I am planning my wedding without you. And, it’s so many exciting things. So many exciting things that so many have done before us: planning our bridal parties, buying rings, writing vows, dress shopping, choosing who we want to be there on our big day, thinking about our future, thinking about family and how it is when we’re all together. It’s also full of grief, and missing you and thinking about the relationship we had and could’ve and would’ve had, as adults, today.

As the call ended, my stepmom desperately repeated, “Are you going to come? Are you going to come?” I had just learned that my dad died from a cardiac event. In my utter disbelief and heartache, I began to form a list of tasks, one being getting a flight to Houston. I was going to come, and without really realizing it, I was also going to bury myself in tasks.       

On December 16, 2025, I had the opportunity to speak on behalf of HeartLight at our annual Holiday Love and Light Remembrance Event, held in partnership with Daniels Family Funerals–Carlisle Chapel, and to share the following remarks. I wanted to offer these words to you as you navigate your own journey, wherever you may be.

So many “first times” and each one touching me so deeply. How many more similar experiences await me as I travel this path of grief after your loss? Although I know that “first times” are only “first” once, I fear that the second or third or tenth times may be just as unsettling.

Death is a scary word to many whom have never experienced it before and until it occurs in your family or even community we tend to disconnect from the idea. I found myself in shambles when death impacted my family, unable to pick up the pieces of my mind as I was in shock and unable to picture what my future would look like without my father in it. It is funny how a singular person’s presence missing can alter your brain chemistry so rapidly. It almost feels as if your body and mind separate and you disconnect from reality.

How I’m coping with what would have been our 50th anniversary and the first year of his passing: I did my own ritual starting with wearing his crucifix, taking deep breaths, reading this quote out loud…

This experience made me realize that comedy can evoke a surprising mix of emotions. There were moments when he focused on his family, using his wife and children to illustrate his long-suffering trials and frustrations to get a laugh. While his observations on family life were funny, having just lost my husband—the love of my life for almost 50 years—I could not help but think that I would have given anything to have him back by my side, even for a fleeting moment. We could have been laughing together, enjoying the show, regardless of our personal foibles and his serious medical challenges over the years. This experience showed me that comedy, especially when it touches on the everyday details of life, can bring bittersweet reminders of a love that is now gone.

Four years. Nearly four years. The calendar pages fly by in a blur. Am I awake? Asleep? – Expressive writing such as poetry can help to identify, express, place and hold feelings and experiences related to grief, read more of Jessica’s poem.

Because I know this loss very intimately, professionally and personally, I deeply appreciate how much it means to have a time to connect, remember, and share with others who have been on a similar journey. The upcoming Summer Remembrance for Alzheimer’s and Dementia is a space to remember and honor your person. Whatever your journey and your person’s journey looked like, you are invited to attend the space to memorialize them.

A story was shared with us that felt too kind not to pass along.

The eight-year-old niece of Genna Reeves, our community liaison in New Mexico, created step-by-step drawing instructions for sea creatures. Her simple hope was to give them to anyone who is grieving, to help them feel “less sad”—especially for those quiet, sleepless hours.

It is a small gift from a pure heart. A quiet reminder that you are thought of with great kindness. We invite you to give these instructions a try and create a sea creature of your very own.

Grief during adolescence somehow becomes an adult of its own. Experiencing loss at a young age has had a profound impact on who I have become today. As a teenager, you are just trying to discover who you are, and after experiencing loss I never thought I would grow to be anything more than mournful. My Daddio died in May 2014.

Shortly after my dear, sweet husband died suddenly last year, I resurrected the following rhyming poem I had written to kickstart me on the second half of my life (as long as medical science cooperates until I reach the ripe old age of 148 years). Hopefully, it will be just as jam-packed as our marriage was, with all kinds of new and thrilling adventures, similar to the life that we shared for almost 50 years together…a true remembrance of my husband’s spirit.

First step alone, letting go, embracing the unknown: each action requiring conscious effort when grief, sadness or mourning create the texture of your life for such a long time. So often a day without persistent sadness seems to be followed by two or more days with pain and hold no moments of contentment or relief.

Facilitating a support group provides me with the chance to witness incredible courage and strength in those who are grieving. When I consider the fact that here are survivors of one of the most, if not the most, tragic event in their lives, coming together with people they probably have never met and sharing their deepest grief, is truly amazing. Whether their loss was one month, one year, or ten years ago, they are showing tremendous courage in opening their hearts to others.

November is Hospice Appreciation Month. I have reflected on what that really means, to me, as a former hospice professional. It was an honor to work with families. It was a privilege to enter sacred space when someone was in their final weeks, days, hours and moments of life. I didn’t feel like I needed appreciation for holding sacred space and being a guest in each space I entered.

We are now friends, fyi. We’re in a club that no one wants to be part of. But I’m glad to call you a friend, for what it’s worth. Thanks for being here (even though neither of us want to be). Imagine I’m giving you a hug right now… because I know I need one, and can only imagine that you do too.

Dear Sue, Where and how do I begin to tell you what lives in my heart? I have let the music play right now as it did for the last year as we would sit together reading while you napped. I knew the rest was good for you and could never waken you before your eyes would open and smile at me. After the stem cell transplant, you never regained your weight, you never regained your energy, you never lost your bright smile or spirit to live. You endured so much to let me have all of the days possible with you.

My mom and I were best friends; best friends that fought and handled our emotions very differently but still…best friends. I will never forget the day she died. The phone call, the rush home, not making it in time, and the haze of the following weeks, and months. Death is so sudden, one minute she was here on this earthly plane with me and the next she wasn’t. She was gone and I was left to piece together a world without her. A world I still can’t figure out.

Researchers describe this process as “Growing Around Grief,” suggesting that grief evolves rather than diminishes over time. This model shows that grief becomes a part of our lives, integrating into our being as we develop new skills and relationships. This model emphasizes that grief doesn’t fade but becomes part of our broader life journey, allowing for joy, creativity, and new memories while honoring our loss.

While it is different to meet via Zoom – there aren’t the same social openings before a group or the “parking lot conversations” after a group like in an in-person setting – but there is still deep connection and support that can be established in the online space. It is an honor to be of support to others in this way, and I can’t help but marvel at how we can reach each other despite great distances during times when support is needed most.

I recently started diving deeper into the practice of writing poetry by joining a poetry meetup group, then forming my own women’s poetry group. A friend joined a challenge to write a poem a day for a month, based on a word prompt in the theme of hope. Every time she shared one of those prompts with me, my immediate reaction was anything but hope. So I decided to write about it, and this poem, “Lifeline,” was born. I read it to my Heartlight Institute support group, and they strongly resonated with it and suggested I publish it for our fellow grievers. Thank you, HeartLight, for giving me a venue to do just that. Writing about my grief always gives me a sense of relief, and I want to share it with others so they know they’re not the only ones struggling.

A couple weeks ago, as I was exercising at my local rec center, I was listening to music on my ear pods when a song by Josh Groban, entitled “You Raise Me Up (to more than I can be),” started playing. This was one of Marilyn’s favorite artists and songs and it was the last song we played at her memorial service. I hadn’t heard it much since she died, probably intentionally because of the memories, so I didn’t know whether to fast forward or skip the song entirely. I decided that I needed and wanted to hear the song after all this time.

My wife Mary and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary on September 12, 2020. On the morning of November 6, 2020 I went for my daily walk. When I returned from my walk, I found Mary lying dead on the bathroom floor. I was devastated and at a complete loss of what to do. Not only was she my wife but also my business partner. So I lost my wife, partner and also our livelihood…

The pain of loss to suicide is unlike any other grief. All loss is painful, and suicide adds layers that survivors must navigate. With the help of mental health professionals, fellow grievers, and a close network of friends, I have started my journey of grief recovery. Yes, this journey is about me. Not my late husband, but me.

A little “Q&A” from HeartLight Center about navigating grief during the holiday season. Take good and gentle care of yourself during the holidays.

Coping is a verb meaning “to deal with or attempt to overcome problems and difficulties,” and is often used with “learning to cope.” This is a word that I have become very familiar with over the last year, and is an action that I have become used to.

I want to share with you about my beloved, and how it was that she gave me an important gift – permission to make tough end of life decisions; to ultimately let her go.

Today I want to talk about getting through the first year after the death of a loved one, in particular at times of holidays and anniversaries. My wife Marilyn died on July 23, 2022, so I have just been through my first year without her. While I am suffering the pain and loss of a spouse, the loss of anyone, be it a parent, child, sibling, or friend impacts the first year in a way that is unimaginable and very difficult to live through. I don’t mean to imply that the second or third or fifth years are easy, but all I can relate to at this time is the first year. And I want to emphasize that I am not giving advice, only relating what has helped me this past year. We all have our own way of dealing with the tragedy of losing someone we love.

We scattered Robert’s cremated remains this past weekend in his favorite spot in Vail, along the river walk that he loved. A family friend of ours, who is also a minister, said to us as we gathered together, “It’s not for Robert that we grieve but for ourselves. We grieve so deeply because we loved so deeply”. I thought a lot about my own experience with losing Robert. This is what I now know, almost six months since he died: Grief is permission.

Next to my husband Dan, my dad was my second-best friend. When told that dad had six months to a year to live, the news tore my soul. I silently suffered anticipatory grief. Even though I was trained as an end-of-life doula a year prior, I was not prepared to practice on dad everything that I had learned. I went to my hometown on Valentine’s Day to care for dad while on hospice. Dad died from prostate cancer in April of 2020. I thought I would never laugh again. Losing dad at the beginning of a devastating pandemic did not help. The loneliness and isolation from family and friends left me numb.