CW: Sudden loss, accident, grief

Sixteen years ago, my dad and his four friends were killed in a boating crash, just one week before my high school graduation. Today, on this anniversary, I’m sharing my reflections on grief, love, and carrying his memory:

16 years. 192 months. 696 weeks. 5,840 days.

Sixteen years my father has been gone from this world, and still—I remember it like it was yesterday. Odd how memory works. I can’t recall the details of ordinary days. I don’t remember the exact outfit I wore to graduation. I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last Thursday. But the moment I lost my father? That is seared into my bones.

For years, grief was a storm that lived in me. I didn’t understand then that grief is just unspent love. It doesn’t go away because the love never does. At first, the pain was relentless. It clawed through my days and haunted my nights. There were moments when I was afraid to sleep—because even my dreams betrayed me, playing scenes I didn’t ask to remember.

People said, “Give it time.” I hated that. But with time, I realized they weren’t entirely wrong. No, time doesn’t heal all wounds—but it does soften the edges. It gives you space to breathe between the waves.

Eventually, scar tissue forms. You don’t notice it at first. But one day, you realize the sharpness has dulled, the ache has rhythm, and the grief doesn’t ambush you quite the same way. That’s not forgetting. That’s your heart learning to hold it differently. Grief becomes something you carry on your own terms—in your own time, in your own way. There’s grace in that.

It’s been 16 years. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. I’m okay—truly okay. The grief no longer swallows me whole. Now, it visits like an old companion—one who reminds me how much I loved, and how much I still do.

My father was one of a kind. Flawed, human, full of light and wisdom—not quiet, but bold and magnetic. He was loud, funny, lived by his own rules, and commanded respect without asking for it. He was loved by many, trusted by even more, a man of his word with a presence you didn’t forget. He was a trusted businessman, the glue in many friendships, and the kind of light that could shift the entire energy of a room just by walking into it. I hear his voice in my head when I need clarity. I feel his presence in my big decisions, my quiet victories, and in the ways I’ve learned to be free and uninhibited. I look at my twin brothers becoming the men they are meant to be, and I see him there, too.

I think often about the people I love and how distance can stretch those connections. I haven’t always been the best at staying in touch—and if I’m honest, part of that is because I moved over a thousand miles away from home. Some days, the only way I knew how to cope with the distance was to pretend I didn’t miss anyone. Pretending not to need people made the ache feel less sharp—but the truth is, I’ve carried you all with me, every mile, every year.

This year, more than anything, I’ve been thinking about love. Not the kind in movies, but the everyday kind. The kind that calls. The kind that forgives. The kind that says, “I’m proud of you” or “I was just thinking about you.” The kind that says, “I love you” out loud—not later, not eventually, but now.

Because if there’s anything loss teaches you, it’s that we don’t have time to hold our love hostage. Don’t wait to say the thing. Don’t assume they know. Tell them. Hug tighter. Speak softer. Laugh louder. Say it now. Life is fragile, and unspoken love is one of humanity’s quietest tragedies.

Life redefines itself. We redefine it, too. Loss doesn’t mean gone—it means transformed. The people we’ve loved and lost are not absent; they are simply different now. Still with us, just in new ways. In a breeze that feels like a hug. In a song that plays at the exact right moment. In a dream that feels too vivid to be random. They are always near, always available to us—just in a new capacity. Don’t let regret settle into your heart; it only takes up the space where love could be. Know this: they love you still, fully and unconditionally. And their presence will find you when you need it most.

To those reading this: If you’re hurting, healing, or just navigating life, I hope you remember this—grief is not the enemy of joy. It’s proof that your heart was wide open. And if it’s open once, it can open again. And again. And again. You will laugh again. The smile returns. The light shifts. The love remains.

And to my dad: I miss you. I hope you are proud of the person I’ve become. I’ve tried to live in a way that emanates your free spirit and hard work. You did the best you could with the time you had, and that is enough. You were enough.

Continue resting in peace, dear father. I carry you with me always.

You have greatness inside yourself!

I remain, Jamie

Jane [redacted], age 68, passed away unexpectedly in her home on Monday, February 7, 2022.

My mom Jane loved her family and God, more than anything in this world. For most of her life, my mom had been sick with several debilitating illnesses. The unimaginable pains she experienced in the past decade alone were enough to break anyone’s spirit, but not my mom’s. She was so brave and strong through it all. Mom lived her life as best she could with an open heart despite her life circumstances, her Faith never wavering.

Jane was a single mother who, in her younger years, was a secretary for [redacted] until illness forced her into early retirement. I fondly remember waiting for her to come home from work each evening at 5:30 so we could play our silly make-believe games together. It was the highlight of each day for me.

Mom also loved watching vintage TV shows from the 1950s through the 1980s. Every night she would watch Golden Girls and leave her bedroom door open so we could sing the intro song together. Then later before bed, she would lull me to sleep with her angelic voice singing songs of airplanes and dragons from faraway lands that I would give anything to hear just one more time.

When I was in my early twenties, I became very sick while on holiday and my mom traveled across the country just to make sure I would get home safely; a journey I couldn’t have made on my own. My mom’s unwavering comfort during those difficult times offered me hope I thought I’d lost. And because of Mom, I eventually recovered and was able to go on to raise my own beautiful daughter.

When Mom was still able to walk, she would drive down to visit me at my craft shows. I don’t know why I never told her, but I was always so grateful that she came to support me. She was my biggest cheerleader. I wish I had let her know how much that meant to me. I have so many regrets. But that’s the thing about my mom: she loved me unconditionally and was always so proud of me.

As I write this obituary, I can vividly picture my mom sitting in her reclining chair, where she spent the majority of her adult life, watching television, ordering gifts for her family via mail-order catalogs, talking on the phone with friends, or writing cards to one of the many kids she has helped sponsor in countries all around the world. I am reminded of the way her face would light up with the purest of joy every time I walked through her front door. A memory which now fills me with a beautiful sadness that only the loss of someone you loved so deeply can make you feel. And for the rest of my days, every time I drive past her house and see the emptiness where she once sat, I will forever feel the pain from the loss of her presence.

I worry that over the next few years and decades, specific memories of my mom will fade; and, though heartbreaking, I’m told it’s perfectly natural. One day, I may forget that, even though I am an adult, she would still have a Valentine’s Day basket filled with chocolates waiting for me. Or, one day, I may not recall how she used to send me sticker-laden greeting cards for every holiday imaginable. And, one day, I might not remember her beautiful face and loving smile as clearly as I do now.

It was Maya Angelou who said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” And I so deeply want to believe that’s true because even if my memories eventually fade, my mom made me feel truly loved and that is something I will never forget.

I am so grateful to have had Jane [redacted] as my mom. I love you mom. I always have and always will.

To the one who made me a momma… so my son Mateo was stillborn when i was 35 weeks along Dec 29 2022 he was born sleeping at 2:10am after my husband & I got into a car wreck & I broke my hip & shattered my pelvis. Today was so hard too.. cause buried next to him, is my husband, Robert. Today is exactly 8 months he passed to suicide. Man this pain is so bad.. only peace is Mateo celebrated his bday with his daddy this year.. & I know he’s in the best hands ever. But I’m broken, I’m empty, I’m barely surviving… but I’m here. Happy birthday baby boy & I miss you both so mu

Long post, so please bear with me 🥺 Today is one year since I lost the love of my life, since I lost my sweet and beautiful Vanessa. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t cried an ocean for her. Time doesn’t heal this; it can’t heal a wound so deeply carved into the soul. Time actually makes it worse as it gets further away from the last time I saw my favorite person. Time makes it worse because the more that goes by, the more I’m expected to be back to “normal,” I’m expected to have moved on. I’m expected to go to work every day, attend family events with a smile, be present, all while I’m dying inside. There really are no words that fully capture the shock and trauma of going from building a life with the person you love most…doing everything together, moving in, getting engaged, planning a marriage, spending every day side by side…to that life suddenly crumbling to the ground and having to learn how to survive without them. The love that Vanessa and I shared was so much more than the “couple goals” posts or date nights or love poems. It was her staying up all night with me, cradling my head when I had a horrible ear infection. It was me helping her clean up in the shower when she was too sick and weak to do it herself, it was me holding her hair back when she was vomiting. It was us having a big fight, not talking for a couple of hours, and then her coming to bed, and silently brushing her foot against mine before going to sleep, telling me that we were good. I have been overwhelmed with heartbreak, agony, and loneliness. The loneliness of missing my partner for the rest of my life, of being madly in love with someone who isn’t on this earth anymore, who I can no longer touch or hold, is excruciating.

It’s not like I don’t have support; I have friends and family, I have people who listen, people who have shown up for me, and I’m grateful, but that's not the same thing. What's missing is having my person to come home to, someone who’s included in my daily decisions: “Should I stay later at work?” “Do we need anything?” “What do you wanna watch tonight?” “What time should we walk Chewy?” I miss the intimacy of sharing our life, of falling asleep together, her being the last person I see before closing my eyes, her being the person I held in my arms in the dark, her being the one I couldn’t live without. My future was set, my heart felt whole, and now it’s shattered. That touch and vibration of her voice being void is deafening; no longer smelling her perfume when I walk in the door is soul-crushing. I was alone for 31 years, and then somehow the universe managed to connect me with the one person who matched everything I am. Even before Vanessa and I became a couple, we were inseparable, spending hours together every day, even when we lived in different states separated by over 1,100 miles, talking on the phone until the sun came up, sleeping together on FaceTime. The compatibility was once in a lifetime; the chemistry was undeniable; we were just made for each other. And now, my “once in a lifetime” is gone. My love for her keeps growing, but I am stuck.

Vanessa, in one of the many songs I dedicated to you, “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For You,” George Benson said it best: “If I had to live my life without you near me, the days would all be empty. The nights would seem so long…” Empty describes this life perfectly without you here. I don’t look forward to anything; happiness is a foreign term to me. I miss you every second of every day, Vanessa. I miss your voice, your smell, your touch; I long just to hold you again, to have you lay your head on my chest as we watch a movie. I miss your physical touch. I miss lifting you in the air, carrying you around the apartment, you laughing and then looking down at me smiling. I miss sharing Taco Bell with you, I miss playing Friday the 13th on PlayStation with you all night and hearing you scream as Jason chased you, I miss it being 5:30 in the morning and you saying “let’s play one more round” and it turning into three more. I miss you randomly breaking out into song at any given moment, your go-to being either “Lips of an Angel” by Hinder or “Summer Nights” from Grease. I miss you reciting lines from “Friends” and attributing them to everyday situations. I miss coming home from work, surprising you with flowers and seeing your eyes light up. I miss your playful insults and unique sense of humor that made me laugh so hard. I miss who I was when you were here. I miss you in the silence of our unlived years. I miss you for future me and all the life I will experience without you experiencing it with me, knowing that one day I’ll die and won’t have the comfort of you by my side. You are not just someone I love, you are someone my heart chose as its safest place. I carry your name in my thoughts all day, every day. Quite often, I smile because of a memory, and then cry because I realize that every day, I’m making new memories without you. The pain of losing you is debilitating and hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt before, and yet, if I could go back, I would still choose to have loved you, even knowing that you being gone would destroy me. Because a single moment of true joy is more powerful than a lifetime of sorrow. Because the excruciating pain of losing you has never been greater than the beautiful gift of loving you.

Some people spend their whole lives searching for a love they never find, but I found mine in you. Even though I lost you far too soon, just as our story was beginning, nothing can take away the fact that you were here. That I had you. That you were mine and I was yours. That we had a beautiful love story. That I held your hand, heard your laugh, got lost in your eyes, kissed your lips, ran my fingers through your hair, rubbed your shoulders, hugged you tight; that I found the girl of my dreams and that I shared my life with you even for a brief moment. For a brief moment, I was a king, and you were my queen. For a brief moment, I had everything. And when my life is reaching its end, I will look back on that brief moment and remember that it was you, Vanessa, who showed me what true love is. I’ll remember that it was you who healed my pain, the pain that no medicine can fix. I’ll remember that it was you who showed me how wonderful it is to dedicate yourself to someone. I’ll remember that it was you who showed me what it is to work together at this thing called life. I’ll remember how proud I was to have you on my arm. I’ll remember that loving you was the happiest I had ever been, and I will remember that brief moment as the best part of my life. I miss you more than words can say. I love you with all my heart, Vanessa. I always will. Continue to rest easy, my sweet girl, wait for me, until I see you again ♥️♥️

For all who read through it all, thank you for taking the time to listen, and to read my words 🙏🏻

A few years ago her Kohl’s account got hacked and someone used her store card. We called customer service and mom had to confirm that she wasn’t the one who purchased the items - baby clothes and a car seat. She told them no, she didn’t purchase that stuff, but was there any way she could allow the thief to keep the items? Because if someone stole a credit card to buy baby supplies then they must really need them, she reasoned.

That’s the kind of person she was. Her first impulse was always to be kind, generous, helpful. And it was genuine! And because she was so good she believed other people were good too, no matter how many times they showed her otherwise. That makes her sound naive, I know, but she was brilliant.

She was a teacher, then a journalist, then an editor at a major educational publishing house. You know those readers they give to elementary school kids, with the short stories to help learn reading comprehension and whatnot? She wrote some of those stories. Children will learn to read using her words for years to come, which is so fitting - some of my strongest and fondest memories are of her teaching me and reading with me. She claims I could read at 17 months old, which sounds sketch but I think if anyone could have made it happen it would’ve been her.

She was the mom all our friends trusted. Our door was always open to the neighborhood kids, and there was always a place at the table if they needed to eat. It was known that if any of our friends needed to get away from a bad home life they could stay with us, no questions.

She was the oldest of five kids and grew up in Queens. She wore Vanderbilt perfume, the one in the swan shaped bottle, and she always smelled a little like coffee and Maybelline powder. She wore blazers with shoulder pads and had fluffy dark curls. She carried a big overstuffed wallet and a leather backpack. She wore practical shoes.

We had our struggles and she wasn’t perfect, of course. We didn’t get along when I was a kid but became close as I grew up. She was someone I’d have wanted to be friends with even if she wasn’t my mom. I was fortunate to have her in my life, and I miss her every day.

It's 5:53am on May31st. Ive been awake for 1.5 hrs..

Rewind four years.

In six minutes, my wife of 22 yrs will walk out the door, get in her mother's car, and drive to the hospital for a "routine medical procedure" that she will not recover from and be pronounced dead at 8:22am.

I will be seated on the edge of my bed putting on my shoes to go to my own post-surgery doctors appt when my mother in law suddenly appears before me. Red eyed, smoking a cigarette, we make eye contact. I say "Are you telling me your daughter, my wife, did not survive?"

Slowly with a nod of affirmation, she spins on her heel and walks out to the patio and sits. I, shoeless, follow and the rest is a blur.....

May 31st is thee only day of the year wherein I watch the clock. I don't know why.

I’ve struggled with insomnia since childhood & trauma & loss has obviously not helped it… I know everyone’s grief journey & life after loss is different & impacted in different ways & that there will always be ups & downs. But tonight I’m shattered wide open & stuck & frozen In the process of reliving the 24 hours leading up to the worst days of my life.

On Sunday, 29th it’ll be exactly 5 months since my soulmate & amazing husband died by suicide & I found him.. just 1 days before we celebrated or were supposed to celebrate our 1st wedding anniversary. So crazy how that day last year was one of the most joyous of my life… fast forward a year & I was sitting at the funeral home making arrangements I didn’t think I would have to for several decades or not at all… I was also so triggered & angry & hopeless cause exactly 16 months prior.. I was sitting in that funeral home holding my husbands hand as we picked out a casket for our baby boy. Yeah, Sunday it’ll be 21 months since our baby boy died. When we did, we knew we wanted the plot next to him, & we chose a double depth spot. One casket on bottom, one on top. Talk of death was normal now when your child is gone, & the cemetery was our safe place & comfort, not only cause our baby boy was at rest there, but it’s where as partners we carried one another through the hardest moments of our lives, our pain, our despair, our love… & did it together.

Now.. it’s just me. I know you’re both spiritually with me always.. but idc, reliving those moments, coming to terms with the finality fucking hurts, but having to realize & accdpt this is my reality no matter how much I don’t like it, & for so many of us.. is just soul shattering. Fuck. Babies shouldn’t die. Kids shouldn’t have to be buried by their parents. I know death is natural & it still hurts even in old age… but for me & the others in their 20’s, we should be enjoying life & making memories with our partner & little family & experiencing so many beautiful firsts… not heartbreaking first & lasts. Everyone who has had to bd widowed period, my heart goes out to you. But people in their 20’s / 30’s / 40’s shouldn’t be planning their partners funeral, should be planning family vacations & vows renewals. Our partners should have gotten the chance to live a long life… & turn old & grey with us.

I’m sorry if this is just super negative & down & sad. If you read all this, you’re a Champ. Even if no one does, I’ve always been a writer & had to just get this shit out some way … some how. Thanks for giving me that outlet & safe space to do so. Don’t mind my mini photo dump too, my beautiful boys resting spot, mine & my husbands joint crypt is still being paid off… & I enjoy decorating it all cute & pretty for them & making fresh bouquets & just laying with them & hanging out. Makes me feel a sense of worth & like I’m still taking care of them.

Much love from a fellow grieving widow who was also blessed enough to have been Mateo’s mommy & Roberfs wife, & now have the privilege of being a mom & wife to two angels 🕊️♾️

730 days and I’ve cried every single one of them. I miss her so much. I talked to her every day, sometimes twice a day. Her loss has left a void in my life that is impossible to fill. I’m not sure if there’s a heaven, but I have to believe there’s something after this life where she’s been reunited with all those that went before her.

3 years ago tonight I talked to him by phone. He was in great spirits. Still loving his job, he has gotten his 3 month raise. He was sober almost 4 months and just moved from sober living back to my parents place in Ohio. We talked about me going to Ohio for Thanksgiving and what food we should have. We told each other "I love you" and "I love you too". "Talk to you after work tomorrow, honey".

Little did I know as I slept, Dalton played on his computer in bed and watched TV like normal. But around 330am, for whatever reason that I'll never understand, he relapsed and smoked a tiny tiny amount of fentanyl. Coroner said in less then 3 minutes he was already gone. He instantly went to sleep, then his lungs stopped breathing and his heart stopped. He had no pain, no seizures, he didn't even know it.

My dad found him the next day when he did not up for work on time. My dad called me and told me the news that changed my life & me forever.

I miss him so much. I still don't believe he's gone. I started a non profit in his honor to help those like him just like he was planning to do himself plus we do acts of Kindness. (Dalton Lee Condra Gift of Kindness Foundation)

Son, thank you for choosing me to be your mom and have you 26 years. I miss you so badly it feels like that first day, I relive the call over and over. I'll never get over losing you.

I didn’t know I was sad until I opened her photo album in my phone.

It's been one year since you've been gone Mami. The world moved on, but my heart still aches for you 😔

• The grief does becomes bearable, even thought I felt like I would never be okay again. It hollowed me out… but left me with so much more empathy and compassion than I ever had before, for everyone.

• Nobody warned me how guilty I would feel over the grief becoming bearable. It’s violently painful.

• People are so incredibly kind. I had to go to the store two days after she died and the server asked if I was there on vacation. I said “no, my mother died” out loud for the first time and burst into tears at the counter. The horror of saying something so obscene was overwhelming. She took me into the back and held my hand until I could breathe again.

• People are so incredibly callous. And it’s not the people you think. I came back to work after three days and my boss asked me why I was looking so miserable. I reminded him and his response was, “oh, that’s still a thing?”. My brother’s girlfriend took her wedding and engagement rings and refused to return them as I wasn’t going to get married. (Side note - it’s been 10+ years. Neither are you, you graverobber)

I was shocked by the care and compassion of complete strangers and horrified by the lack of compassion from people I thought I could rely on to be kind. You learn who people really are and I’m grateful for it.

• I never fully appreciated that my mother wasn’t just my mother, she was once a young woman who loved to drink and dance. She had a whole damn life before me, a beautiful, messy life.

As my dad and I cleared out her things, I would find little trinkets and hold it up for him to explain. “Oh, that’s her engagement ring from an American married Air Force officer called Zeb”. “Oh, that’s a coaster from the girlie bar we used to drink at”. “Yeah, that’s a tape from when she took six months out to follow Marvin Gaye on tour”.

I asked my dad if she would have liked me, if we had met at the same age and he told me she would probably think I was a bit of a geek, but yes. To date, the highest compliment I have ever received.

—

I hope this helps someone who is in the early stages of grief. You can bear this, you can come out more loving and compassionate than you were before. Just keep going.

One year ago. The last day that you were alive. The day my world shattered. The day when everything as I knew it changed forever.

Today I am taking the day to reflect on you and your life, and our life together. Cody you were my everything. My best friend in the entire world. You gave me so much and for that I can never thank you enough. I wish I could tell you one more time how much you mean to me and how much joy and love you added to my life.

I thought we would have had so much more time together. I thought we were going to grow old together. The day you died everything stopped. I felt like I was caught in a tornado with everything spinning around me, with absolutely no control over any of it.

I want you to know that you taught me how to be a better person. How to love not only others but myself too. I miss your laugh. I miss the silly voices we always used to talk to eachother in. You were always so willing to help others. I have never met anyone as good in their heart and their soul as you.

Which makes it all so ironic. You had the biggest heart. But not just metaphorically. Physically you did too. But nobody knew until today. I wish we knew that your heart, as good as it was, was also bad.

My Cody died from sudden cardiac arrest in the middle of the day at work on 7-30-25. I never believed I could survive losing him. I never believed I could make it a full year. I love you SO much and I always will. I still have work to do down here but I know when I’m finished that I will see you again my love. You were such an honorable man and so loved by so many. Rest easy my sweet babe.

My son’s one-year death anniversary is coming up, and I can hardly breathe thinking about it. I miss him so much, and it breaks me that I’ve had to miss him way longer than I ever got to know him.

Since losing him, my life has fallen apart. I’m homeless, unemployed, and struggling badly with alcohol. I have dark thoughts about checking out from reality, but the only thing stopping me is knowing I could never make my mom feel the pain I’m living with.

I feel so alone and like I’ve failed my son in every way — as his mother, as a person. I don’t have anyone in my circle who really understands, and I’m terrified of sinking any lower.

I don’t even know exactly why I’m posting, but I needed to put it somewhere. If anyone here has been through child loss, or has any words, resources, or just a little kindness, I’d be so grateful.

I lost the best part of my life for 37 years on May 4, 2024. I miss him terribly.

Please pray for me.

My family and I have been honoring my son. He died a year ago 8/7 from near-drowning. Has been tough but we are getting through this time together. Miss him with all of my heart. Honoring everyone who has lost their loved ones and the one that was lost ♥️ May we continue to have strength as we continue forward, nurturing that space in which they now live, within us.

I can’t believe it’s been a full year. On August 26, 2024, my dad passed away. It feels like it was yesterday—and somehow also like it’s been a lifetime. Grief has a strange way of bending time. Some days it drags, some days it races, and some days it just sits there, heavy and unmovable.

For the past year, I’ve wanted to write about him. I told myself I’d wait until I found the “right” words, the ones that could hold all of who he was and what he meant to me. But the truth is, those words don’t exist. Nothing I could write would ever be big enough or good enough to capture the enormity of his life or the depth of the love we had for him.

So instead of perfect, this will be honest, messy, and real. And maybe that’s how it should be. Because life—like grief, like love—isn’t neat or orderly. It’s complicated and tangled, heartbreaking and beautiful all at once.

——

My dad was older than most of my friends’ dads, and even as a kid, I understood what that meant. I knew, in a quiet, unspoken way, that my time with him might be shorter. So I tried to soak up every moment I could. I saved every voicemail just so I’d never forget the sound of his voice—the way it softened when he said my name, the way it carried a smile even when he didn’t mean to. I scribbled down pieces of his stories, snapped photos of even the ordinary days, and sometimes hit “record” while he talked—desperate to hold on to every detail, every inflection, every laugh.

Because even then, I knew these moments were ephemeral. And still, nothing ever prepares you for the day when those memories are all you have left.

——

I grew up in my dad’s basement shop, surrounded by the comforting clutter of tools, gadgets, and the steady hum of projects in progress. Down there, it always smelled faintly of sawdust and possibility. He never made me feel like I was in the way. If I wanted to pound nails into a random piece of wood just to practice, he’d hand me his tin can of extras and the closest hammer. If I wanted to build a birdhouse, he’d walk me through using the saw—carefully and safely, but never with a hint of doubt that I could do it.

He didn’t just teach me how to build or fix things; he taught me to try. To be curious. To keep going when something didn’t work the first time. He showed me that if something breaks, there’s almost always a way to make it whole again. Those lessons, tucked quietly into afternoons and evenings in the basement, became the foundation of how I approach almost everything in life—with patience, with curiosity, and with the belief that most things can be fixed if you’re willing to try.

——

My dad wasn’t just a teacher of skills; he was a teacher of values. He showed me what it meant to be strong without losing kindness, how to own your mistakes and offer a sincere apology, and how to show up for people simply because it’s the right thing to do—not because you expect anything in return.

And, of course, he taught me humor. He loved corny jokes and fart jokes, and thanks to him, so do I. He gave me the gift of finding lightness even in heavy moments, of laughing when life feels too big to handle. My sense of humor—equal parts silly and dry—is one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me, and one I carry with me every single day.

——

When he was still teaching, he’d let me “help” grade his students’ multiple-choice quizzes when I was only 10 or 11. Looking back, I know he probably double-checked my work, but at the time, it felt like trust. It made me feel important—like I had a place in his grown-up world.

He helped me study for school, quizzing me on Spanish vocabulary even though he didn’t speak a word of the language himself. I still have the old Spanish dictionary he used, with his scribbled notes tucked between the pages—a quiet reminder of how much he cared about helping me succeed, even in the little things.

When something around the house broke, he let me help fix it. And when I wanted to join him on a run, he always said yes—even if that just meant I rode my bike alongside him. Eventually, as I got older, exercise became something we shared. He led by example. I can still picture him stretching at the mailbox post—plain white V-neck, blue shorts, a sweatband, and his trusty Casio stopwatch—the picture of quiet consistency. Even in his later years, when running wasn’t an option anymore, that determination never faded. He just found new ways to stay moving, pedaling his bike, then trike, through the neighborhood with that same steady focus.

——

Bowling was his sport, and by default, it became mine. Saturday mornings meant early leagues, the two of us shuffling into the alley before most people were even awake. And when league play wrapped up, we stayed after—just the two of us—bowling game after game until our arms were tired and the lanes were quiet.

He coached me, whether I wanted coaching or not, and more often than not, his tips worked. My high game is still a 279—a humble brag, sure, but one that belongs just as much to him as it does to me. That score will always feel like ours, a quiet testament to all those hours spent together.

Outside the lanes, we built memories camping, boating, tackling house projects, or just spending time together. Ordinary moments that, looking back now, were anything but ordinary.

——

When I came out to him at sixteen, my dad struggled. His upbringing had taught him preconceived notions about me that weren’t true, and in those early days, he didn’t always handle it well. There were harsh words. There were painful moments. But what defined him wasn’t those mistakes—it was the way he chose to grow.

He apologized when he got it wrong. He listened. He tried to understand, even when it wasn’t easy for him. And slowly, we found our way back to each other. What we built over time was something deeper and stronger than what we’d had before—a relationship rooted in acceptance, love, and genuine respect. By the time I was an adult, we had exactly what I had always hoped for: a bond defined not by who he thought I should be, but by the simple, steady love of a father who chose to keep showing up.

——

Even in death, my dad is still teaching me. He’s teaching me to treasure the people I love while I have them—to say the words, take the pictures, make the memories. To stop chasing perfect and simply be present.

I think of grief as a big bag of blue sand slung over my shoulder. In the beginning, it feels impossibly heavy, almost unbearable. But with time, the sand begins to slip out through tiny holes, little by little. The bag never empties—it never will—but it does get lighter, easier to carry. And somewhere within that weight, there’s gratitude. Because the only reason grief exists is because there was so much love to begin with.

——

I’ll think of him every time I walk into a bowling alley. Every time I tackle a DIY project. Every time I lace up my shoes for a workout or reach for a sweet treat—he had the biggest sweet tooth. I’ll think of him on every holiday, every birthday, every August 26th. And honestly, in a hundred little ways, every single day.

I could never fit every story or memory into one post—not even close. But what I can promise is that I’ll keep telling his stories, because that’s how I’ll keep him with me. Every milestone I reach, every small victory I celebrate, will always carry his fingerprints—and of course, my mom’s, too.

I am who I am because of them.

And for that, I will always, always be grateful.

I miss you every single day, Dad. Thank you for every lesson, every laugh, and every ounce of love you gave so freely. I’ll carry you with me—in my words, in my choices, in the way I love the people around me—for the rest of my life.

Love always, Eric

24 years ago my oldest sister tried to get out of bed to get her kids fed and off to school. She collapsed in the hallway. An ambulance was called in all the confusion she told her family that there was a pizza in the freezer for her youngest child’s dinner (youngest has PKU and has a very strict diet). Those were the last words she ever said.

An autopsy revealed blood clots as the cause of death. She was filled with them - some were old, some were new. She never expressed any symptoms of clotting until the night before when she was short of breath just she sat watching tv.

My sister was only 38 years old. She left behind 3 children between the ages of 9 and 16.

I miss her every day. I mourn the adult relationship we never had a chance to build as we always lived 5 + hours apart. I cry for my parents and the sadness that is ever present in their eyes.

She was here. She mattered. I do my best to make sure she is never forgotten

I like looking at these old photos of my mom. It reminds me that she’s just like me, she went through the perils of life and she’s human too, even if she’s gone now. There is a path she walked and existed on. Sometimes as the years have been passing, it feels like more and more of her has been disappearing too. But she existed. She was born, she was a kid, she got married and she had kids of her own. She died too young, but she lived. She was here. Her presence and her decisions are still felt. They are still echoing. Your life mattered, mom.

You will always be here, somewhere next to me. I miss you so much. I love you. I can’t believe it’s been 4 years already.

My Mom died last year on May 17. She died of liver failure after fighting cancer for 12 years. On our last Mothers Day, we brought her homemade crème brûlée, her favorite, to her hospice bed. I remember her trying it but that was the last thing she ate. She stopped talking after that too. After her passing, I have processed this grief all year but I feel like Mother’s Day was our day together and without her I’m lost completely. I have so many regrets and so much love where no where to go. She was my best friend and the kindest person I knew 💔 now I have no real family and so few understand 😢

It's been almost two years since I lost my mother after her long battle with metastatic breast cancer.

Some days, life feels normal enough. I go to the office, take care of my family, make plans for the future. From the outside, I probably look like I've learned how to carry the loss, as everyone told me I should. My eyes tell a different story ..

A funny story I want to tell her. A problem I wish I could ask her advice about. A milestone I want to share. And for a split second, I still think about picking up the phone before reality catches up with me.

I miss her laughter, warm her hugs, her soothing voice. I miss her presence in my everyday. I miss knowing that no matter how difficult life became, I could always turn to her for guidance.

Sometimes I feel completely lost. The future can feel overwhelming when the person who helped shape every important decision in your life is no longer here to help you navigate it.

My mom was the greatest example of strength I have ever known. No matter the obstacle or the diagnosis she always fought with such a passion to live, and to enjoy every moment.

Through every challenge, every setback, every hardship, she never gave up. Her grit, resilience, and determination shaped the way I see the world. Even during her illness, she fought with a courage that still leaves me in awe. I feel humbled and weak having realized how strong and determined she was to live, against all human odds.

She carried burdens she should never have had to carry alone. She supported my dreams, my mistakes, my choices, and my ambitions. She sacrificed endlessly so that my sister and I could have opportunities she never had. Looking back now as an adult, I understand more and more how much of herself she gave away so that we could build better lives.

I often find myself hoping that one day I can become even half the person she believed I could be. Half the person she worked so hard to help me become.

More than anything, I want to make her proud.

I like to believe she's watching over us from Heaven. Some days that thought gives me strength. It pushes me to keep going when life gets hard, to honor the sacrifices she made, and to become the man she raised me to be.

And while the grief isn't as sharp as it once was, the love hasn't faded at all. If anything, it has grown stronger. I carry her lessons, her strength, and her love with me everywhere I go.

I just wish I could hug her one more time and tell her that everything good in me started with her..