“Because mother hunger doesn’t disappear with age—it just changes shape.” Parenting through grief has rearranged our entire safety map, and I’m learning how to be the anchor even when I feel like I’m rebuilding myself from the inside out.

If Father’s Day feels heavy for you too—whether you’ve lost your dad, or you’re a mom watching your kids miss theirs, or you’re grieving a father‑figure who shaped your life—I hope you find a piece of your own story here. Grief shows up in all kinds of outfits, and none of them are wrong.

Nobody warned me that losing my person would turn grocery‑store music into an emotional minefield. From “Take My Breath Away” ambushes to sacred songs I refuse to skip, this is my story of grief, ’80s anthems, and choosing what I listen to with care—because music can shift our mood faster than Aqua‑Net held up my hair.

Some battles are chosen, others are inherited — and grief leaves us holding the pieces, trying to make sense of a story we never had full control over.

When Facebook nuked my profiles, it felt like a second, crushing loss. It wasn't just about the network; it was the realization that they had detached me from the memories I shared with Greg. It was a digital erasure of our time together. We’ve already lost so much in this journey, and having those digital artifacts—those snapshots of a life we once lived together—suddenly ripped away adds a layer of grief that is hard to explain to anyone who hasn't felt that specific kind o

There is a moment in the aftermath of every tragedy where you are faced with a choice. It’s a quiet, heavy, and deeply personal decision: Do I stay down here? Staying down is easy. It’s safe. It’s where the grief and the "what-ifs" live. But the trap isn't always the big grief; sometimes, it’s the small, ridiculous inconveniences that act as magnets, pulling you right back into the pit.

Welcome to the "Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda" cycle. It’s my brain’s favorite pastime: a high-definition, 24/7 loop of all the ways I could have been a better wife, a better helper, or just a better "mind reader" when Greg was still here.

For my entire life, I had dismissed theater. But in that seat, with the snow falling outside, I understood the true power of this art form. Theater isn’t about wearing a mask; it's about seeing the universal human heart—its love, its grief, its beautiful, messy truth—perfectly articulated, even when you have no words of your own.