Isaac is about to turn 18 months old. It’s the same age Nicholas was the day he sat on my hip as two police officers stood in my kitchen and told me his daddy was dead. 18 months – the same size hands that wave goodbye, the same soapy smell in their blond hair, the same yell of “daddy” with

Grief Revisited

On my book shelf, on the second row, is a hoard of philosophy books. Pages and pages of words direct from the mouths of Heidegger, Kant, Kierkegaard, Descartes, Wittgenstein, and more. I’ve lost the fluency of it all – if I ever had it to begin with. These were Chris’s books before he died, and I read over his shoulder.

Your heart pounds against the silence. There is only the blood that pumps fiercely through your body, chasing down meaning at a cellular level. There is only the crushing pain, the weight of emptiness, the hope that flew off when we weren’t looking. I wish there was something I could say to you that would make things easier. That would

When’s the last time you felt the startling realization that you left your phone/wallet/car keys in the store/restaurant/taxi? That familiar stab of adrenaline, the quickening heartbeat, and sinking stomach? You don’t think rationally in those moments. You’re capable only of disbelief, fear, and anger. If you’re a parent and you’ve ever lost sight of your small child at the park

My best friend is getting married this week. I frequently wonder how I ever got so lucky to know her like I do. I’ve known her more than half my life, and she’s the sister I never had. She’s been my lifeline in my darkest days and my laughter on the best days. And I am unbelievably excited to see

On Being Known

Our world seems to have an obsession with being known. Perhaps it is an innate human need, I don’t know. But it lies at the heart of the insane phenomenon of celebrity culture and leaves few people unaffected by the opportunity to claim a mere 15 minutes of fame. But is being known by many the same as really, genuinely

The Voice That Sings

A year ago, I published my first blog post. I wrote out of the desperate need to tell my story, to share my grief after the death of my husband. I wrote about how there’s something deeply human about imagining worst case scenarios. A year later, in this 3rd year since Chris passed, I haven’t stopped imagining. And yet, that

My new neighbor cut their tree down last week. It wasn’t dead or diseased, but I’m sure there was some legitimate reason behind their decision to chop it down. It was surrounded by other trees and houses, so it had to be cut limb from limb, one slice of trunk at a time. By the time they got to the

I don’t like to admit that much of my life these days is a fiery battle with a three year old. But that’s the truth. And that’s how I ended up squeezed into his bed at 10pm one night, buried in Thomas the Tank Engine blankets, and reading yet another book. Which is when I came across this most perfect verse:

Chris used to put almost empty milk cartons back in the fridge. And when I say “almost” I mean there was literally one gulp left. He’d eat almost all his dinner except two bites and put the almost empty plate uncovered in the fridge… On the off chance that one lonely bite of cold, congealed dinner would sound appetizing later.