Grief, Grace and Growing

9/21/26

Dear Rob,

Last Friday, I drove to Anoka for my Supervisor meeting. As I sat there, I started writing down everything on my to-do list for when I returned to work. There was a lot. So today, when I walked into work, I went straight into “get it done” mode. I met with my team for our weekly Team Huddle, and I had a huge checklist in front of me—FYIs, reminders, meetings, schedules, everything that needed to get done. Next week, I have a four-day conference, and honestly, I’m a little nervous about it. Life just keeps moving. Meetings still happen. Work still needs to get done. People still need things from me. And sometimes I look around and think, how am I doing all of this when a part of me still feels like it is standing in the middle of the worst day of my life?

After work, I drove home to grab Vivian and bring her to Violet’s volleyball game. You heard about Violet when she and Viv attended the same school. There are so many people who are now such a big part of our lives that you never got to meet, and so many moments I wish I could tell you about.

When you died, I made sure our children went to therapy. What happened was so traumatic for our babies. They had to see police officers, firefighters, investigators, the medical examiner, and the funeral director in our home. They saw things no child should ever have to see. They had to watch their world change in a matter of hours. I knew they needed someone to help them understand what had happened before all of that pain became something they carried silently. I needed them to have a safe place to say the things they couldn’t say to me.

Anders, to this day, has not gone, and I chose to respect his decision. Charlie went a few times, but he is just like you. He would rather talk to me about everything he is feeling. And honestly, I’m grateful he does. Charlie’s emotional intelligence is at another level. He feels things so deeply. I remember when he was only three years old and saw a woman crying in the bathroom. He wanted us to stop. He walked over and asked her if she was okay. She was so shocked that a three-year-old could notice her sadness and care enough to ask. She hugged him, and he hugged her back. That has always been Charlie. His heart has always been so big.

A week after we moved back into our house, Charlie told me that losing you was so hard. He used his words to try to explain his confusion and his pain. He kept asking, “Why?” And I didn’t have the answer. Rob, I still don’t have the answer.

Then he said something that stopped me in my tracks. He told me that most people take months to make changes in their homes, but I had already changed a couple of things upstairs only a month after you died. That was when I realized that Charlie and I were grieving completely differently.

I had to explain to him that if I hadn’t changed things in our home, I didn’t know if I could have walked back into it. I’m a visual person. Every room, every object, every little thing held memories of you. If everything had stayed exactly the same, I would have been triggered by everything. I would have walked through that house and felt your absence everywhere. I needed to change something because I needed to survive. I think Charlie could see the pain in my eyes. I think he could feel it even when I didn’t say it out loud. He just looked at me and said, “I understand, Mommy.” There are moments when our children are the ones holding me together.

And then there is our sweet Viv. Being with her in therapy broke my heart into little pieces. She tried so hard to push her feelings down, just like you used to do. And I could see it happening right in front of me. She was trying to be okay. She was trying to make everyone else okay. But she was carrying so much. It wasn’t until I attended therapy with Viv that I realized just how much she had absorbed. She was a sponge. She remembered things I didn’t even realize she had noticed. Things I thought had gone right over her head. She remembered. She felt it. She carried it.

When the therapist asked Viv if she had any special friends who had made her grief easier, she said Violet. She also mentioned that both Missy and Rich treat her like a second daughter. She said they made her feel special and that when she was with them, her sadness disappeared. I started crying. Viv started crying. Even the therapist started crying.

The therapist later spoke to me privately and told me that, considering everything our kids had gone through, she was incredibly impressed by Viv’s ability to articulate her emotions and thoughts. Then she told me, “Viv also mentioned that you are always there for her and her brothers. This means the world to her. She said you just keep going. I’m impressed, and I am so proud of you.”

I told her that everything you craved and wanted as a kid, I vowed our kids would never feel the same way. I promised myself that even if I had to do this as a single parent, our children would get double the love. Double the validation. Because every child deserves to know they matter. Every child deserves to hear “I love you” and feel those words in the way their parent show up for them. You were always about actions. Words meant nothing if the actions didn’t match. I remember that about you. And so, I try every single day to make sure our kids know, without question, that they are loved. That they are wanted. That they are seen. That they matter.

So this past weekend and today, we were there for Violet, just like Violet has been there for Viv. All the times Missy and Rich have poured their love into Viv, I want to make sure I can pour that same love into Violet. I’m forever grateful to Violet for being such a wonderful friend to Vivian.

And somehow, she has become such a beautiful part of my life, too. When the three of us are together, I feel like I’m living my childhood all over again. We shop for Squishies. We go shopping. We give each other compliments. We hug. We laugh. We do silly things. And for a little while, I get to forget how heavy life can be. I get to just be a mom. I get to spoil two little girls who bring so much joy into my life.

I’m thankful for the friendships that have found me in the middle of my grief. The people who showed up when my life was falling apart. The people who didn’t need me to be okay. The people who loved my children. The people who let me cry, made me laugh, checked in, and helped carry pieces of this life when I couldn’t carry them myself.

Friendship is so different in your 40s. My circle is small now, but the people who are in it mean something different to me. There is a depth to these friendships that I don’t think I understood before losing you. I don’t need a hundred people. I need the people who stay. The people who show up. The people who see me when I’m hurting, even when I’m pretending I’m fine. The people who remind me that I am still a person underneath all of this grief.

And sometimes I wonder if there really is a greater purpose behind the people who have come into our lives since you died. Maybe they are here to help me grow. Maybe they are here to help me heal. Maybe they are here to remind me that even though you were taken from us, love didn’t leave with you.

I miss you in ways I don’t even know how to explain. I miss being able to tell you about my day. I miss having someone who already knew the whole story without me having to explain it. I miss the ordinary things, the soccer games, the school stuff, the work stories, the stupid little conversations that never seemed important until you were gone.

I wish you were here to see all of this. I wish you could see our babies and who they are becoming. I wish you could see Viv with Violet and know that she has someone who makes her sadness disappear for a little while. I wish you could see Charlie and hear the way he talks about his feelings. I wish you could see Anders and know that I am still respecting his way of grieving, even when I worry about him.

And I wish you could see me.

Because I am tired.

But I’m still here.

I’m still loving them.

I’m still showing up.

I’m still putting one foot in front of the other.

I’m still making sure our children know that even though they lost you, they did not lose love.