family – This {______

My first Christmas without both of my parents

I always knew this Christmas would be different. I just didn’t know how different.

Christmas has always been tethered to my parents in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until they were gone. The familiar rituals—the phone calls, the meals that somehow tasted like childhood no matter how old I got, the quiet reassurances that came from simply knowing they were there—were the invisible threads holding the season together. This year, those threads are gone, and I feel the absence in every corner of December.

What surprised me most was how early the grief arrived. It didn’t wait for Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. It showed up with the first holiday commercial, the first Christmas song in a store, the first casual question of, “So what are you doing for the holidays?” Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t need an invitation.

This Christmas feels quieter. Not just in sound, but in spirit. There’s no one to call with last-minute questions, no parental excitement bubbling over about traditions or food or plans. There’s no safety net of “home” in the way there used to be. I’m realizing that home wasn’t a place—it was them.

I’ve also noticed how grief doesn’t come neatly wrapped. Some moments are heavy and sad, exactly as I expected. Others catch me completely off guard—like laughing at a memory and then feeling guilty for laughing, or feeling oddly numb when I thought I’d be in tears. There’s no right way to do this, no checklist for surviving a first Christmas without your parents. There’s just getting through it one moment at a time.

I’m trying to give myself permission this year. Permission to say no to traditions that hurt too much. Permission to keep the ones that feel comforting. Permission to step away when it all feels overwhelming. And permission to feel joy when it shows up, even if it sits right next to sorrow.

Because that’s the truth of this Christmas: joy and grief are sharing the same space. I miss my parents deeply. I wish I could hear their voices, see their names light up my phone, feel that sense of being someone’s child again. That loss doesn’t disappear just because it’s Christmas.

But I also know they wouldn’t want this season to break me. They would want me to be gentle with myself, to find small moments of warmth, to keep going—even when it’s hard.

So this Christmas, I’m honoring them not by pretending everything is fine, but by being honest about what this season is now. It’s tender. It’s complicated. It’s painful. And somehow, it’s still meaningful.

If you’re walking through your own first Christmas without someone you love, know this: you’re not doing it wrong. However you’re surviving is enough. And even in the quiet, even in the ache, love is still here—just in a different form.

This Christmas looks different.
And I’m learning that different doesn’t mean empty.

It just means changed.

Thanks for reading. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Don’t tell me how to grieve

So, you’ve moved on and life is back to normal. Good for you.

I am still grieving. In my own way. We are not the same and, therefore, do not grieve the same. I’m happy you have moved through all the stages of grief and are doing well. I have not and you can’t tell me where I should be or how I should honor the memory of the people I have lost.

Have you checked to see how other grievers are doing? Have you responded to messages they have sent checking on YOU? No? Well, that says a LOT about you!

Don’t tell me not to post “happy heavenly birthday” or “happy (name a holiday) in heaven”. This is how I keep my happy memories alive. I’m going to go and remember the happy memories. I wish one of you could remember with me. But you have moved on.

For Mom – the little yellow notebook queen

In the hush of dawn, where the robins sing,

I hear her hum—a quiet, joyful thing.

A thread of song spun from kitchen light,

She made the world feel soft, and right.

She walked with wonder through the trees,

Studied deer tracks, whispered to the breeze.

A cardinal perched, she’d smile and say,

“Nature’s blessing us again today.”

She loved her Richard, hand in hand,

Built a life both strong and grand.

Her children grown, with love she’d sew

New stitches into hearts she’d know.

Grandkids, great-grandkids—each one dear,

She held them close, kept memories near.

And in her bag, so oft unseen,

That little yellow notebook queen

Would jot a thought, a joke, a list—

The smallest details never missed.

She knitted warmth, she stitched delight,

With tiny chairs tucked in just right.

A dollhouse world within her care,

Where love was nestled everywhere.

And oh, the songs! The kitchen tunes—

About lost keys and spoons and moons.

I laugh, remembering the silly flair—

A melody made from thinning hair.

Camping nights with stars above,

We farted loud, then laughed with love.

A bond unique, just hers and mine,

Our secret joy, our shared sunshine.

I miss her voice, her gentle hands,

The way she’d always understand.

But in the birdcall, breeze, and sky,

She’s with me still—and nearby.

So here’s to her, forever seen—

My heart’s own yellow notebook queen.

–Today is my Mom’s birthday. I miss her!

May 3, 2023 – Remembering my Mom.

Today is my Mom’s birthday. She passed away two years ago on April 29, 2021.

Last year was her death day and birthday were hard for me. Lots of sadness and crying. This year I decided to celebrate my Mom and remember all of the good things.

On Saturday, April 29, 2023, two years after her death, I wanted to honor her creativity by trying to teach finger crocheting at our local library. Mom loved to knit. I still have the yellow and brown blanket she knit for me when I was a baby. Over the years, I have darned holes in the blanket but it is still in great condition. I will keep it forever.

Mom also created beautiful counted cross stitch pictures. She once cross stitched a hummingbird on what looks like nylon mesh to me. Isn’t it beautiful?

For Mom’s birthday, I had planned on having one of the meals I remember having a lot when we were kids. TUNA RABBITS. What is a tuna rabbit? You take tuna salad and put in on a plate. That is the rabbits head. Place a good scoop of macaroni and cheese and put it on the plate next to the tuna salad. That is the rabbit’s body. Dill pickle spears make the ears and olives make the eyes. I loved having tuna rabbits. I will make some this weekend.

Tonight, when I go to bed, I am going to read The Pokey Little Puppy. This is the story Mom used to read to me and my three brothers all the time. I have my well loved copy of this Little Golden Book and I think it is going to be a new tradition.

My Mom was kind, gentle, and could bake a chocolate chip cookie that you will remember forever. I miss her but, this year I mostly want to remember all the good times we had as a family.

Me and Mom at Ameriflora Festival in Columbus, OH – 1992

Thanks for all the good memories, Mom.

Thanks to my Dad too.

Thanks to my brothers.

Thanks to my extended family as well.

Thanks for reading.

One year

It’s been one year. On the daily, I still think “I have to call Mom and tell her…” and then suffer through the gut punch that of remembering you are gone.

I still think about how we used to talk for hours about books. It hit me hard this week because one of our shared favorite authors, Adriana Trigiani, had a new book come out. Normally, you and I would have been doing a countdown to publication day. I did stop, look up, and say “don’t forget to preorder The Good Left Undone so we can start reading it together” last week. In the past I would have devoured the book so we could talk about it. To be honest, I haven’t even started reading it. I just can’t bring myself to start yet. I promise to start reading it next week. I can’t thank you enough for instilling a love of reading in me.

The year of firsts without you is over. First holidays without you. First time I was sick (yep, Covid) without calling you for advice. First Easter without a lamb cake. First Mother’s day without you. I think you get the picture.
I know we all miss you and love you, Mom.