A few months back I called my shot. I shared my dream of submitting a book proposal to Hay House publishing company in hopes I’d be selected for a book deal. This past week I learned I didn’t get it.

I’m not going to sugar coat this. I’m bummed. I believe my stories about loss have a place in this world. I felt called to tell these stories and had hoped an editor would agree.

It wasn’t meant to be.

I’m not sure exactly how many people submitted but I’m sure everyone who did submit, had an equally compelling story to share. After all, I’m a strong believer that we all have a story worth sharing. Regardless, rejection sucks.

If I were a motivational poster, this is where I’d say I pinned that rejection letter up on my wall and used that to motivate myself to write a NYT best selling book. I’m not. Plus, I didn’t even get a rejection letter. Instead, they only acknowledged the winners allowing the rest of us to just know our proposals were valued but not good enough to market to society at-large.

I ate some imitation cheese whiz and ritz crackers (still haven’t mastered the whole no emotional eating thing). But, on the very same day, someone or something (still haven’t mastered the whole spirituality thing either) intervened and served up a conversation to me in my podcast feed. Cheryl Strayed was featured on We Can do Hard Things.

So many things about Chery’s story resonates with me. I too lost my mother at that pivotal age where one’s trying to define ourselves, and while my spinning out of control didn’t include heroin or the Pacific Crest Trail, it did include many miles on the Superior Hiking Trail and some questionable moments in my 20s.

In this perfectly timed conversation, Cheryl shares how writers often ask her how do you go about writing the next great American Novel as if there is some formula to crack. Instead, Cheryl explains, the answer is quite simple. You don’t. You just sit down and write. Someday, if you remain true to your story, it might resonate with some people and if you are really lucky, many people.

In other words, like so many things in life, you must do the work. There is no shortcut. There is no magic bullet, potion or quick fix. Instead, you just have to keep showing up and doing the work.

The mediocre runner in me understands the concept all too well. I’d rather have a shelf full of self-published stories that a handful of friends and strangers have enjoyed, than no books at all. Just like I enjoy my wall of medals for finishing last versus sitting on my couch wondering what if. As disappointed as I am in this moment, I know the only pathway is to keep writing.

Here’s to the opportunity to write many more stories and a world where sharing them with the world is even an option. So, I’m here to call my next shot. I’ll spend the next month editing my chapters and refining my book proposal. In September, I’ll send this proposal to publishers willing to bet on an unsigned author. If and when the rejection letters flow in, I’ll self-publish again next year. My second book will be on a shelf. The pathway to get there may not be clear but the end will be similar.

It isn’t easy. It isn’t pretty. But, the price of admission to a life well-lived isn’t either.

Today I’m Nine

Jake from Moon Lake hijacking mom’s blog once again. I’ve successfully navigated another trip around the sun. This past year was packed with a lot of adventures, but what else would you expect?

My third grade teacher Miss Janigo rocked the house. She kept me in-line and will always be known as the teacher who told mom and dad, “Jake’s a natural leader. He just sometimes leads in the wrong direction.” Who knew that was a thing? I just like to have fun.

In-between driving her crazy, I did manage to master third grade math and reading, along with acing gym and science. My cursive writing needs a little work but I come by it honestly – just ask my dad to write a sentence in cursive sometimes. I’m just saying.

Seriously, though, I do love school. I love my classmates, teachers and especially gym and recess. The only downside is our 10-minute lunchtime. Some days I feel like I might starve, but that’s partially because I cannot stop growing. Right now, the only way I’m going is up – I’m a lean mean machine that can easily put down 10-12 pounds of green grapes a week. My Sunday night ritual is a Jack’s pepperoni pizza. I’m also a huge fan of ramen, oranges, cherries and homemade popsicles.

I tend to eat a lot because I move nonstop. This year, I spent a lot of time playing basketball and baseball. I’ve been working really hard on my lay-ups and dribbling with both hands and definitely plan to be point guard next year. In baseball, I’m torn between pitcher and catcher. I started the season off a bit slow – even nervous to bat at one game – but then my first hit of the season was a homerun. This was followed up with quite a few base hits and the occasional strike out. I’m having a lot of fun. Mom and dad just like to talk about how proud they are that I’m developing some work ethic around getting better at something.

Speaking of work ethic, I held my first job this summer. Ok, so maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. I did sell Blueberry Festival Raffle Tickets for the Lion’s Club for a few hours. It was for a good cause, with some of the money going towards things like our playground in-town, but more importantly, I got 20% of all ticket sales. I ended the sale with enough money in my pocket to replenish my cash flow since I had drained it buying a new fishing pole.

That’s right. Fishing. I’ve fallen in love with fishing on Moon Lake nearly every night with dad. First, it means I get to stay up an hour past my bedtime. Second, it means I get to catch sunnies and bass nearly every night, often times with my buddy Nolan. One time I even managed to hook two bass on the same line. How cool is that? I’ve also been fishing at the mouth of the Brule River where I caught a nice looking Pike. I just upgraded my lures in hoping to catch some big ones in the coming year.

Perhaps, I’ll spend spring break fishing somewhere cool. This past year we went to Mendocino and San Francisco. I had an absolute blast chasing waves, hiking in Muir woods and the Redwoods, picking sea glass in Fort Bragg and hanging out in Chinatown. The Pacific Coast Highway was a complete bust with me getting nothing but carsick and destroying my blankie with a heavy round of strawberry chunk vomit. Despite the Pacific Coast mishap, the vacation was awesome with my absolute favorite part being visiting Alcatraz. It was amazing!

I also had a chance to check out Chicago. We took a 6-seat plane which was fun, as was hanging out in Chicago until it was time to leave.  There was bad weather on the way back and we couldn’t get a flight home. The next available flight was 4-days later and the airline was less than helpful. Luckily mom ended up having a friend who happened to have an extra car available just outside of Chicago that we could use. What’s the likelihood of that? Regardless, we were grateful for the wheels and turns out that isn’t even that bad of a road trip.

COVID-19 is still hanging around but I avoided it. This past year I was nothing but healthy. Knock on wood but I’m feeling pretty lucky to have come out of this global pandemic primarily unscathed. I’m hoping the same rings true in the coming year.

Looking ahead, I’m excited for 4th grade. I’ll definitely be playing basketball and baseball again. I plan to master math and dive deep into history. I may even read and remind myself how to do cursive writing. I’m lobbying hard for an Iphone but mom and dad are holding firm on saying I’m too young for a cell phone. They also won’t let me get grand theft auto or bike around town unsupervised. That won’t stop me from continuing to ask. If nothing else, I remain persistent. After all, deep down I’m an Erickson, even though dad won’t let us change our name.

That’s the latest from Moon Lake. Here’s to being fine and nine!

Jake from Moon Lake

Fat Minutes

I recently listened to an interview with Mel Robbins and Jenna Kutcher. Decent interview, in-part because Jenna Kutcher is someone who took a leap of faith and monetized that. As someone trying to continuously align my passion and how I spend my time (and make money), that’s pretty cool. Anyways, towards the end of the interview, Jenna talked about fat minutes. It is a concept in her new book which I have not read yet (I’m taking a break from self-help books which is a post for a different time).

Despite not reading the book, the concept resonated with me. Fat minutes is just the idea of do we make the most of our time in a day. To take it one step further, though, do we make the most of our time in a day doing what matters to us.

I endured a very minor surgery yesterday in which being the over analyzer and wuss I am, I contemplated while on funny gas, if this was the last day of my life, what would I regret? There were things. There are always things. But, I was surprised by how far I’ve come in the past couple of years of making peace with who I am and what I want out of life, even if others don’t get it.

The truth is, a fat minute to me is sipping a pot of coffee or a latte and reading a good book.

It is successfully growing my first hydrangea.

It is eating sugar snap peas out of my garden.

It is complaining about how boring my son’s baseball games are but having a job that affords me the luxury of attending every single game until the very bitter end. It is watching him win second place at the Tractor Pull and learn a few life lessons while running for Blueberry Prince… and losing.

It is long walks in the morning and binge watching shows on Netflix.

It is submitting a manuscript with hopes of winning a book deal, knowing that even if I fail, I am one step closer to having a second book out.

It is trolling around Moon Lake watching my son attempt to catch a bass.

It is laughing with girlfriends and morning journaling and pondering big questions.

It is researching my next big move and trying to celebrate even the smallest momentum forward and more importantly giving myself grace when I go backwards.

This past year, I’ve said no more than yes. But yet my life is more full than it has ever been with the things that I love. Who knew doing less could create the fattest minutes of all?

About the same time I was having bone cadaver drilled into my jaw, my girlfriend’s husband flew in from an unknown destination. It was her Top Gun moment without Tom Cruise. She sent me photos that I eventually saw when the drugs wore off. They aren’t my photos to share but if anyone needs a reminder of what matters, think about that for a moment. And then ask yourself, what are you doing or not doing to ensure that your life is packed with fat minutes?

Right now, I’m ending this post so I can get to the library before it closes so I can stock up on some mindless smut to devour this weekend while I sip non-carbonated beverages on our pontoon, making the most of these dwindling days of summer. I hope you are doing something equally as exciting!

Alignment Check

Today marks the second half of 2022, a natural time to check-in on how the year is going. I kicked off the year focused on the word enough.

In a world that seems to be on the constant quest for more (myself included), I wanted to remind myself that in this very moment I am enough. That I have all that I need. That, the life I am living, is in fact enough.

The reminder comes on the heels of a few years of some serious soul-searching, personal growth and grief. A time that allowed me to slow down and ask myself, what is it that matters and am I living my life in alignment with those values.

Most days, the answer is yes. But, acknowledging that is easier said than done. I’d be lying if I didn’t find myself getting caught up in the rat race of not enough. Of the pressure to do more, be more, work more, and hustle harder. That somehow if I don’t start my day in the middle of the night with an intense routine personal and professional growth, I am failing. If I don’t lose the weight and hide the wrinkles and get the promotion and be the rockstar mama, I am not living my best life. PS, this imaginary perfectionism I find myself sometimes chasing should also look effortless.

A work in progress, right? The fact that I can catch myself doing this is a step in the right direction. A small step, but an important step.

I’m 44-years old and find myself without a plan. I’m living in the moment and trusting that as long as I continue to show-up and do my best everything will be ok.

My relationship with faith remains complicated, but I’m finding comfort in acknowledging that as much as I want to believe that I can control what happens to me, there is something bigger watching out for me.

I have found such joy in saying no. To gently creating protective boundaries around my time and heart, allowing space to be curious and allocate extra time to that which means the most to me.

James Clear continues to wreak havoc in my life. Six months in, and I find myself finding ways to ensure I get my 150 minutes of movement in every week, no exceptions. I write every day, even if it to just capture some gratitude, shoot a note to a friend, or jot down the latest joke my son told me.  Last month I turned in a book proposal in a Hail Mary attempt to share my lessons on loss. Even if rejected, I’ll find a way to publish my story. These daily habits don’t come easy but they are simple. Achievable. And in alignment.

My garden is growing – weeds and all. This week my son and I shared a few strawberries before heading to yet another baseball game. The simplest of simple moments created by chance. But, to experience it fully present is more than enough. It is everything.

Running Regrets and Blessings?

This month my latest post from Another Mother Runner went live. The post talked about my running regrets and was sparked by Daniel Pink’s newest book The Power of Regret.

In the book, Pink says, “If we only know what we truly regret, we know what we truly value. Regret—that maddening, perplexing, and undeniably real emotion—points the way to a life well lived.”

A life well lived. When I think about my running regrets, the one thing I will never regret is starting. For decades, I’ve been on a quest to become a healthier version of myself. Running is just one more version of that, but comes packed with over a decade of stories, laughter and memories that I can stay I still love showing up for. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But my why around becoming healthy continues to evolve.

For years, I wanted to be skinny. To be prettier so that the opportunities that are difficult for obese women to achieve would be easier. (That truly is a thing). There was also the revenge period where I longed to have my ex see what he missed. Then, it played an integral role in my quest for pregnancy. And, once finally pregnant, I feared it’d hurt baby Jake. Post pregnancy, it was battling with the changes that come with carrying a bowling ball in your belly for 9-months. A fear of diabetes and watching the finitude of my dad as he battled for his life intensified my why.

And now here I am today. Still trying to figure it all out. What I do know is my why today is much more inward than outward. Yes, I want the scale to trend downwards. That said, what I want more than anything is to keep up with my son’s whose zest for life has me exhausted by 7 pm daily. Basketball, baseball, fishing, swimming, kayaking, running, biking, nerf gun fights. He lives for adventure.

Here’s the thing – that was once me. I once biked from sunrise to sunset, cooled off at Pinehurst Pool between softball and biking home. My only respite was reading. Summer vacation meant endless movement, laughter and little sleep. He’s reminding me of that. To find joy in the simple things. To keep moving and going on adventures and experiencing life. And the truth is, that’s much easier when you’re healthy.

This post is a bit of a ramble, in part, because my health journey is anything but linear. But, I remain hopeful that while I have plenty of regrets to how I got here, at this size, I also have the power to change that. And that is frankly incredible. A blessing in disguise.

Speaking of blessings, I leave you with this. I recently discovered Kate Bowler. Bowler’s two main books talk about living with Stage 4 cancer and faith. As a divinity scholar, she has spent years researching the prosperity gospel – which in her words promises that God will reward you with health and wealth if you have the right kind of faith.

As someone whose journey with spirituality is on the same wavelength as her battle with what being healthy looks like, Bowler’s books immediately resonated with me. They are honest, funny and heartfelt. And lead me to doing a summer for 40ish Devotions from her latest book Good Enough: 40ish Devotionals for a Life of Imperfection.

The devotions are short and powerful. Stories about how our imperfections are in fact what makes us real. In a world where real seems harder and harder to find, I welcome that. If you’ve found yourself trapped in the rat race of leveling up and believing you can and must do better, I urge you to pause long enough to read Bowler’s memoirs and perhaps even a devotional or two. It’ll remind you, or at least it did for me, that you and I, are in fact enough.

Hurry Up and Wait

My summer in a nutshell.

My kid is in his first season of kid pitch baseball. I love sports. I love Jake. But wowza, this sport is painfully slow. If you’ve ever been to a game, then you know what I’m talking about.

That said, getting Jake to the games is comparable to Usain Bolt’s world’s fastest sprint. I’m not sure if it’ll be better now that school is out for summer. What I do know is that getting an easily distracted, independent and highly talkative 8-year old dressed in a uniform, fed and out the door in the 30-minutes between school and game time should at least involve some Mother of the Year award. For moms with multiples, I have NO CLUE how you do this and remain upright.

The time my kid didn’t hit a home run.

Perhaps, it is this rush to get to our destination that makes the end goal of game day so painfully slow. It is easy to understand then why I missed filming my son’s first home run. The first 3 games I was the obnoxious mom who walked up to the fence to film my son, just in case he did something exciting. Each time was a strike-out. By game 4, I hadn’t lost faith, but I was too lazy (or perhaps my butt was permanently numb from sitting on cold bleachers) to film.

Jake chose that moment to score his first home run. Sure, it was partially due to multiple little league errors and no 3rd base coach telling him to stop, but it was a home run just the same. Funny how life happens while we’re waiting for life to happen.

I guess that’s the point of today’s post. Sure, I needed a reason to share pics of my super cute kiddo. But, if I ask myself to dig deeper, there is meaning in the madness of little league sports. There’s value of being in the moment. I’ve been seeing a lot of articles lately that remind us as parents that we should allow our kids to be bored sometimes. That it helps them learn to entertain themselves and perhaps be more creative and accepting of how mundane life can be at times.

Perhaps this advice should extend to adults. COVID-19 forced us to slow down but it also created a ton of anxiety, worry and stress so I don’t think I’d many of us were bored during the pandemic. But little league baseball – now that’s boring. That said, it makes the little moments of excitement, like my kiddo rounding the bases, that much more exciting. It is also making me think that scheduling some good old-fashioned days of nothing is a priority for our family this summer… think little league baseball, fishing for bass, and sitting in the pontoon parked at Moon Lake Beach.

I could think of worse things to do with my time. But in all seriousness, there’s a lesson in the madness. I know someday I’ll look back at these memories fondly, so why not try to enjoy them while they are happening.

To all the moms and dads out there keeping those bleachers warm, may you find some magic in the mundane as well!

Frequency Illusion or Fate

I’m currently sitting at a coffee shop in crunch mode. A few weeks ago I wrapped up the first draft of a book more than 25-years in the making. As I typed the closing words of the final chapter, I felt something was missing. That perhaps my book was an illusion or misrepresentation of grief. Despite being brutally honest about my lack of credentials or knowledge base around this topic, I felt like a fraud. Somehow my story didn’t seem strong enough or capped with enough wisdom and answers to really provide a sense of purpose to the reader.

As I contemplated what to do next, I began reading Susan Cain’s latest book Bittersweet. When I hit chapter 3, Cain made the comment, whatever pain you can’t get rid of, make it your creative offering. I realized in that moment, the purpose of my book, is to share with even one person, my journey with loss. For me, it has no end, because for me to never experience loss again would mean to quit living. Despite believing that in my soul, I seriously questioned if anyone else would understand. After all, one of the most common pieces of encouragement after losing someone or something you love is this too shall pass. It will get easier, once you get through it.

The problem is that never happened for me. I kept waiting and waiting, believing that if I just tried hard enough, I’d reach the other side. But the truth is, I feel loss and I hold onto it. I don’t dwell in it or quit living. I’m not clinically depressed or emotionally unavailable. Instead, I find myself acknowledging this is the price of admission and often times elevating my blessings by recognizing that anything worth anything I will in fact lose someday.

This is where divine intervention, fate, or a more logical explanation of Frequency Illusion of Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon comes into play. Because as I contemplated my shortcomings, Bittersweet provided the framework needed for me to finalize understand my inner workings.  

Cain’s explanation of how certain people hold space for love and sorrow finally answered a decade old question. I am not broken. I am what Cain describes as a true connoisseur of the place where light and dark meet.

How did I come to that conclusion? A simple 15 question quiz that had me scoring 8.1 on the Bittersweet scale. Interestingly enough, my husband landed solidly in the category of sanguine or eternal optimist. It makes sense – I’ve been called Eeyore on more than one occasion, especially by my husband. I never minded, at one point going as far as to have a blog called It’s ok to be Eeyore, because I felt the world has enough Tiggers in it. That, I’d rather be loyal to one and contemplative, then someone I’m not.

Cain spends a lot of time contemplating the complexities of living in the place where light and dark meet, including one extremely important factoid that our culture has decided to overlook – it’s not human to simplify move on.

Trust me when I say this book is packed with wisdom. I earmarked so many pages and passages. But this, well it sums up my conflict with grief. It finally provides me the research to back my experience with loss – and the reality that while I keep living after loss, it does not mean that I’ve moved on, but rather that I’m continuing to move forward. The truth is, acknowledging my loss and being willing to talk about it, does not mean I’m dwelling or depressed, but rather I’m resilient. I am resilient and strong enough to embrace both love and loss, or as Cain explains, bitter and sweet, in the same moment.

How lucky we are to live in a world so beautiful where that’s possible? We are literally programmed to experience emotional multi-tasking. Yet, somehow that message continuously gets lost. Grieve and be sad. Then move on and be happy. I’m here to tell you, there’s an alternative. If you don’t believe me, then you MUST READ HER BOOK and take her word for it. Years ago Susan’s book Quiet gave me language around being an introvert. Now, she’s providing me peace for my experiences with loss. For that, I am forever grateful.   

I have months of editing to go on this book and a proposal due in less than 3-weeks. The past few weeks have been packed with self-doubt. Yet, as I sought a sign, this book dropped in my lap. The proof I needed to know that I am not alone. Call it divine intervention or frequency illusion, it is a fine a line. Just know, that often times, the answers are there if you just ask the right question.

Ode to Motherhood

I somehow did it. My very first and very rough draft is complete. When I think about loss, losing my mom ranks high. Becoming a mom triggered a whole slew of loss, lessons and love for the woman who made me. I’ve spent years writing about it. This Mother’s Day is no exception. For those who have been kind enough to send me feedback, please keep sending it my way. In the meantime, an Ode to Motherhood.

Chapter 13: WTF? I’m pregnant.

About 4-months after the adoption failed, I started training for a half-marathon. It was just after the holidays in which in typical fashion I had overindulged in food and put exercise aside.

By this point in life, I had been running for a few years. A funny thing happened this time, though. My boobs hurt. As in, really hurt. At first, I thought that I’d jumped into training too hard. But, as the days progressed and the spasms in my boobs grew more frequent, I knew something was up. I was broken.

It wasn’t just my boobs. I was exhausted. I was exhausted when I ran and when I didn’t run. I was tired all day long and had no desire to get up in the morning. Granted, it was January in northern Wisconsin. It’s hard to be motivated about anything during this dark, sub-zero stretch of hell we call winter. But this was different.

After several weeks of enduring this excruciating pain, I decided to take a break from running for a few days. I thought maybe if I reset myself and started over it’d get better. Only it didn’t. It kept getting worse. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I shared my discomfort with my husband. He looked at me perplexed and then asked a very simple but loaded question, “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

Time stopped. He knew I was not pregnant. I would know if I was pregnant. After all, I’d gone through years of trying to get pregnant. I’d undergone countless fertility tests, prayed to higher powers and visited multiple doctors. While my diagnosis wasn’t dire, I clearly didn’t get pregnant. We had just gone through a year of paperwork and tests to get approved to adopt in the state of Wisconsin, only to have it fail. This was in fact an extremely loaded question. Of course I wasn’t pregnant. Or… was I?

My mind began racing. I had a stash of pregnancy test strips under the sink. It’d be quite simple to do a quick test and put this rumor to rest. But a big part of me didn’t want to get my hopes up. I started to do the math in my head. Yes, my period was late. If I were a gambler, I’d be broke if I bet on the dates my period would hit. Sometimes it’d be weeks, other times months. Plus, with the stress of the holidays, it’d make sense I was late, right?

After several rounds of inner conversation that was slowly making me crazy, I decide to take a test. I’ve got nothing to lose. At least then I can rule out this particular crazy notion. I take the test. After a few minutes I glance at the test strip. I see a couple of lines and dismiss the notion. I knew I wasn’t pregnant.

Later that night, while nursing my sore boobs, I suddenly found my heart racing. I return to the bathroom and dig the test strip out of the garbage. Two lines. Is it possible that meant I was pregnant? I dig under the sink for the directions. They’re missing. I start to panic. How can I not remember if two or three lines mean I’m pregnant?!?!?!

Before you consider me a very dumb blond, remember the circumstances. Factor in that I had purchased these test strips three years ago in bulk on Amazon. They didn’t come in a pretty box. These strips didn’t have smiley faces or pink lines. They were test strips with multiple faint lines.

I immediately turn to Google looking for answers. After finding the directions online, my life changes in an instant.



“I think I might be pregnant.”

Silence.  I can hear my husband carefully formulating a sentence in his brain before speaking, knowing the next words he speaks count.

“What do you mean you think you might be pregnant?”

“Well, this test says I’m pregnant, I think.”

“You think? Isn’t it a yes or a no?”

“Well sort of. But I’m guessing this test is expired.”

Chaos ensues. My husband runs to our local grocery store, the only spot in town with tests, and asks the clerk for a pregnancy test. Meantime, I Google what can cause a false positive. It’d appear that a rare form of cancer and a lot of urban myths are the only options. The sparkling optimist in me becomes convinced that I have cancer.

My husband returns home. “Well, either everyone in town tomorrow will know you’re pregnant, or a rumor will be floating around that I’m having an affair.” The joys of small-town living.

I begin guzzling water. Lots and lots of water. Three tests later, I’m starting to come to terms with the idea that I may, in fact, be pregnant. My husband is beaming and totally convinced this is the only possibility. I’d like to believe this miracle is real, but the pessimist in me refuses. I need scientific proof. Luckily, I have an awesome doctor and work at a rural hospital that can do same-day appointments.

Less than 24 hours later, I find myself lying on an ultrasound table at work, hearing a rapid pitter-patter, for the first time. It turns out that there actually was a logical explanation besides cancer for the nagging pain in my chest. His name is Jacob William Probst. At the time, I was six weeks pregnant.

In an instant, life changes but everything stays the same. I look down at my paunch and realize there’s an alien-looking create growing inside of me. That every decision I make in the coming months impacts the creation of another human being.

I’m humbled and overwhelmed and scared. Let’s face it. This didn’t happen overnight. I had come to terms with the idea of never having a baby. I’m old… in childbearing age. Did you know that if you are 35 and pregnant, that’s considered a geriatric pregnancy?

I’ve never quite understood why the marketing of that. Adult pregnancy, mature pregnancy, but geriatric? It is very similar to wedding dresses being about 2-sizes SMALLER than your normal size. Because seriously, what girl doesn’t want to feel old when she’s pregnant (as if you don’t feel old already) or fat on her wedding day.

I face the facts. I’m a plus-size, geriatric pregnant gal who was not planning to get pregnant this year. I had abandoned the prenatal vitamins and hadn’t exactly been alcohol free over the holidays. Plus, the sugar cookies. So many sugar cookies. I had just booked a trip to Washington D.C. for March and now this?

I confide with a few co-workers. Those closest know what a toll the adoption took on me. They get it. As I’m telling them the news, it finally hits me. I am actually pregnant. This is exactly what I wanted.

Or, was it? My pregnancy would be plagued with complications. An achy back and an uncontrollable bladder eventually led to a more serious diagnosis of pre-eclampsia.  In rural Wisconsin, this diagnosis played out in a 75-minute ambulance ride with three strange men, no shoes, and a heightened hormonal state. Our destination – the nearest trauma center equipped with a NICU.

It resulted in one of the most undramatic, dramatic results in my life. I never went into labor. I stabilized. After two nights of monitoring and Steve eating delicious looking take-out in front of me I was allowed to return home with strict orders of bedrest. I’d spend the next two weeks anxiously awaiting Jake’s arrival while also questioning if I was capable of becoming a mother.

Motherhood is a pivotal moment that plays out over the course of years. I’ll be frank, when Jake made his overly dramatic entrance into the world during an emergency c-section that involved him not only wrapping his umbilical cord around his neck but also somehow knotting it, I didn’t feel an immediate sense of joy. I was in utter shock.

Moments later he was placed on me to nurse. Splayed out on the table, I felt like a unique combo of a milking cow and Humpty Dumpty being stitched back together. I just wanted a full fat vanilla latte with extra whip cream.

Staring down at the little alien creature, I knew I was witness to a miracle. I was torn between sheer excitement of this incredible creature I just brought into the world and scared shitless of everything I could do wrong. In that moment, I needed my mom. Not my best friend or my sister or even the man who helped make Jake.

I knew giving birth would trigger the loss of my mother. I just didn’t know how lost I’d feel those first few weeks. Hormones and sleepless nights didn’t help. Unlike some incredible women I know, motherhood did not come natural to me. It was awkward and uncomfortable and extremely complicated. I quickly learn, motherhood is messy.

Messy and memorable. Somewhere in those sleepless nights, something clicked. I suddenly understood what it meant to love someone so selflessly that you’d sacrifice everything for them.

There’s something to be said about a love that fierce. I grew up in a house full of grace. I now understand why. My mother’s love was built around the notion that I was exactly who I needed to be – not perfect – but enough. My mother never tried to change me and constantly gave me freedom to make mistakes. To learn and grow and evolve into a young woman.

When Jake was born, I felt an unbelievable pressure to not mess it up. To make sure I raise him to be an incredible man. I now understand that I am not raising a child, but rather guiding a human being through life. Jake is his own person and to think I can change that is hilarious. I can guide and steer and pray and love, but at the end of the day Jake will become who he is destined to be. That’s humbling and scary and awesome all wrapped into one. To love someone enough to let them become who they are meant to be – that’s the greatest gift I can give as a mother. One I learned from the best.

If I could tell myself just one thing, it’d be motherhood is the ultimate test in vulnerability. Lots of it. The thing with motherhood is loving someone unconditionally comes at a cost. It is an emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows. The more vulnerable and deep your love, the larger the tidal waves.  I never understood mamas who cried on the first day of school or became insomniacs in a quest to make sure their child was safe until I became one. 

I went into parenthood believing I’d be the best mother ever. As a perfectionist, I wanted to be a perfect mom, because I wanted Jake to have the best. What mother doesn’t? Here’s the thing, by day 1 I had failed on many fronts.

This seems obvious now but I didn’t know it then. I am raising a human. Humans are messy and complicated and contradictory. They make mistakes. They are frustrating and difficult and stubborn and that’s what makes them beautiful. Now, I just do my best every day to lead by example, love him, and set him free to be his own person. It is the single hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Is it perfect? Absolutely not. His teacher recently told us, Jake’s an incredible leader. He just sometimes leads in the wrong direction. I’ll admit, I was a bit embarrassed but bursting with pride and love.

Raising Jake has taught me, I’ll never be ready to parent a person but I was born to be a mom.  

Podcast Fun and Writing Deadlines

Things are getting real. This week, a podcast I recorded last month with Coach Kiah came out.  I first discovered Kiah by accident on Instagram. Since then, I’ve been a huge fan not only of watching her incredible weight loss journey but also her zest for life and all things farming. Yep. She comes from a cattle ranch and often features ag and farming stories that remind me how much I want to own a tractor someday. She mixes cute cow pics and great personal development advice together, resulting in me becoming a huge fan. If personal growth or farms interest you, be sure to follow her.

My latest podcast Episode

She was kind enough to invite me to be a guest on her podcast. It was a ton of fun to record. I went in thinking I’d spent a lot of time talking about my running journey and my one and only self-published book. But, towards the end we got talking about my new book. It was my first time diving a bit deeper into the purpose of my book and definitely had me sweating since it is a hard topic to talk about and even harder when you’re already nervous AF. If you’re interested in hearing more about the book and what I’ve been up to, check out the podcast here.

Since I’m writing, I thought I’d share another excerpt from my book. I am so appreciative to all of the messages I got from my last post with feedback about my writing. So, if you have a few minutes, please consider reading the chapter below and shooting me a note at with your thoughts. It really does mean the world to me. My first ever book proposal is due June 5 so the clock is ticking and every bit of advice and encouragement helps!

And now:

 Chapter 8 Therapy

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” David said.

Time stopped. How is that even possible. A few months prior I had started therapy in hopes to fix myself. Mom had been dead for over a decade. Despite graduating from college and landing my dream job, I had wasted my 20s away in a semi-destructive fashion. Perhaps I was just living my single days to their fullest. It is a fine line after all. Needless to say, something in my soul said I needed a change.

I quit my life in television news. I sold my soul to the dark side and took a job at an environmental liberal arts college as a PR hack. It was a straight day job, 8 – 4:30 pm, with weekend and holidays off. The pace more predictable and at times mundane. Come summer, the nearly empty campus and a generous vacation schedule allowed me to finally slow down and process the past decade.

Brutal is the only way I can describe it. At times emotional. One night, out of boredom, I watched boring reruns of The Real World and drank an entire bottle of wine. Somewhere towards the bottom, I suddenly felt I was spiraling out of control. I feared becoming her. Looking at the cheap zinfandel, I wondered at what point my mom transitioned from social drinker to alcoholic. I’d never get to ask her. But in this moment, I felt uncomfortably close. I threw the bottle out.

I chatted with my primary medical doc. She suggested therapy. I had run out of excuses and my insurance covered it. There was immediate availability at a clinic just 10-minutes from my apartment. I didn’t know many folks in this new town I was now trying to make home so I figured I had nothing to lose. YOLO, right?

There was also Steve. He was different than the other guys I’d dated. A keeper some might say. Our conversations ran deep. I laughed a lot. He seemed emotionally available. The attraction ran deep. Nearly a year into dating, a part of me wanted to run. To destroy things before he could break my heart. The other side of me, convinced I’d somehow mess this up because I was in fact a mess, wanted to do the work to ensure I’d get my happily ever after.

The perfectionist in me won out. I signed up for therapy convinced that a few deep conversations with a stranger would solve my grief, open my heart up and allow me to finally move past my mother’s death. In my mind, it was time to accept my mother’s death for what it was, close that chapter and start my life. Unfortunately, that’s now how therapy works.

Each week I’d find myself in a comfortable office sharing snippets of my past with a complete stranger. Conversations jumped from what life was like growing up to my career path to losing mom and falling in love. It felt very disjointed. Not at all like the movies. David rapidly scribbled notes down while I babbled on and on about all of the things I was trying to process. Occasionally he’d prompt me down another rabbit hole in which I’d bare another piece of my soul. Things I never shared with anyone suddenly came spilling out – I was comforted by the knowledge that this man had taken an oath to never share my deep, inner secrets with anyone.

The more I talked, the more broken I felt. What a mess I am, I thought to myself. But at least I’m doing something about it. At least I’m taking action to put myself back together again. At the time, therapy seemed magical, like the unsung hero who if given the chance, could have magically put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Finally, David said our time was coming to an end and that he felt he had enough information to diagnose me. Finally, a definition to this mess. A definition meant a solution. A pill. A treatment. A book to read. A way to move forward.

Then he said the words that shook my world.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Other words followed. A lot of them. An explanation about how grief is hard but that I was in fact processing it and it was complicated. How it was totally normal to be nervous about my relationship because I was ready to transition from living solo to inheriting a roommate. Moving in with the boy was a big deal for me because I had spent a decade alone. I had successfully changed careers, but a lot of my identity was tied to that career I just walked away from. Something about the 20s being a major transition in my life.

He also talked about how my mother dying may have dimmed me ever so slightly. That pre-mom, I was perhaps a bit more outgoing and probably felt like an extrovert. It was impossible for him to know if I truly was an extrovert or just used that as a façade to not address my mother’s illness. Now I seemed to look inward more. To be a bit more reserved and at peace with that. Was that a result of my mother dying? Perhaps. My mom died at a very pivotal time in my life where I was figuring out who I was as a person. And, this would likely be one of the most defining moments of my life. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It just meant I had evolved as a human – something we all do throughout our lives.

“But, what does this mean,” I asked.

In my head I was convinced he was wrong. He had to be because if he wasn’t wrong, that meant I was sentenced to this unsettling feeling for the rest of my life. That the random tsunami waves would continue to knock me off my feet at the most random of moments. I would never be the carefree teenager who took chances and felt invincible. Instead, I’d always be on edge waiting for the next big ball of doom to drop.

“It means that without me finding a diagnosis, your insurance likely won’t continue to pay for these sessions,” he explained. “I want to be upfront about that. I still think there are things we could talk through but you really are fine. If I had to prescribe you anything, it’d be to go live your life. To move in with Steve, enjoy this new life you’ve built. You’re ready.”

I couldn’t afford the out-of-pocket costs for these weekly talks. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the money but I questioned the value of paying someone to tell me I was fine, when I knew I wasn’t. I thought about getting a second opinion. Of finding another therapist who’d maybe understand that I wasn’t ok with just being ok. I wanted more.

I left therapy and something happened that hadn’t happened in a long time. I cried. I cried a lot. I cried tears of rage for mom breaking me and then abandoning me. Tears of rage for a therapist who couldn’t fix me. Tears of loss for discovering that the person I was pre-mom was gone. Tears of unmet dreams for leaving a career I loved and knowing I’d never return to it.

When the tears finally stopped my soul felt lighter. I started to understand that losing and letting go of those things meant space for new things. It meant exploring a new career that provided a more equalized balance between work and life. It meant time to start a side hustle writing. It meant giving my heart the space it needed to heal and eventually open up to falling in love. It meant exploring the Northwoods of Wisconsin and rediscovering myself on the south shores of Lake Superior. It’d mean starting to understand the connection and triggers that caused those tsunami sized waves of grief but also making space to remember the good times with mom.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d return to therapy many times in future years. Each time, I’d still ask the question, “am I broken?” Sometimes I wasn’t as whole as I’d like. Other times, I just needed a neutral stranger to ask me the tough questions and give me the space to process the answers out loud. To remind me that life is hard. That even on the easiest days, life can kick us on our ass. But we get to choose how we react. That we decide what comes next in those moments.

At one point, I found myself at a pretty momentous crossroads in life. I was having what I can only describe as yet another existential mid-life crisis, but I was only in my 30s. My career had stalled. I had grown tired of the Northwoods. Dad was sick. My relationship with my sisters was strained. I was a new mom. The honeymoon phase of my happily ever after had long since worn off. I was tired. So tired of going through the motions.

I wanted to run. I don’t know where to. But anywhere seemed better than the sticks of northern Wisconsin in the heart of winter. I just wanted to start over. I found myself once again in therapy, this time with an incredible lady who seemed to read my mind.

“If you could start over, what would you do?”

“I don’t know.” But it doesn’t matter, I thought to myself because I cannot.

She used that moment to give me some tough love. She reminded me that no choice is a choice. I was choosing to stay stuck by not doing anything. That inaction was in fact the action of nothing. I hated her in that moment.

“If you want to leave, leave. You have the knowledge and resources to do so. But, I wonder if that’s really the heart of what’s bothering you.”

Steve would eventually join me in therapy and I’d share my frustrations. I’d share that I was living a life that felt unfulfilled because somewhere along the time, life had started happening to me instead of for me. I no longer felt in the driver seat of my own destiny.

A conversation ensued about choices. I was reminded that I chose to marry a forester. I had chosen a career that provided a work-life balance that allowed me to be an incredible mother. I had fought long and hard to become a mother, it didn’t happen by accident. We had sought out our dream home on a small recreational lake, but that meant living in a very small place away from friends and family, but within driving distance of dad. These are choices I had made that lead me to this life I was living.

My therapist reminded me that this new life I dreamed of was void of making any choices. That if I wanted to start over, it’d mean making a choice about giving this all up. That’s the thing about choices. Choices rarely come without change. Change rarely comes without losing something to gain something else.

The truth is, I couldn’t imagine my life without Steve or Jake. I couldn’t imagine working a 60-hour work week or not being home to say goodnight to my miniature me. I couldn’t imagine a view without Moon Lake or the ability to be at my dad’s bedside when he’s sick. I couldn’t imagine not having time to write, or garden, or read a good book on my deck. I couldn’t imagine Christmas without snow and a massive live pine tree in my living room. I couldn’t imagine not living next to endless green space or leasing chickens in the summer.

The what if game is a dangerous game if you allow it to consume your life. It is one thing to wonder what if, if that is followed by a big dream that you go pursue. It is entirely another telling yourself how wonderful life would be if you could live someone else’s. I realize that now. Sometimes life hands me unexpected surprises completely out of my control. They knock me off my feet and make me angry at the world. But, for the most part, my life is the result of a series of choices I made, consciously and unconsciously, that I should embrace. If I don’t, I should change them.

If I could tell myself one thing, it’d be that a therapist can’t fix me because to fix me, I’d have to be broken. I now understand if mental health is Home Depot, your therapist is that friendly worker in an orange cape who can give you the tools needed to build, renovate or destroy whatever you want. I can google how to plumb a toilet or find happiness. It is just a lot easier to ask the man in orange to provide me the right tools to plumb that toilet, just like it is a lot easier to have my therapist help me understand the choices I’ve made and how that’s lead to the life I’ve created for myself and that maybe if I focused on what I have, I’d discover I am happy.

A therapist is great at arming you with tools and resources. The part that’s often missed, or at least was for me, is that you ultimately do the work. I ultimately decided to move in with Steve. To acknowledge that the life I chose is actually the life I want. To realize that if I don’t call my own shot, someone will call it for me. That’s on me. No therapy session, pill or self-help book will change that.

The great reward that comes with doing the work is you only have yourself to thank when things go as planned. It doesn’t happen often and sometimes it is a long and bumpy road, but there comes a moment when you can make peace with the decisions you’ve made. The other great thing, you get to decide when to do the work. Looking back, I genuinely believe things worked out the way they needed to for me. Delaying the full feelings of my mom’s death until I was in a place to process them, helped me get to a place where I could start to understand the grieving process. To understand that even trivial moments could trigger memories of mom, and that was in fact ok.

Megan Devine penned an incredible book entitled “It’s ok that you’re not ok. Meeting grief and loss in a culture that doesn’t understand.” In it, Devine spends a lot of time talking about our society’s inability to process grief and acknowledge that grief is not in fact something you get over but rather live with. There is no other side to grief. As a therapist and someone who has experienced great loss, Divine’s stories and advice are based in science and experience. I wish her book had existed in 1996 when mom died. But am so grateful it is available now. I understand now, the piece of me felt broken, is in fact a broken heart over losing someone I loved. But, as cliché as it sounds, it is better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all. Knowing that and understanding that means I wouldn’t wish this pain away, because for that to happen would mean never feeling the love either.

Writing Truths

Things are getting real. A few months ago, I participated in a free writing workshop. This led to me joining a writing group that provides insight, coursework and assistance in writing a book. There’s also a contest in which you can submit a book proposal. I don’t anticipate winning but I do hope to receive advice with hopes of maybe securing an agent in the coming year. The deadline is in less than 2-months, with a second chance in December.

So here I am, sitting in yet another amazing coffee shop writing. I’m writing about love and loss and the complexities of navigating grief. This in of itself is not a lighthearted topic. Writing is hard. Putting yourself out there is hard. But, I’ve come to the conclusion, not writing is harder. Writing today is also coming at a full-circle moment.

This week marked 26-years since my mom died. The Minnesota Department of Health also concluded their investigation of the days leading up to my father’s death. My gut was right. Benedictine Health System dropped the ball on many levels. At the core, they wrote my dad off as a very sick man not worthy of their attention or medical care while he was still fighting to live. Enough so, that by the time he received hospital intervention, any hope or dignity was gone and he wished to die. We all know how this story ends.

In December, I wrote about the difficulties reckoning with this. I think we all want to believe there is meaning in life and death. I wanted to believe that if I couldn’t save him, I could at least help someone else’s family going through something similar. At first, DHS dismissed me as nothing more than a nuisance. Their first investigation was a joke at best. Their unresponsiveness and misinformation a signal that bureaucracy is alive and well. This continued for months. Shame on them. My dad and other victims deserve better.  

For months, I patiently waited for them to make things right. Legislative intervention, countless emails and pleas to multiple layers of supervisors for them to simply do their job. Last month the finally did. Findings were substantiated, reversed from last fall. Citations were issued. A lackluster response of additional training and chart auditing followed from Benedictine. A well-rehearsed apology and promise to do better with little follow through from DHS. Case closed.

The final investigator on my father’s case apologized for her predecessor and the agency not doing their job. She asked me to not hold it against them. I feel for her because she was doing her job in a system that failed. I admire her for doing her job. Frankly, that’s all I asked of anyone at DHS. I just wish it was the norm and not the exception. Nothing changes the final outcome or what we experienced. No report or blanket apology or admission of guilt brings my father back.

I often find myself wishing that when asked what single moment is the most pivotal in your life, my response isn’t the death of my mom. And now, my dad. At the same time, I keep going back to the reality that despite all of the highs and lows I had with them, I always knew I was loved and they accepted me for whoever I wanted to be.

What an incredible gift to give your children. A gift I hope I pass on to Jake. A gift they instilled in me that I am only fully realizing today. Losing them is still the most pivotal moments of my life, but there are many others that make me who I am today. Things that wouldn’t have happened or been different if I hadn’t experienced this. The truth is, the moments that matter most, often start or end because of loss. I’ve come to believe that’s the price of admission. Life is messy and beautiful and hard and amazing. Grief sucks and the more it sucks means the more amazing the prequel to it was… which makes it suck even more. That’s the premise of my new book. Not so much a book about great loss but all loss we all must navigate.

Today, I want to share my prologue of my new book with you in hopes you’ll send me feedback. Email me at or message me below. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please know it is a work in progress, just like me. And with that:

It Could be Worse: A girlfriend’s guide to loss.


The decision was made in an instant but years in the making. “I love you girls but I cannot keep fighting. Please don’t be mad.”

A glance at the nurse and a plea. “Please. I just want to go in peace.”

Suddenly we are out of time. After years of ups and downs navigating a broken health care system watching my dad fight for his life – and win; and advocating for his life more times than I can count, the decision is made. My sister and I advocate for him one last time. We watch dad initiate hospice and support him with all of our heart while feeling a piece of our heart break. He signs the papers instantly. He cannot nor should he suffer for another second in a system where folks fight to keep him alive, regardless of the physical pain he endures and his desire to die. He is ready.

He tells my sister and I he’s proud of us one last time in a sterile hospital room. A man of few words, he couldn’t have chosen a better book ending to a complicated yet rich life. I do not know it at the time, but I will not see him conscious again.

I should have seen this coming. In my head, I had prepared for it over and over again. I had made time for visits, listened to my dad’s endless stories and jokes, and sought therapy to help navigate the struggles of an aging parent. I had worked through my anger surrounding an amputation and a healthcare system that never understood my father. I had resolved all of the what ifs in my life – the times growing up where I was too busy pursuing my dreams that I missed the simple things. You know… the weekend fishing trips, county fairs, camping, phone calls and lunches. I spent the last ten years making up for those moments. I said everything that needed to be said. But yet, I still find myself in this moment, completely lost. Caught in the in-between. The part where you pray for a quick ending but guilt bubbles up and challenges why you would actually wish your father dead. A friend who knows grief all too well reminds me there is a difference between honoring your dad’s wishes and accepting them. 

Later, I find myself alone in the hospice room watching my dad gasp for air. COVID-19 has added a logistical layer of complications in saying good-bye. Science says my dad is on enough morphine that he is comfortable. My heart says he knows I am here. Here. Sharing one last moment with dad.

I choose to use this moment to remember. I remember our fishing opener trips – including the time I was so engrossed in my book that a fish pulled my rod into the lake before I noticed I had caught it. Somehow dad managed to retrieve the rod (with a very tired fish on it). I remember my one successful day of fishing catching Sunnies with dad and how delicious his pan-fried fish tastes. I remember our annual camping trip including the year my girlfriend and I snuck out to meet boys on the beach. My mom had to let us know she knew while my dad just gave us that look. You know – the one dad gives that say a thousand words. It was the same look he gave when I flicked matches into his ice shanty and got removed from a little league softball game for being sassy.  

I remember arguing over the cost of a good steak, grapes and a 12-pack of diet coke more than once. I remember the endless conversations about weather where only Google could resolve the temperature differences between my hometown Cloquet, Minnesota and today’s hometown Iron River, Wisconsin. I remember arguing just to argue and then argue about why we were arguing. My dad loved a good debate about nothing. That trait lives on in me.

I remember the endless days of playing ball growing up. Or, how dad would patiently watch me twirl baton, doing his best not to comment on the fact that I was destroying the lawn with my endless pivots in a quest to land that double turn around. I remember helping him plant his garden and sharing that first ripe summer sweet pea. I remember our trips to the Chicken Swap that resulted in unconventional pets and dad buying me a mule named Goldie and trying to pass her off as a pony because I was sad the pony I had wanted got purchased before we could buy him.

There was the advice. Dad lecturing me on how I didn’t need another degree to feel smart or that changing jobs wouldn’t make me happy. That a job is called that for a reason. I remember my wedding day where after our father-daughter dance he simply said, I hope he makes you happy and if he does, I’m happy for you. Or, the time he casually asked if I knew how babies were made when he felt I was taking too long to make him a grandpa again. I was 34 at the time.

I remember dad telling me he missed mom too when he knew I was sad. I remember dad walking me down a makeshift aisle at my wedding and holding my son after he was born. I remember him helping me pack for college, see me off to Oxford and inspect my first home. In every critical moment, dad was always there on the sidelines rooting for my success.  He’s been the constant in my life. For 42-years, every major milestone has been marked by dad encouraging me to pursue my dreams.

These memories and thousands more will carry me forward. On Christmas Eve at 3 am in the morning, I get the call. A health record error meant hospice staff waited until he was gone to notify me. Given the blizzard and distance, it is unlikely my sister and I would have made it in time to say one final goodbye.

After 24-years of waiting, he joined my mother. For me, the waiting is now over.

Instead, it is replaced with grief. Grief is a crazy beast I’m all too familiar with. A new void in my life no one or thing can ever fill. There will be no story big enough, no fish large enough, or joke bad enough to replace the man who made me.

For a moment, I focus on a higher power and try to believe that dad’s struggles are finally over and that he’s reunited with mom in time for Christmas. I want to believe Heaven gained another angel this Christmas. Faith is complicated in the face of grief, though. Instead, I only feel a hole in my heart draining whatever energy for life I once had. I don’t wake my husband to tell him the news. It would be too real. I call my sister know, text my aunt and try to keep breathing. Tears flow freely. I lay in bed anticipating what’s next.

A part of me knows what lies ahead. The tsunami of highs and lows that follow losing someone or something you love. The cost of his suffering ending comes with a price that I must now pay. I’m an orphan at 42. I immediately dismiss my anger. After all, as Winnie the Pooh once said, “how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

For over a decade, my dad battled countless illnesses. He came back more times than I can count. My mom’s story is similar, only I was 18 when I lost her. In both cases, I knew death was inevitable, I just didn’t know when.

Despite mourning the loss of my mother for nearly a quarter century, I struggle with what comes next. How to grieve the right way and meet society’s pressure of grieving enough but not too much. How to mourn but move on. As a generation X’er who thrives on facts, I sought the simplest of answers.

How do I get better?

When do you get to the other side of grief?

Will it ever get easier?
How long should I be sad for and at what point can I resume life?

Is it ok if I’m still sad anyway?

Is it ok to hate God right now?

Or to suddenly find God right now?

Why did I wish them dead?

Is he dead because of me?

Is resenting him for ruining my favorite holidays of the year ok?

Why aren’t I sadder?

Why aren’t I happier?

Should I be questioning my faith right now?

Why do I feel so alone, despite being surrounded by people?

Is this my fault?

Why am I so tired?

Why do I just want things to be normal?

And on and on and on.

After months of researching and years of living with loss, the questions seem obvious.  The answers – unavailable.  As time ticks on, I settle into a rhythm of grief suddenly knocking me on my ass, only to a few moments later find myself resuming the mundane crisis in front of me – somehow pushing grief aside. Unexpected laughter and joy would find its way into my life only to leave me feeling ashamed; that some how I hadn’t paid my sorrow dues in full. 

Our brain is miraculous in that one can be at rock bottom in shock and grief while somehow navigating the complexities of securing a goldfish for an 8-year-old in the very same moment. I know experts say you shouldn’t multi-task, that it in fact is not a thing, but I believe emotional multi-tasking is the only way to survive.

In some respects, the big losses are predictable. You know they are going to hurt. And to love or experience anything meaningful, that’s the price of admission. There’s also a slew of books by people much smarter than I that’ll help give you a roadmap to grieving a spouse, parent, child, best friend. There are endless meditations and faith-based support systems that’ll help you walk through the 5 stages of grief and even tell you about a 6th stage focused on meaning in an attempt to help you cope with catastrophic loss. Or, tell you why the 5 stages of grief were actually created for the dying not the grieving and that in fact catastrophic loss has no rhyme or reason.

Here’s the thing. I’ve come to realize that grief in all forms suck. It knocks you off-balance, challenges your identity and at times cripples you into believe you’re crazy. Other times, it leaves you to live your life, also wondering what kind of human you are for continuing to live, even during the darkest of times. God help you if you compare your loss to the person next to you—their loss is either bigger or smaller depending on the narrative you’ve created in your head. Your grief too minimal or too big in comparison to whatever you are grieving.

I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all go away. But what does that even mean? If you erase the loss, does that mean you also erase the person you loved? The problem with anything meaningful is it hurts that much more when you lose it.

Life is a series of gains and losses. A new name, new identity, new friends, new career, often come with a cost. There’s that moment of compromise when you settle for what is versus what might be someday. Or, that realization you won’t be the next golden girl baton twirler or make the cut for all state band. How motherhood challenges your sanity. Or, the stories you tell yourself to avoid working on your shortcomings or celebrating your strengths. That moment you regret or let someone else call your shot. These moments of loss quickly add up, even when replaced with something better.

Sure, you can tell yourself that in order to gain something you must let go. Sometimes you do it willingly. Other times, a force greater than you takes it away. Both scenarios are difficult and remind us that life is hard. It hurts. Even in the most beautiful moments, loss lives in us.

That’s what this book is about. A series of stories about loss – ordinary and extraordinary losses – that define us. I’ve spent a lot of time asking why me, researching and asking people how to cope with loss in hopes of sharing some wisdom here. Some simple, tactical tips and stories of how to lose gracefully. Of how to lose, without losing yourself. 

I have no authority writing this book. I am not licensed in anything other than driving a car. This is not a replacement for therapy. This is simply my stories and some of the lessons I’ve learned along the way that might help make your road a bit less bumpy. This is not an inspirational story where I reckon with loss, find God or resolve my feelings of loss. This is a story about being in the trenches and navigating hardship while giving myself grace to find joy as well.

There’s an old saying that misery loves company. I hope you find some comfort in these stories and understand that you are not alone in your loss. I believe everyone grieves loss differently but there’s value in the collective reality that we all will experience loss throughout our lives. For some odd reason, at least for me, I find peace and comfort in knowing I am not alone.