Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Death has taught me things I wish I had never needed to learn.

Things we should all know while we are still here.

Things we should remember every single day.

But sometimes, it takes losing someone we love to finally understand what we should have understood all along:

Life is fragile.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

People can be here one minute and gone the next.

And the things we thought were so important suddenly aren’t important at all.

What matters is that we were there.

That we loved.

That we apologized.

That we forgave.

That we said the words.

That we made the time.

That we made someone feel like they mattered.

Today was supposed to be my remote day.

But my lead worker was out, so I decided to come into work. I wanted to be present and available for my staff.

It was also one of my staff members’ birthdays.

Last night, I stayed late after work to decorate her cubicle. This morning, I ordered bagels, gave her a vase of flowers and a gift, and watched her face light up with surprise.

She was so happy.

So loved.

And standing there watching her smile, I thought about you.

Because that is one of the biggest things your death has taught me:

Love people while you can.

Don’t wait.

Don’t assume there will be another birthday.

Another conversation.

Another lunch.

Another drive home.

Another opportunity to say, I love you.

When you were here, I loved like there was no tomorrow.

I think some of that came from my years working at LifeSource. For five years, I handled death calls every single day. Nearly 10,000 calls from four states.

I learned the many ways people die.

It was fascinating.

It was heartbreaking.

And it changed me.

I was the person who called families during the most devastating moments of their lives to discuss tissue and eye donation.

I heard grief in people’s voices.

I heard shock.

I heard disbelief.

I heard people trying to comprehend that their person was gone.

Maybe somewhere along the way, I learned that tomorrow isn’t promised.

So I loved you like there was no tomorrow.

But even knowing that, I still wish I had done some things differently.

I wish I had been more patient.

Not just with you.

With myself.

I wish I had realized that some of the things we argued about were so insignificant compared to what I would eventually lose.

I wish I could go back and tell myself:

Let it go.

Take a breath.

This isn’t worth losing a moment together.

You don’t know how many moments you have left.

Like many couples, we fought.

Sometimes it was about your tone with the kids.

Sometimes it was about me working too many hours.

Sometimes it was just two tired people trying to navigate life and parenting and marriage.

Sometimes our childhood traumas surfaced and triggered each other’s wounds.

Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, you said things that were incredibly harsh.

And then you would see me crying and realize you had gone too far.

You would become so angry with yourself.

You would apologize over and over again.

You would say,

“I don’t deserve you.”

And I would forgive you.

Not because I was stupid.

Because I loved you and I never wanted you to feel abandoned again.

Because 90 percent of the time, you were an incredible human being with one of the biggest hearts I have ever known.

Because when we said, “I do,” we believed in love.

We believed in forgiveness.

We believed in choosing each other.

We believed in the words we read that day:

1 Corinthians 13:4–8

“Love is patient, love is kind… It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs… It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”

I think about that verse differently now.

Especially love is patient.

Because if I could have one thing back, Robert, it wouldn’t be one of our vacations.

It wouldn’t be a big celebration.

It wouldn’t be money.

It wouldn’t be anything material.

I would want one ordinary day.

One completely ordinary day.

You sitting beside me.

Our kids running around the house.

Maybe one of us irritated about something stupid.

Maybe you telling me something that happened at work.

Maybe me complaining about something that doesn’t matter anymore.

I would give anything for one more ordinary day.

Because I didn’t know an ordinary day could become something I would spend the rest of my life desperately wishing for.

That is the regret death leaves behind.

Not necessarily the big things.

The little things.

The moments we didn’t know were precious until they became memories.

One of the hardest things about your death was knowing there were things you never got closure on.

Not with me.

Never with me.

You and I knew where we stood.

We talked every single day for 26 years.

We called each other at work.

We called each other during lunch.

We talked on the drive home.

We talked about our kids.

We talked about our frustrations.

We talked about our dreams.

We talked about everything.

Even on our hardest days, we knew how deep our love was.

Sometimes it was a simple touch.

Sometimes it was an “I love you.”

Sometimes we were each other’s safe person.

Sometimes we exposed our worst moments to each other because we knew that underneath all of it, we loved each other.

We made it clear.

We loved each other no matter what and that is what gives me so much peace.

I never question if you loved me. I know you did. You made it clear that I was your “one,” and your “lady.” lol.

But there were things you carried that I couldn’t fix and as someone who is empathic and a feeler, I carried this weight far too long. It weighed heavily on my shoulders. And to be able to talk about it will release what I no longer need to carry.

You were often misunderstood by your parents.

When you established boundaries or stood your ground, you were often called “angry” or an “asshole.”

And you never received the apologies you desperately wanted.

It was swept under the rug.

It never happened.

You wanted acknowledgment.

You wanted someone to say:

“I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

You wanted to know that your pain mattered.

And that is why “Willing and Able” by Noah Kahan will forever be connected to you.

Because during the last two months of your life, you were willing to have the conversation.

You were willing to make things right.

You were willing to try.

And you were met with silence.

You were called an asshole.

You hadn’t seen or spoken to your parents in two months.

And the timing of it all still unsettles me.

It still hurts me.

It still makes me angry.

Because you died carrying that pain.

And I wish you didn’t have to.

I wish you had gotten the apology.

I wish you had gotten resolution.

I wish someone had acknowledged your childhood pain.

I wish someone had told you that your feelings mattered.

I told my therapist that you didn’t deserve all of that pain.

Not growing up.

Not during those last few months.

Not ever.

I wish you had closure.

I wish you didn’t have unsettled business.

It is hard for me to say this out loud, but I wish you had experienced so much love here on earth with your family before experiencing the ultimate love with Jesus.

I wish you had known, without a doubt, that you were worthy of love.

Because you were.

You are.

And I hate that you had to leave this earth still carrying something that never should have been yours to carry.

When you died, pieces of me went with you.

The old Jeaney went with you.

I’ve changed so much, Robert.

Your death gave me a perspective on life that I never asked for.

I never wanted it.

I would give anything to give it back.

But it changed me.

I know what I want now.

I want peace.

My circle is much smaller. I don’t just let anyone in.

You always worried that people took advantage of me and it happened after your death.

I want genuine people in my corner.

I want people who genuinely want me to heal.

People who don’t make my grief harder.

People who understand that healing isn’t linear.

People who stay.

People who show up.

People who make space.

I don’t have the same patience anymore for people who disrespected you when you were alive or who continue to disrespect you after your death.

For people who refuse to acknowledge what happened.

For people who refuse to take accountability.

Because I know firsthand what unresolved hurt can do to a person.

I watched it happen to you.

I watched you carry it.

I watched you crave connection.

I watched you crave validation.

I watched you desperately want someone to simply be on your side.

And I will never forget that.

Your death also taught me that words matter.

God, do they matter.

Words can pierce someone.

They can change someone.

They can stay inside someone long after the person who said them has forgotten.

I watched that happen to you.

I saw the sadness in your eyes.

I saw how words changed you.

I saw your soul leave your body when horrible things were said to you.

And I saw what happened when the person you desperately wanted to support you turned the other way.

I will never forget that. I can’t unhear it.

So now, when someone makes excuses for saying something cruel, I struggle with it.

Because I know better.

I know what words can do.

And I don’t want to be someone who adds another wound to someone else’s life.

I want to pause.

I want to breathe.

I want to think.

I want to remember that the person standing in front of me may be fighting a battle I know nothing about.

Because I lost you.

And I’m still livid.

I’m still heartbroken.

I’m still trying to understand how someone can be here one day and gone the next.

But even in the heaviness of my grief, I still choose to show up.

I still smile.

I still laugh.

I still show up for my friends.

I still try to be there for people.

Because you taught me something without ever knowing you were teaching me:

Don’t become bitter because you’ve been hurt.

Your death also taught me the importance of family.

Our family.

The family we created.

Our kids.

After your funeral, I was shocked by some of the people who never checked in.

Some family members didn’t say anything to me at the funeral.

They didn’t check on me.

They didn’t check on the kids.

Some haven’t checked on us even now.

And eventually, I understood what you had been trying to tell me.

At the end of the day, it is our family that we invest in.

It is our family that we love.

And saying that hurts like hell.

Because you should be here.

We should be investing in us together.

Instead, it’s just me.

And sometimes that fucking sucks.

Before you died, I told you my favorite show was Parenthood.

I loved that show because I wanted a close family.

I wasn’t close with my brother, and I desperately wanted the kind of family where siblings were close.

Where they dropped everything for each other.

Where they showed up for each other’s kids.

Where they came to sports activities without being asked.

Where everyone gathered around the table for Sunday dinner.

I wanted that big, connected family.

You looked at me and said,

“Me too.”

We both wanted that feeling.

And I think that’s why we worked so hard to create it for our kids.

We were the living-room family.

We spent every waking moment together.

If something was hard, it was hard for all of us.

We were together.

I miss that.

I miss being a family with you.

I miss watching our kids with you.

I miss looking across the room and knowing that you were there.

I miss the life we thought we had more time to live.

Now, I am the only parent.

And there are days when that truth feels impossible.

But I have to keep going.

I have to heal.

Not because I’m done grieving you.

Not because I’m okay.

But because our kids deserve a mother who is present.

They deserve a mother who feels her feelings but doesn’t let those feelings consume her.

They deserve a mother who takes accountability.

A mother who apologizes.

A mother who listens.

A mother who validates them.

A mother who hugs them.

A mother who shows them what healing looks like.

So I explain the “why.”

When I’m not my best self, I tell them why.

And I apologize.

I listen.

I validate.

I hug them more.

I hug them for both of us.

At work, a coworker who recently learned about your death asked me something that stayed with me.

She asked me how, after everything I’ve been through, I’m still so nice.

How do I collaborate with difficult people?

How do I still smile?

How do I still talk to everyone?

How do I make people feel important?

How do I not have a bitter heart?

The answer is simple.

Because everyone deserves to feel worthy.

Everyone deserves to feel seen.

Everyone deserves kindness.

I don’t act like I’m better than anyone else.

I treat everyone the same.

I smile.

I ask people how they are doing.

And I don’t want the automatic “I’m okay.”

I want the real answer.

I want the long version.

I want to know how someone is actually doing.

I try to make people laugh.

I try to be the light.

And while I was having that conversation with my coworker, I could hear you saying exactly what you always said to me.

You told me you loved me for my heart.

You told me I was different because I always chose to love people and see the goodness in them.

Some days, I wish I wasn’t so forgiving.

Some days, I wish I didn’t always see the good in people.

Some days, I wish I could turn that part of me off.

But a dear friend reminded me that this is how I was created.

God created me to be a light in people’s lives.

To be patient.

To be kind.

To love.

So I am trying to hold onto that part of myself.

For you.

And for me.

I also tell people I love them now.

I tell my staff how much I appreciate them.

I tell our kids how much I appreciate them.

I tell them how much I love them.

And when someone makes space for me, I tell them.

When someone walks beside me through grief, I tell them.

When someone checks in, I tell them.

When someone makes me laugh on a day when I desperately needed it, I tell them.

Because everyone deserves to hear that they are special.

Everyone deserves to know they matter.

We cannot keep assuming there will be more time.

There may not be.

Your death taught me that life can change in an instant.

So I’m learning to live in the moment.

I’m learning to stop rushing through everything.

I’m learning that not every problem needs to be solved today.

Not every frustration needs an immediate response.

Not every disagreement needs to become a battle.

Sometimes I can pause.

Sometimes I can breathe.

Sometimes I can walk away and come back tomorrow.

I’ve been working on that in therapy.

I’m learning to be more patient with myself.

That one is hard.

Because I want to heal faster.

I want to be better.

I want to feel normal.

But grief doesn’t work that way.

Healing doesn’t work that way.

So I’m learning to give myself the same patience I gave everyone else.

And maybe that’s another thing your death has taught me.

I deserve grace, too.

I don’t have to be okay every day.

I don’t have to have everything figured out.

I don’t have to apologize for still missing you.

I don’t have to feel guilty when I laugh.

I don’t have to feel guilty when I have a good day.

I can grieve you and still live.

I can miss you and still smile.

I can love you and still keep going.

And I think, out of everything, you would be most proud of this.

I’m working hard in therapy—not just to heal, but to learn how to regulate my emotions, process my trauma, and become a healthier version of myself.

Because I can’t be the mother, daughter, friend, coworker, and person I want to be without healing.

And I wish I didn’t have to lose you to understand all of this.

I wish I didn’t have to experience death to understand how fragile life is.

I wish we all understood it while our people are still here.

I wish we all lived like today mattered.

Because it does.

“Please forgive me.”

I wish we understood that sometimes the last conversation really is the last conversation.

The last hug really is the last hug.

The last goodbye really is the last goodbye.

And you don’t get to go back.

Robert, if I could go back, I wouldn’t spend our time trying to make our life perfect.

I’d spend it being present.

I’d let the dishes sit.

I’d worry less.

I’d be more patient.

I’d laugh more.

I’d hug you longer.

I’d hold your hand in the car.

I’d look at you a little longer.

I’d tell you I loved you even when we were annoyed with each other.

I’d remind you that you were a good dad.

I’d remind you that you were loved.

I’d remind you that you mattered.

And I would never assume we had more time.

Because I thought we did.

We all think we do.

Until we don’t.

So if you are reading this and your person is still here, please don’t wait.

Call them.

Go see them.

Sit beside them.

Hold their hand.

Ask them how they really are.

Listen to the long version.

Apologize.

Forgive.

Tell them they matter.

Tell them you love them.

Take the picture.

Go to the birthday party.

Order the flowers.

Buy the gift.

Stay a little longer.

Put the phone down.

Be present.

Because one day, you may give anything in the world for one more ordinary day.

I would.

I would give anything.

Robert, I wish you were here to see who I am becoming.

I wish you were here to see how hard I am working to heal.

I wish you were here to see our kids.

I wish you were here to see the woman I am becoming because of losing you.

I wish you were here so we could keep building the family we dreamed about.

I wish you were here so I could tell you one more time that I love you.

But you’re not.

And I have to learn how to carry that truth for the rest of my life.

So I will carry you with me.

In the way I love.

In the way I forgive.

In the way I apologize.

In the way I parent our children.

In the way I show up.

In the way I choose kindness.

In the way I protect my peace.

In the way I give people grace.

In the way I tell people they matter.

In the way I stop taking ordinary days for granted.

In the way I choose to be present.

In the way I live.

Because I can’t bring you back.

I can’t rewrite what happened.

I can’t give you the closure you deserved.

I can’t take away the pain you carried.

I can’t have one more ordinary day with you.

But I can make sure your life means something in mine.

I can make sure your death changes the way I live.

I can love harder.

Forgive quicker.

Apologize sooner.

Listen longer.

Be more patient.

Be more present.

And I can stop waiting for tomorrow to say what needs to be said today.

You changed me, Robert.

Your life changed me.

Your love changed me.

And your death changed me.

I wish I had learned these lessons another way.

I wish you didn’t have to die for me to understand them.

But since I can’t change that, I will honor you by living differently.

I will love differently.

I will forgive differently.

I will parent differently.

I will show up differently.

I will stop taking time for granted.

I will tell people they matter.

I will tell them I love them.

And when life feels hard, I will remind myself that being here—really being here—is a gift.

Because you should still be here.

We should still be here together.

And I should still be loving you beside you.

But since I can’t change that,

I will love you by the way I live.

Every single day.