I’ve been quiet lately, not because I didn’t have anything to say—but because I didn’t know how to say any of it.
The last two weeks have been heavy. Emotional. Confusing. Draining. And full of moments that left me raw and unsure of where to begin.
Letting Go, Again
For the past month, I’ve been in Colorado helping my daughter get settled into her new nursing job and life in a brand new state. She’s young, brave, and doing hard things—but like most transitions, it hasn’t been easy. Watching her struggle with growing pains, uncertainty, and self-doubt has been so difficult for me as a mother.
I’ve caught myself holding on tighter than I probably should. But I’m also someone who’s already lost a daughter. That loss changes you—it rewires the way you love, the way you protect, and the way you brace for heartbreak, even when there isn’t any.
So yes, I hovered. I reassured. I stayed a little longer than I planned.
On my last morning there, we went out to breakfast—just the two of us. The coffee was too hot, and neither of us ate much, but it gave us a moment to sit across from each other and pretend things were normal. Afterward, we returned her broken TV, both of us laughing a little at how ridiculously heavy it was. It was an ordinary errand, but it felt like something more—like a quiet way of holding each other up.
A few days earlier, we had stood side by side in the bathroom, brushing our teeth. I glanced over at her in the mirror, and when I tried to speak about leaving, my voice cracked. It surprised us both. Something about that quiet, mundane moment—shoulders touching, toothbrushes in hand—made the goodbye suddenly feel real.
We didn’t say much after that. We didn’t need to.
When the day finally came, we hugged, reassured each other the best we could, and I boarded my flight home feeling heavy but steady.
A Crisis Back Home
And then, just after I landed, the texts came in—a barrage of words that blindsided me. I hadn’t even made it out of the jet bridge when I began reading. I sucked in my breath as the full weight of the incident hit, sharp and sudden, like stepping into a storm I didn’t see coming.
While I was midair, a violent and emotionally volatile confrontation had erupted between my husband and his brother.
Without going into painful detail, it crossed every boundary—emotional, personal, and nearly physical. Obscenities were screamed. Accusations were hurled with the intent to wound.
One of those accusations cut deeper than anything we could have imagined—he said we were to blame for our daughter’s death. That we had killed her.
I won’t give energy to the cruelty of that claim. But if you’ve ever experienced deep grief, you know how vulnerable that loss leaves you. To have it weaponized like that—thrown in your face as an attack—was beyond anything I was prepared for.
To be clear—this wasn’t a mutual conflict. My husband stood his ground, hands in the air, steady in the face of someone else’s storm. He didn’t raise his voice or his fists, but I know him well enough to recognize the toll it took. He may have looked calm on the outside, but inside, he was shaken.
We are not people who raise our voices, let alone our hands. So being around that kind of unpredictable rage—especially when it’s aimed directly at someone you love—feels like standing in the middle of a fire without armor.
It shook us both. And I’ll be honest—I’m still trying to find my footing again.
Trying to Hold It All
So here I am: emotionally wrung out, still grieving, still navigating the complexities of parenting adult children, and now pulled into a family situation I never asked for.
And in the middle of it all, I find myself questioning: What do I share? What do I hold close? What’s mine to carry, and what do I need to lay down?
This post isn’t polished. It’s not pretty. But it’s honest.
A Gentle Reminder
If you’re feeling like life is asking too much of you right now—if you’re torn between being strong and being human—I just want you to know that you’re not alone.
Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is just keep showing up.
Not with perfect words. Not with a neat resolution. Just with our full hearts and our unsteady steps.
And maybe, one day, those steps start to feel a little more certain.
Thanks for reading. I’m still here.
You’ve finished it. That matters.
Now take care of yourself in whatever way you need to. You don’t have to carry the whole weight today.
And I’ll be here if and when you’re ready to write again.