Welcome to Life After Lil

It’s been a surreal and emotional week. I’ve been holding space for my daughter—offering emotional support—while at the same time watching the world feel like it’s cracking open again. For the past few years, I’ve kept my distance from the news. It was an act of self-preservation—protecting my peace, protecting my heart. After everything I’ve lived through, that boundary was necessary. But something broke through it this week. News of violence carried out by the state, of lives lost without explanation or accountability, shook me deeply. It pulled me out of that protective silence and back into the rawness of the world. I may be late to this moment—but I’m here now. Fully. And something inside me is shifting. I feel a growing urge to stand up—for justice, for freedom, for the future. I’ve always been introverted. Since losing Lil, that part of me has only deepened. I’m not a hermit, but I keep my circle small by choice. Quiet feels safe. Predictable. Manageable. But while I was in Colo...

I’m back in Colorado this week. My daughter—a new nurse—is transitioning off orientation and feeling overwhelmed. She told me she needed support in person, and I admired her for that. This generation doesn’t seem to struggle with asking for help the way mine did. As a Gen X’er, it never would have occurred to me to say, I’m not okay. I would have pushed through, believing that needing help was weakness. But my daughter knows her limits. And she asked for what she needed. My husband and I made a promise to our two youngest children—both newly graduated and navigating their first real jobs—that we would show up in person once a month. He visited our son in Southern California. I flew to Colorado. I get ten days here to support my daughter. To show up. Not to smother—though sometimes the line blurs—but to be present. When I arrived, she was just coming off a brutal three-day night shift. Her apartment was messy. She was out of toilet paper. I was amused and quietly amazed—but also remind...

​ Grief has a funny way of shape-shifting. This week, it wasn’t tears for the daughter I lost — it was a deep, gnawing ache for the two I still have. My 22-year-old twins — brilliant, overwhelmed, and barely keeping their heads above water — are calling home more often. I don’t know whether to feel proud, panicked, or just permanently tired. After the holidays, my son headed back to grad school in a rainstorm that looked like the apocalypse. He didn’t want to go. I saw it in the way he lingered over breakfast, the way he came to sit beside me and rested his head on my shoulder — something he never does — on the very morning he was supposed to leave. My husband offered to drive with him. My son accepted gratefully, still dragging his feet. It would have been sweet if it hadn’t also been quietly heartbreaking. I had to nudge him. Push him, really. With all the love I have, and all the heartbreak that comes with it. Because that push meant: I trust you to try again. Meanwhile, my daughter...