliefs. It means making space, honoring another perspective, and remembering that life is fragile, sacred, and shared.

Maybe the first step is simple. Notice how much we talk. Notice how little we listen. And choose, in small ways, to listen again.

Because the sound of voices joined together—not in anger, not in argument, but in genuine listening—is still one of the most powerful sounds in the world.

Blessings Y’all. Pray for each other and our country.

Amy

At The Intersection of Joy & Grief

I made a decision about a month or so ago that I was slowly going to come off the anti-depressants I’ve been on since PawPaw died. That we maxed out after Fred died and had to change completely during COVID because they weren’t working. I’ve reached a chapter in my life where I have such a strong support system and I’ve done so much work in counseling I felt like it was time.

But it’s that time of year again. The month or so I spend holding my breath each day as I open TimeHop and each time I talk to my kids. The memories of him that are in my oldest daughter’s smile, in my son’s laugh, or in my youngest daughter’s tender heart. The anniversary of Fred’s passing is today and, as this new season of my life progresses, the time of year I am so besieged with emotions I can barely sort them.

Guilt is constant because I have found joy again. I wouldn’t ever want the kids to think I’ve forgotten the life we had with their dad. Yet I made a promise to Fred that I wouldn’t be sad too long and that I would marry again. Grief because no matter what I still miss him. Confusion over missing him when I have a man in my life now that loves me to a depth that is indescribable. Sadness because he’s missing out on momentous occasions in my children’s lives. Our first grandchild will make an appearance in September and I know his presence will be missed even more than it already is.

I know that it’s been long enough since he’s been gone that most days I choose joy. I choose to thank God each morning when I do my prayers for the life I have now and the blessings he’s given me. On days like today I feel like I’m standing at an intersection of joy and grief and while I know I need to choose joy more today than any other day the sadness of grief is so deep it’s hard not to give in to it.

Trying to focus on joy I think back to that last “perfect” Lanford Saturday we shared with Fred. It was May 20, 2017 and Fred had been home from the hospital for about a month. It was one of those days where none of us could sit still and were so joyous from having gotten Fred through rehab and home that we just wanted to be out in the world. It was still spring and the weather was gorgeous. We spend the day doing some of our most favorite things. We went to Grapevine and had wine and snacks on Main Street. It was Main Street days in downtown Grapevine and we wandered around different booths for quite a while. The kids each got to have a cast made of their hand holding their dads. Something we didn’t know how very soon would be an irreplaceable treasure from the day. We finished in Grapevine around 3 pm and by 6 pm were back out headed to go see live music at The Truck Yard. With Tigre in tow.

Those are the days I look back on and remember how very much he lived during his time on earth. Those are the days I hope bring a smile to each of my kids when they are sad. And that is the Fred I remember with a heavy heart on the days I am sad. He was a good man. He gave me my family and for that I will forever be grateful.

If you have a favorite Fred memory I’d love to hear it today.

Blessings – Amy

A Little News and a Lot of Anxiety

Twenty plus years ago I was told I had Hashimoto’s. All I remember a the time was being told it was an autoimmune disorder and that I needed to make sure we kept my thyroid levels in balance. Given that I’ve been on thyroid medicine since about four months after Em was born didn’t seem life altering.

What I didn’t know over the ensuing twenty years of fighting to keep my thyroid levels stable through insurance insisting on generic thyroid medicine my body didn’t respond to (and being told I was crazy because I thought that), ups and downs in my levels due to weight gain and loss, hair loss, dry skin, and just general life was that that diagnosis meant my body was attacking itself and slowly killing off my thyroid.

In December of 2022 my company changed insurance companies. What ensued was the gluten free thyroid medicine I had finally gotten stable on for almost five years no longer being an approved medicine. Being shoved onto generic thyroid hormone that sent my body into a cycle of weight gain, hair loss, and general yuck. When Tim and I got married he did the research and we figured out how to go back to the right medicine albeit it of pocket. Though that was fall of 2023 we’ve fought all this time to get my thyroid to stabilize. Finally in February after another off kilter set of labs my GYN said “you have to see an endocrinologist”. Back story there – I hate endocrinologists. Between the fact that they are insanely smart humans usually who don’t know how to relate to you and listen to you when you talk and the one that prescribed Fred medicine and didn’t follow up on him thus leading to his kidney failure I’ve got no patience for them. My GP and GYN have managed my thyroid for years.

I procrastinated until end of February and finally got a referral sent to Tim’s endocrinologist. The ONE I actually like cause he listens to Tim and isn’t a condescending human. We expected it to be months before I could get in and after ten days without a phone call was surprised to finally get one Monday – with an opening the next day. Still calling that a God thing.

Dr. Burney walked in, sat down, and said tell me what’s up with your thyroid. IMMEDIATELY went to food…doctors don’t do that…and explained that Hashi’s patients can’t eat gluten. It inflames the gut and limits the absorption of the medicine. Do you know how many other docs had dismissed my saying I noticed a difference when I didn’t eat gluten even though I was negative for Celiac???

First change he made was saying from here on out it’s a strict gluten free diet. Also an unprocessed chemical free (whole foods) as much as possible. Hashi’s patients bodies attack foreign stuff and get inflamed and that prevents absorption of the medicine. Next up is continuing with getting some more of the weight off. The goal is to get me to ONE pill a day of the thyroid medicine so that if I’m going to pay for it out of pocket it’s not three boxes every six weeks to the tune of $185.

Then he took a look at my thyroid. It’s dead and gone. Shriveled up and fibrotic. The out of control Hashi’s has done its thing and I’ll be on the hormone therapy the rest of my life. As it has sunk it that how I feel will be a direct correlation to how I take care of myself for the rest of my life the more overwhelmed I’ve felt. Those close to me can tell you – the one thing I am worst at is taking care of me. And there is something different between choosing gluten free and being told it’s not an option anymore. As much as we travel it makes it a challenge.

I’m still exhausted, still have very little energy, and that’s as much mental exhaustion as it is physical. I have so much I want to do and right now nothing is cooperating. I am trying to lean into the amazing support that my hubby and kids are being but it’s hard. I am also angry. The ONE thyroid medicine most effective for Hashi’s patients most insurance companies don’t like and thus won’t pay for. To me that’s like saying you won’t pay for insulin for a diabetic. How dare you? Who made them God? It’s maddening.

If anyone with Hashi’s is reading this – your diet is as important as the medicine. You have more control than just the medicine. Take control and keep your thyroid functioning as long as you can.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Another Goodbye is Upon Us

Someone said to me today that pre-grieving is as hard as the grieving can be. While I had never heard the phrase “pre-grieving” it certainly fit. Knowing what’s coming, agonizing on if you are making the right decision, if the time is right, knowing how much it’s going to hurt…it all sucks.

The time has come that we have to say goodbye to Hope. Tomorrow we’ll take her to the vet and send her home to God where she won’t be in pain anymore. While I know she has quite the host of angels waiting to receive her my heart is still breaking.

Hope is the youngest of our babies. If I really dwell on the unfairness of it all that’s the thing that hits me the most. We have three senior citizen dogs and our youngest girl got aggressive non-treatable cancer. Like WTF.

From the day we got her Hope’s role has fit her name. She gave us hope. She came into our life to fill the hole left when we lost Tigre. The kids wouldn’t let me name her Faith or Love from 1 Corinthians 13:13: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” So I named her Hope.

She has always had human tendencies. She has never been one for just a belly rub. She has to hug you. Both arms around your neck hug you before she is content. She sits up in “her” chair on her butt like a human. She has never ever realized her own size…she’ll crawl into your lap like she is a five pound chihuahua instead of an eighty pound overgrown love mutt. She’ll sneak under the covers in bed with you at night and curl up oh so tight only to run you off the bed spread across half of it in the middle of the night – running in her sleep no less.

I read something recently speculating on what a dogs’ purpose is on this earth. It is to remind us humans that love is supposed to be easy. Unconditional, all consuming, and with the unadulterated joy that comes to a dog when we walk through the door. It’s us humans that make it hard. Dogs like Hope are especially good at their job. All she ever needed was a piece of human food snuck under the table (cherry tomatoes are her favorite!), a hug, a lap to sleep in, or a car ride with her ears flapping and her tongue wagging. Or to wrestle with her sister over who got to get to me first when I walked in the door.

So how do you say goodbye? How do you look into those big brown eyes and tell her it’s ok to let go? That you’ll be ok even when at that moment you aren’t sure you will be? That’s how I will love her the way she has always loved me. Selflessly and deeply. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. I want her to run and roll and play and feel no pain. My heart will carry her with me for the rest of my days. I’ll console her sisters for many many weeks to come – especially Lilah. I’ll bury my face in her blanket and seek comfort from her smell until it fades.

I believe in heaven and I believe with all my heart that the angels who sent her to heal my broken heart after Tigre left us are making ready her place with them. I believe she’ll be free of pain. I am deeply grateful that God made the pieces fall in place on our move to allow her final days to be spent someplace where she had a yard to run and play in and be a dog instead of the way she’s had to live the last four years in the backyard at the other house. I’m grateful for these last core memories of her. More than I can even put into words.

So I’ll sign off now and soak up these last hours of Hope snuggles. Thanks for indulging my rambling. And go grab and extra hug from your own babies for me. Life is precious and it goes too damn fast.

Blessings – Amy

Grieving Again…

Y’all know my journey. It took me YEARS to learn how to not stuff grief on a shelf in a box and ignore it pretending it wasn’t affecting everything in my world. As I stood in my kitchen last night sobbing uncontrollably in my husband’s arms about how I would give up everything – new house, traveling, everything – just to have more time with Hope I realized that messy journey of grief has started again. I was gobsmacked anew with the reminder that grief isn’t a process that is just for when someone is gone. Sometimes it starts when you know the goodbye is coming.

My children would tell you at some point or another in their childhood that I loved the dogs more than them. While that isn’t true what I love most about my dogs, and why I will ALWAYS have dogs, is the way they love you unconditionally. Unequivocally. Even on your worst day when you yell at them to get off the couch or out from under your feet. They tuck their tail and run to the next room and come back again five minutes later with their tails wagging and their heart in their eyes. Dear God if only humans could love each other that way!

What is special about Hope is she is the type of dog that they make movies about. She never met a stranger. When I bring her to the office she greets everyone with a tail wag and a head dunk for an ear scratch. When the news got out last week about her diagnosis I got a range of reactions from hugs to “please bring her to visit one more time” to “please don’t bring her because I can’t cry at work”. She is just a special dog and not in the “special” crazy way that my sweet Lilah is.

I’ll be transparently honest. I am struggling with mama guilt with Hope. She has been really clingy for about six months. Looking back through pictures with the knowledge I have now I can see the tumor growing. I am beating myself up that I missed it. That with the clinging that was uncustomary for her she was trying to tell me something and I missed it. I feel terribly guilty about this trip we leave on tomorrow and the massive change that is coming to our world with this move. Is it fair to her to turn her world upside down right now? Do you have any idea what that is doing to my heart?

I lay awake with her at night as she wraps her arms around my neck and I just hold her. Soaking up each extra minute. Praying that a miracle will happen and this ugly nasty tumor will just evaporate. Smelling the rot coming from in her mouth and knowing she surely must be miserable. Waking up when she is in her bed and checking to make sure she is breathing just to reassure myself. Feeling selfish for keeping her on this earth even one extra minute. Unable to let her go. Wanting my kids to have more time to say their goodbyes. Having my head feel like a ping pong ball and not being able to get it to stop. Wanting to scream how unfair it is for cancer to happen to such a sweet gentle young dog. I have THREE senior citizen dogs that we’ve been braced for a while to have to deal with losing and this has struck our second youngest baby.

There are some who opt not to have pets just because of this stage. The love they give is worth the pain but dear God it hurts. It hurts so bad.

Pray for my Hope. She literally gave the kids and I hope when we had none.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Coping Mechanism

I started this blog in the peak of my angst and beginning of my grief recovery about two years ago. Since I’ve used it as a both a sharing mechanism, to purge, and as a coping mechanism. Doesn’t surprise me as I’m trying to process this week that I’m back here. Probably gonna be a little rambling cause my thoughts are swirling at warp speed but it is what it is.

No joke y’all – this week has been a LOT. About 4 pm yesterday the emotions and the tears finally forced their way out and got the better of me. One of the millions of things I love about Tim though is he already knew they were there. He also knew I’d let them go in my own time and didn’t poke. But when he scooted over in the hospital bed and opened his arms for me to sit next to him there was no stopping them. My greatest fear is losing him.

I have no idea where in childhood I learned to hide feelings in time of crisis to “protect” whomever was in harm’s way but it’s a muscle memory reflex as sure as breathing. Both with PawPaw and with Fred my role was to “be the rock”. With PawPaw my grandma counted on me to listen to the doctors and be able to explain it clearly to both her and him. I was young enough then I didn’t really understand emotions like anxiety and pretty much ALL of my emotions got packaged up and set on the shelf. It’s been interesting to discover this last couple of years that I’ve still been unpacking that dusty box. With Fred, I was caretaker, parent for the kids, sole provider, chief bottle washer – you get the idea. Who had time for processing emotions? And I damn sure tried hard not to let him know how scared I was.

This week I stepped into those shoes as if I never left them. The difference this time was after the initial shock of where we were and the situation we are in – I knew that wasn’t ok. That’s NOT what two and a half years of counseling has taught me. I’ve done too much work on understanding that what I need is actually a BETTER way to help in crisis than the unbending “I can do anything in any situation all by myself” person I’ve always worked to be. This time I’ve leaned hard into my tribe and worked at asking for help. It doesn’t come easy – feels like admitting weakness – but it has helped more than I ever dreamed it could.

In a rare turn of events I’ve checked out mentally on work and you know what? It hasn’t burnt down (or at least not that anyone has said). I spent so much time with Fred working bedside in a hospital, pulling late nights, trying to work a full week and be a full time caretaker. Allowing myself to center on what Tim needs this week I know is the right thing for us. Doesn’t make it any easier for a workaholic like me but I did learn a few things the last time around this particular sun.

Tim is worried because as is usual when I’m in stress food isn’t my friend. My stomach isn’t playing ball with anything I put in it. Sleeping in a hospital chair isn’t helping either. But letting the tears flow, reaching out to safe places to say any of the million things I’m thinking, working hard NOT to draw comparisons to the past as much as I can in this eerily similar situation – all of those things are helping a little at a time. But there is no getting around it. Being back here, dealing with this disease in someone I love, is HARD. I just have to remember what the counselor says to me all the time – I am a different woman now than I was a few years ago and I have different tools in my tool box and a deeper understanding of who I am and how to process hard situations. There was a moment yesterday I would have said she was dead wrong….but I know she’s right.

Thanks for listening to my rambling…it’s just one of my tools in my dealing with life toolbox. Blessings y’all! – A

Celebrating Love & Friendship

Someone said once that time heals all wounds. I’d be willing to bet that person hadn’t REALLY had loss in their life. Don’t get me wrong. Life is moving on. In so many fabulous ways. But as I stare down the barrel of several memory anniversaries this week I’m a little melancholy.

Turns out…time never heals grief. It eases the sharpness as you struggle to breathe. It dulls the edges in a way that makes living come back in ways you can’t imagine possible in the immediate aftermath. But time does not ever heal grief. Because grief can’t be healed. Each year the calendar rolls dates around that tug the fine hairs under the band-aid you’ve put on the pain. You find ways to brace for it. To get through it. To ask for help. But on those days the pain is very much there.

TimeHop has begun reminding me of the season of life that the kids and I were in this time six years ago. This week on Friday would have been my sixteenth wedding anniversary. As I mull that over…how many years Fred has been gone versus here a knot forms in my stomach. February 4th would have been my grandpa’s birthday.

I can honestly look back and know that these impending dates don’t send me spiraling into the hole they once did. I can proudly say that is because I’ve done the work. I’ve invested the energy in myself to know that I am a survivor. But that doesn’t mean I’m not tremendously glad that when the idea came up to run away this week that I wasn’t completely and totally on board. Spend a week away with a man who loves me and makes room for the days that I’m not quite ok? Yep. Spend a week doing one of the things I love most with friends who are like family to me? Yep. Sign me up.

Add surprising all those friends to the list (my favorite thing to do to people I love) and I’m all in.

We boarded the Carnival Celebration today. To celebrate being loved. Not once not twice but by three amazing men. My PawPaw who contradicted all the crappy awful abusive men my mother chose. Fred who took a broken girl, gave her an instant family, and was patient while she loved too hard and held on a little too tight. And this wonderful man who walks beside me now. Who quietly and patiently lets me know every day that I am worth being loved. That bruised and slightly damaged as I may be I deserve to be loved as hard as I love.

We are celebrating friendship. These that I have made in all the years I’ve traveled. The special relationships I have that I constantly confuse the mess out of Tim because he can’t remember all the names but he loves them all because they make me happy.

Love hard friends. Life is short and precious and can change on a dime.

Blessings – Amy

Did You More Than Survive?

For those of you that dread the holidays – I’m talking to you! How are you feeling today? Did you thrive yesterday or just survive? Or did you, like me, perhaps find a new version of Christmas?

I woke up today reflective. Appreciative of getting through yesterday without tears and without pain that takes my breath away. Those were new. I went to bed last night without an aching back or aching feet from having cooked all day – we ordered in breakfast to chill-ax with presents longer. I didn’t stress out over “did I remember to text everyone” or “did she or didn’t she REALLY like my gift”? I think some of the easier is coming with age and some of it was from being surrounded with two people who love me beyond all things – it was about the time together. This was Tim’s first we-aren’t-leaving-our-PJ’s-today Christmas and he was all about it. With the kids grown and all doing their own thing it does lend a simplicity to the holidays that think I could get used to.

Do not get me wrong. I am very glad to put another holiday season behind me. I read one of my TimeHop posts from 8 years ago today, the first Christmas without my grandpa, and it brought a lump to my throat. If I had to pinpoint an exact moment when the holidays became a struggle that year would be it. I expected this year to be more challenging since we said goodbye to Mom in 2022. There was a moment when we dug out one of her dishes for the cranberry sauce where I know my angels were watching because Em and I both could have lost it and instead we were able to mention Mom and smile.

For those that don’t know me – surprises are my thing. Giving and receiving. This year’s gift exchange held surprises both physical and emotional. Listening to Em and Tim work together on Christmas Eve on my stocking was priceless. Opening gifts that a) I had no idea what they were and b) couldn’t have guessed if I tried was amazing. (You mom’s know what I’m talking about – we do the giving not the receiving at the holidays!)

My OCD brain gets me even when I’m not trying…didn’t mean to match his wrapping paper and PJ’s!

Tim reminded me again how very much he pays attention when I talk. Renovating the greenhouse so I can grow all the green things is on our January to do list but he got me an AeroGarden. “Something I knew you wanted but wouldn’t buy yourself.” Not gonna lie – it was set up before the cooking got started. Those moments of realizing God has brought someone into my life who loves me when I’m having a really bad day or listens when I talk are humbling.

I was asked a couple of times yesterday if I was glad I was home for Christmas. My initial gut response was still “no”. But having slept on it (or attempted to sleep on it since I’ve now been up since 3 am) I think the answer is yes. Yesterday was peaceful. And that, more than anything, was all I wanted for Christmas. To not be so lost in grief I felt incapable of breathing is perhaps the greatest gift of all.

Blessings y’all – A

O Holy…Yah All That

Somewhere around the time you have your first go round with grief Christmas loses it’s first piece of the magic. By the second, third, or anywhere there after Christmas becomes a field of land mines to be navigated carefully in order to get from December 1st to December 31st in one piece. To come out of it anywhere close to sane without having a) lost a ton of weight b) quit your job or your family or c) stepped off the nearest cliff. You have days where you feel good. You do all the things – shop for the presents, plan the traditions, listen to the music. And then you have the others days….

Those days are the ones you have to watch out for. The days where you hope your tribe is near and their intervention is swift. Where the tears (or the rage) come so quickly it takes your breath away.

I remember, clearly, the first Christmas that was different. It was Christmas of 2014. My grandpa had passed in May and sometime in that summer I had shut off feeling. Stuffed everything in a box because something about his death reminded me, daily, that I was going to lose Fred and Mom (my grandma). Looking back I know now that was when I should have started my counseling journey, but you know, I was busy raising kids and taking care of everyone else first. Before that Christmas I was THE Christmas person. Traditions for the kids, Christmas music before Thanksgiving, more presents than would fit under the tree, kids having to have a stocking box because I got too much for their stocking, all the things. I pray my kids didn’t notice how much had changed for me that year but I’m learning now just how astute my children were so I know they did.

Fast forward to Christmas 2017. The year we lost Fred. We flat didn’t do it that year. I took the kids, and one of my might as well have been my kids, and boarded a ship. Started a new tradition of running away. Though the ships always celebrated Christmas something about not being at home where all the memories were made it easier to endure. COVID forced us home for one Christmas and I am positive I cried through the whole thing.

Despite having endured the loss of Mom this year – I am staying put for Christmas. I refuse to have my baby girl go through this holiday alone. But beyond that – I’m going to prove to myself how much work I have done. That I can do this. I know I am stronger now than I have ever been though there have been many days in the first 13 of this month I have questioned that – I’ll be honest. (I also am hightailing it out of town right after Christmas but that’s my reward.)

In the meantime, I’m going through the usual cycle of drowning in memories, experiencing daily roller coasters of emotions, and learning to be patient with myself in riding it out. But what I am NOT doing is stuffing it in a box. Ignoring my pain. It is exhausting the expectations to be “jolly” when you’d rather crawl under the covers and cry.

Grief is a monster that once it has you – it never lets you go. It may ease it’s grip sometimes, you may be able to put a leash on it and contain it for a while, but it’s like a second skin you have to learn to live with. If you were lucky enough to love and be loved? That grief is an indicator of the hole their absence left in your life. I have lost three wonderful people so far in my life – each loved me beyond measure – so I’ll carry their love and learn how to ride out the tough times and cherish the memories no matter how long it takes me to learn how.

If you are grieving this holiday season, be patient with yourself. If you know someone who is grieving, love them through it. Just being there is more help than you know. The holidays aren’t the stuff they portray in magazines and on TV. For some, they are a hellish 31 days to endure. Be kind. Be sensitive. Be thankful if you still feel their magic. Most of all…blessings.

Amy