Grief, Grace and Growing

10/2/2026

Dear Rob,

Earlier this week, I had another work trip. I had one in May, one in July, and now one in September. I dreaded this work trip. I dreaded it for so many reasons. First, I would be away from our kids, which we both know is hard for me. It was always hard for you, too. Second, the work trip was in Duluth. The distance and the thought of going up there on my own gave me so much anxiety and fear. And last, but certainly not least, it was the location. Duluth was our destination. It was where we celebrated our anniversaries. It was where we proudly watched Charlie’s Lake Elmo baseball team play at Wade Stadium. It was where we went for Anders’ club soccer tournament. I remember Viv and Charlie having a blast at the hotel while you and Anders stayed back. You were so proud of Anders and his team. He was 16, playing with 18-year-olds, and his team placed second! Duluth holds so many memories of our family. It isn’t just a city. It is part of our story. It is part of our life together. And now I was going back there without you.

I explained to a close co-worker that if I were driving with a co-worker or with YOU, my anxiety would have been so much less. Knowing that you would be with our children would have made my worries less. Knowing that once I made it there, I could call you. I could tell you about the drive. I could tell you how tired I was. I could complain about the rain. I could tell you something funny that happened. You were always just a text or phone call away.

My last work trip to Denver was so hard. I was stressed and worried the entire time. I did not like leaving all of you. I could tell you were anxious, too, because it was my first trip away from you, but you never said it. Instead, you gave me a big hug and said, “We will be okay. Have fun and call us.” And every night that I was away, I could text you about what happened. We planned a time to call or FaceTime. I miss that so much, Rob. I miss being able to tell you about my day. I miss sending you a random text. I miss having someone to fall back on when I’m scared. I miss knowing that no matter how far away I was, you were still there. This time, I was going to Duluth, and there would be no text to you saying, “I made it.”

On the day I was supposed to leave, my sweet parents stopped by with food for the kids. Three grocery bags filled with homemade Korean meals. Then my sweet parents offered to drive me up to Duluth and either spend the night or drive back home. I smiled because my parents have not changed. They always want to give me rides. They always want to be there for me. I could tell my mom was worried about her daughter. She knew that I was trying to survive and work. She knew I was taking care of our babies. I could see how proud she was, but I could also sense the sadness in her eyes. Her baby girl is on her own. I could see it in her face. She wanted to make sure I was okay. I think every mother sees her child as her baby forever, and I think my mom still sees me that way. Except now, I’m the one who has to be the strong one. I’m the one who has to keep going.

I worked remotely in the morning and then got into my car and drove through the rain. I turned my music up loudly and prayed that I would make it to Duluth on time. I’ve never been to Duluth on my own. You always did the driving. You always planned our trips. You always knew where we were going. You always led. You were the one who made sure we had everything packed. You were the one who figured out the route. You were the one who got us there. And now it was my turn to plan and lead. I never imagined that one day I would have to learn how to do all of these things without you.

Out of everyone, you know I do not do well with long-distance driving. I dislike it. I get bored. I get restless. But as I made it to Duluth and took the turn toward my hotel, this wave of sadness hit me. I cried. They were tears of joy and happiness because I had done this hard thing on my own. But they were also tears of sadness because you weren’t here to hear about my long trip. You weren’t there for me to call and say, “I made it.” I wanted to tell you. I wanted to hear you say, “See? You did it.” Instead, I sat in my car, alone, looking at the streets we had traveled together so many times. I had made it to Duluth. I had driven myself there. And somehow, that accomplishment hurt just as much as it made me proud.

I was in Duluth, Minnesota, as I became a member of the Minnesota Association for Court Management, MACM. I was supposed to spend three days at the DECC, where we went when Anders was one year old. It was next to the Aquarium where we took the boys several years ago. There were so many memories waiting for me when I arrived in Duluth. I could almost see our family everywhere I looked. I remembered the trips. The hotel rooms. The kids being little. The laughter. The chaos. The conversations in the car. The places we stopped. The things we ate. The memories we didn’t realize would someday become so precious. I wish I could go back and relive some of those trips knowing what I know now. I would take more pictures. I would slow down. I would memorize your laugh. I would memorize the way you looked at the kids. I would memorize every ordinary moment because I now know how quickly ordinary becomes something you would give anything to have back.

My close co-workers and Emily reminded me that the time away could be spent on self-care. To enjoy the quiet moments and moments to myself. The thing is, I haven’t been alone, alone. That’s what I told my friends and my therapist. The moment you died, our children have been by my side. And I’m not complaining about that because they lost you, too, and your sudden death rocked their entire world. Ever since your death, I have made sure to never leave our kids’ side. I make sure that when they need me, I am present. I listen. I give them a big hug. I validate their emotions and feelings. I am with the kids until I go to bed. I take every moment to cuddle. Every moment to sit in our living room and talk and laugh about our day. These were things you enjoyed too. Things you loved. Except now, I’m doing them on my own. I am raising three children who are grieving their father while I am grieving my husband. And sometimes I wonder how I am supposed to carry both.

The first night, I went shopping down the main street. It was raining, and I stopped at a store to buy souvenirs for our kids. You never liked that. You never loved trinkets or spending money on little things that would eventually sit around the house. I love keepsakes. I love anything that reminds me of a trip or a special moment. So I entered the I Love Duluth store, and there were so many amazing gifts. I talked to the owner for a while, and I’m sure you were saying, “Of course you talked to the owner.” You knew me so well. I can talk to anyone. I love hearing people’s stories. I love connecting with people. You would probably have stood there patiently waiting for me while secretly wondering how I managed to turn a five-minute shopping trip into a 20-minute conversation.

After spending about 15 minutes there, I bought a matching sweatshirt for me and Viv. Viv is really into oversized sweatshirts. I bought Anders a Duluth sweatshirt, and for Charlie, I bought him a sweatshirt with Bigfoot on it so he could think of his father. I also found a cute Squishy for our daughter, and yes, you would have said, “Viv has too many Squishes.” But you know what, Rob? Our children deserve to be spoiled. They deserve little things that make them happy. They deserve everything in life. I want to give them joy wherever I can. I want to create happy memories for them because there is so much sadness in our home now. If a silly sweatshirt or a Squishmallow makes them smile, then I’m going to buy it. I can already hear you teasing me about it.

That evening, I had therapy. It was supposed to be EMDR, but because of my work trip and the fact that I needed to spend the day at the conference, we did talk therapy instead. I shared with my therapist that I felt anxious. I was afraid. And I didn’t know how to be alone. All the A’s. Anxious. Afraid. Alone. I was quite vulnerable with my therapist. I admitted, “I don’t know how to be alone,” which is so strange because I was alone throughout much of my childhood. My parents worked long hours to provide the best for their children. My brother, who was supposed to take care of me, chose to be with his friends. So I was always alone. I learned how to entertain myself. I learned how to be independent. I learned how to take care of myself. I thought I was good at being alone.

I shared that when we first started dating, you found my independence very strange. I enjoyed my alone time. When you were gaming, I did my own thing. Being alone was something I was so used to. Then, as we spent more time together, we became inseparable. We became so close. Somewhere along the way, you became my safe person. You became the person I knew would never leave my side. And for 26 years, you never did. We were together from high school until the day you died. You were an incredible best friend. When I was sad, you were there. When I was happy, you were there. When I was angry, you were there. When I was scared, you were there. You were there for all of it. And here I am now, back to my childhood, feeling like that little girl who is alone again. Except this time, I don’t want to be alone. This time, I know exactly what I am missing.

But here is the thing, Rob. As I sat in my beautiful hotel room looking out from the balcony, I realized that being alone isn’t all that bad. I ordered Pizza Luce. I watched TV without any interruptions. I journaled. I read my Bible. I sat in the quiet. There was no one asking me for anything. No one needed me to find something. No one needed help with homework. No one was arguing. No one was asking what was for dinner. For the first time in a long time, there was silence. And for a little while, I actually enjoyed it. I realized maybe being alone doesn’t have to mean being lonely. Maybe I can learn to sit with myself. Maybe I can learn who I am outside of being your wife and our children’s mom. Maybe there is still a part of me in there that I haven’t met yet.

Then, as I laid in bed getting ready to go to sleep before 10 p.m., Viv Face Timed me crying. She missed me. She couldn’t get to bed without me. My heart broke into a million pieces. I should be with my daughter. I should be home. I should be tucking her into bed. I should be kissing her forehead. But I need to work. I need to provide for our children. I talked to Viv on FaceTime until she fell asleep. She cried so much that eventually she was exhausted. I watched my little girl fall asleep through the phone, and all I wanted was to reach through the screen and hold her. I wanted to tell her everything was okay. And for a moment, I wished you were there beside me so I could text you and say, “She misses me so much.” But I couldn’t. There was no Rob on the other side of my phone.

The next day, my co-worker and I walked over to the convention center. The walk was beautiful. Duluth is beautiful. I looked around and thought about how many times we had been there as a family. I thought about all the places you drove us. All the trips you planned. All the memories you created. And now I was walking these same streets without you. I was afraid. I was anxious. But I was also excited. I was excited to learn. I was excited to grow. I was excited to see what I could become professionally. And that was such a strange feeling because I was carrying so much grief while also feeling genuinely excited about something new.

I learned a lot about myself as a leader. I learned about balancing home life and work life. One of the presenters asked us to share one personal goal and one work goal. I shared with my close co-worker that my personal goal is to create family traditions with the kids. Last year, I was surviving. I was mourning the loss of our family traditions for the holidays. I didn’t know how to celebrate holidays without you. Everything felt wrong. Everything felt different. But this year and moving forward, I have to face another fear. We will not be spending the holidays with your parents or my brother. We will celebrate on our own. A family of four. And I want to make it special, even if we have to do it on a budget. I thought about flying to Georgia to be with my cousin, but our boys are so fussy about airplane rides. I’m still trying to figure it out. I wish you were here to help me plan it. I wish I could ask you what you think. I wish you could tell me what you would do.

For my work life, my goal this year is to continue growing as a leader. To continue attending conferences without fear. To take online classes. To keep learning. To keep growing. And I also want to be firm with my boundaries. I will keep my remote days. I will leave at 4:30 p.m. and not 5:30 or 6. I will not stress over little things. I will work, and then the rest of my time will be devoted to our children. I want to be present for them. I don’t want work to take away the little time I have with them. They need me, and I need them. They are my family. They are the three pieces of our love that I get to hold onto every single day.

We ended the first day of the conference with a breakout session on wellness. How fitting. I learned not to react to everything. I know that’s hard for me. It’s okay to take a break. It’s okay to say, “I need a minute.” It’s okay to say, “I’m anxious.” It’s okay to say, “I’m afraid to be alone.” It’s okay to admit that I’m fearful of driving 2.5 hours away from our kids. It’s okay if I don’t feel comfortable with people and don’t want to hang out. It’s okay to do things that I want to do. It’s okay to take care of myself. It’s okay to breathe. It’s okay to pause. It’s okay to not have everything figured out. I think you would have wanted me to learn that. I think you would have reminded me that I don’t have to carry everything all at once.

The rest of my stay was okay. I won’t lie when I say my mind was on the kids, mostly Viv. I worried about them. I missed them. I wondered what they were doing. I wondered if they missed me. I wondered if they were okay without me. But I did it, Rob. I really did it. I faced my fear. I prayed. I cried. I felt all of my emotions. I attended my very first MACM. I sat in a conference room surrounded by people I was still getting to know, trying to learn how to become a better leader, while carrying a heart that was still grieving you. I was afraid, anxious, overwhelmed, excited and proud all at the same time.

And when I got home, I got the biggest hugs from both Viv and Charlie. Anders was too cool to give me a hug, but I could tell the kids were happy to see me, and I was so happy to see them. I stood there looking at our children, and I realized something. You always led us. You always drove. You always planned the trips. You always knew where we were going. You were the one I leaned on when I was scared. And now I’m the one driving. I’m the one planning. I’m the one leading. I’m the one figuring things out. I’m the one making sure our babies are okay.

And Rob, I don’t want to have to be this person.

I don’t want to have to learn how to do life without you.

I don’t want to be brave because you died.

I don’t want to make new traditions because our old ones disappeared with you.

I don’t want to drive to Duluth without you.

I don’t want to go to conferences without being able to text you.

I don’t want to experience something exciting and then remember that I can’t tell you about it.

I don’t want to sit in a beautiful hotel room and realize that the person I most want to share it with is gone.

But I did it.

I drove to Duluth.

I walked into our memories.

I faced my anxiety.

I faced my fear.

I sat alone.

I cried.

I prayed.

I learned.

I grew.

And I attended my first leadership conference.

I wish you could have seen me, Rob. I wish I could have called you from my hotel room and told you everything. I wish I could have texted you when I got to Duluth. I wish I could have sent you a picture of the sweatshirt I bought for Viv. I wish I could have told you about the Bigfoot sweatshirt I bought for Charlie. I wish I could have complained about the rain. I wish I could have told you about something funny that happened at the conference. I wish I could have called you at the end of the day and said, “I actually learned a lot today.” I wish you could have told me you were proud of me.

Most of all, I wish I could have heard you say, “We will be okay.”

Because that is the part I am still trying to believe.

You always made me feel safe.

You always made me feel like no matter what happened, we would figure it out.

And now I’m figuring it out without you.

But maybe this is what becoming a leader really means for me now. Not just learning how to lead at work. Not just learning how to make decisions or speak confidently in a room full of people. Maybe it means learning how to lead our family when the person who used to stand beside me is no longer here.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop wishing you were here.

I don’t think I want to.

I don’t want to forget what it felt like to have you beside me. I don’t want to forget our trips to Duluth. I don’t want to forget you driving while I sat beside you. I don’t want to forget our anniversaries. I don’t want to forget watching Charlie play baseball or watching you cheer for Anders. I don’t want to forget our last family trip. I don’t want to forget the way you looked at our children. I don’t want to forget the life we built together.

Because even though those memories hurt now, they are also some of the most beautiful parts of my life.

You were my safe person for 26 years.

You were my husband.

You were my best friend.

You were the person I could always text.

And now my phone is still in my hand, but your name will never light up my screen again.

That hurts more than I know how to explain.

So when I drove into Duluth alone, I cried for the woman who used to sit beside you.

But I also cried for the woman who was learning how to drive forward.

I hope you are proud of me, Rob.

I hope you saw me that day.

I hope somehow you know that I was scared.

And I hope somehow you also know that I did it anyway.

I miss you.

I love you.

And I will keep moving forward, carrying you with me every step of the way.

Love,

Me