I think it was around 2019 that I stopped putting up my Valentine Tree.

Yes. A Valentine Tree.

I’ve always kept a tree up year-round and decorated it for the seasons. But somewhere along the way, I traded red hearts for Mardi Gras beads. Valentine’s Day represented love and love felt like the thing that broke me.

I’m a romantic. That may surprise some of you who only met me in my ALS era, but I am a big ole softy. I don’t have one love language. I have all of them. When I say I loved Tom with every cell in my body, I mean it. He was my everything.

And it wasn’t enough to keep him here.

Love wasn’t the magical, all-healing force that saved our story. Before he died, I truly believed I would not survive life without him. After he died, my heart didn’t just ache, it shattered. There were days the only instruction I could give myself was: just keep breathing.

I didn’t know how a broken widow was supposed to build a new life.

About a year later, I could feel something shifting. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life alone. I wanted to share this life and the adventures I wanted to go on, but who would sign up to love a broken widow? And could I even give love again without losing myself in it?

What I didn’t understand then was this: the very thing that broke would also be the thing that heals me.

I didn’t fully grasp that until months after meeting Grant.

I saw myself as damaged. Less capable. Less willing. Loving deeply once had cost me everything, so why would I risk that again? But the more time I spent with him, the more the shattered pieces began quietly reassembling. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just steadily.

One day I blurted out, “You make me happy.”

He smiled. He already knew.

Love in my 50s looks different than love at 19. It’s quieter. Steadier. More foundation. It’s consistency. Showing up. Honesty about our scars. Respect for the great loves that shaped us before we found each other.

I am grateful for the beautiful life Grant shared with his late wife. Just as he honors the life I built with Tom. We know what real love looks like. We know what it costs. And we are willing to love again anyway.

Because that’s what love does.

Love can break you.

But it can also be the very thing that heals you, if you let it.

This year, I put up my Valentine Tree again.

And tonight, February 15, I’m hosting Grant and his family for a Valentine’s Sunday dinner.

Lasagna.

Because sometimes healing looks like red and pink hearts on a tree and second chances around a dinner table with a great tablescape…another love language of mine!

Ten years ago, three little letters were introduced into my vocabulary: ALS.

We were in that strange in-between phase when Tom noticed weakness in his left hand, and his primary care physician thought it was carpal tunnel. The weakness started in December 2015. He was referred to a neurologist in January 2016, who ordered an EMG, followed by another referral to an ALS specialist scheduled for March 4, my 46th birthday. The official diagnosis came at the end of March.

I didn’t know then that the diagnosis would change more than our future.
I didn’t know it would change me.

It changed how I speak, how I love, how I set boundaries, and how I understand time.

Back then, I was a very different person.

To know me before ALS was to know how much I avoided confrontation.  I softened my words. I gave people the benefit of the doubt even when it cost me. I had no concept of boundaries. I believed time was something I could borrow from later. I was blissfully ignorant of many things.

I wasn’t ignorant of death, that I understood. But the idea of Tom dying from a terminal disease? That I could not grasp. Even after the diagnosis, my mind could not wrap itself around life without my handsome, green-eyed husband. He was strong. He promised to love me forever. I lived for him and Trey. We had a lifetime together, so I thought. If love alone could have kept him here, I would not be a widow today. But love is not enough when facing a disease like ALS.

And ALS changed everything I knew. Everything I felt.
ALS changed me completely.

ALS steals from you.

It steals your blissful ignorance.
And ALS steals presence before it steals life.

Before Tom died, the man I once shared decisions with, absorbed fear with, and leaned on when I couldn’t stand on my own began to disappear in pieces. The disease hollowed out the middle first…conversation, partnership, shared emotional weight. How could he give me what he no longer had while struggling with his own diagnosis and progression? He couldn’t.

I was married, but as the disease progressed, I became increasingly alone and afraid.

As caregiving intensified, the world around us grew quieter and smaller. Friends disappeared, maybe because they didn’t know what to say. Then Tom got sick and needed a tracheostomy and my world got even smaller. Exhaustion pushed me into survival mode and I wasn’t doing a great job of it.

Then COVID arrived, shrinking an already small world into near isolation. Support faded, not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort and a world that shut down. I faded too. Exhaustion and the need to keep Tom safe became all-consuming. I no longer lived life for Trey or me, but for Tom.

Let’s be clear: Tom didn’t “check out” by choice. ALS took his ability to show up the way he once had and toward the end, FTD made things 100% harder. And when that happened, I learned what it meant to carry fear, responsibility, and grief without a safety net, and I carried it alone.

That was when I began to see myself as a widow in training, someone learning how to live without her life partner, her soulmate, while he was still alive.

I was scared. Constantly.

That’s where boundaries entered my life, not as a buzzword but as a survival mechanism. Boundaries were how I stopped bleeding emotionally. They were how I kept going when there was no one left to lean on.

Ten years ago, I hated confrontation. I avoided it at all costs. I didn’t believe in myself the way I do now.

Now, I don’t mind confrontation. Not because I enjoy it. Not because I’m hardened. But because ALS taught me how much time can steal. Being direct isn’t cruelty, it’s respect. Circling issues, softening truth, or staying silent costs time. And as I learned with Tom, time was in short supply. So time is something I am mindful of.

These days, when things get hard, I sometimes think, What’s the worst that can happen, my husband dies? Been there. Done that. Still standing.

That lesson stayed with me. It shows up in how I interact with people and how I approach relationships.

Today, I view interacting with people differently.

My motto is simple: I cannot ask others for something I am not willing to give myself.

Think about that.
Do you give grace or just expect it?
Do you lead with respect or only demand it?
Are you as honest with others as you expect them to be with you?

I enter relationships honestly from the beginning. I don’t hide who I am. I’ve already been stripped bare emotionally and spiritually, so there isn’t much left to conceal. That honesty also allows me to quickly gauge how committed someone is to real connection, whether personal or romantic.

Professionally, I will always lead with respect, grace, and humility regardless of how others show up.

Personally and romantically, I communicate my needs instead of hoping they’ll be guessed. When something feels off, I say so. I don’t confuse silence with peace or compliance with love.

Surviving profound loss showed me that I could stand on my own. It also taught me that grief is a forever state and something I will carry in varying forms until my last breath. It doesn’t always remain sharp or consuming, but it never fully leaves.

After Tom died, I wasn’t opposed to loving again. I just assumed it would happen much later. I thought I needed to be stronger, more healed, before I could offer anything meaningful. Connecting with Grant during a low point in my life allowed me to be vulnerable and to show all the broken pieces of myself. Communication and honesty became part of my healing and his. In our shared pain and growth, we began building a relationship grounded in openness. That foundation revealed a depth of emotional intimacy I didn’t know was possible. It was, I believe, when my healing truly began.

Ten years ago, I lived differently.
I interacted with the world differently.
Ten years ago, I was a different person.

Today, I live intentionally. I am creating and nurturing this chapter of my life in ways I never imagined and I am grateful for it but never forgetting the cost paid for it.

Did Tom know he was training me to survive after his loss? Did he see something in me that I couldn’t yet see that I would endure and even find ways to thrive?

I didn’t become colder, but I could have. I didn’t avoid the pain, but I could have. I sat with it. I listened to it. I learned from it. I grew.

ALS took a great deal from my life, but it also stripped it down to reveal what matters most: presence, honesty, boundaries, and love that doesn’t require self-erasure.

Those lessons were earned the hard way.
And yes, I am different.
Not just happy again, but proud.

Proud of the woman who crawled her way out of the darkness and found the light again.

I’ve seen quite a few social media posts saying goodbye to 2025 and good riddance. I’ve seen photos with 2025 pictured as a full-blown dumpster fire.

That hasn’t been my experience.

If I had to sum up my 2025 in one word, it would be growth.

That doesn’t mean I forget some of the worst days, months, and years I’ve experienced. I can’t and I won’t. But as the years have passed, my outlook has changed. It has grown. I’ve learned that when we focus only on the dumpster fires of our lives, we forget to look in another direction and notice the people and moments that are actually beautiful.

I don’t know about you, but when I focus on the worst, the negative, the things I don’t like or disapprove of, my attitude shifts. Everything starts to look dark through that same lens.

So in 2025, I tried to stop focusing solely on the bad and instead find, even if only a few things, the good. Even in the middle of an emotional low, I tried to find something positive to hold onto.

When we were devastated by the death of Lou in October, Trey and I found ourselves smiling through tears, imagining Tom and Lou together again, back to being a team. When I injured my leg and had to work hard to pull myself out of that slump, I eventually recognized that the injury forced me to be still, quiet and reflect on so many things.

I still recognize the hard moments. I still feel them.
But I try not to live there.

So for 2025, here are some of my highlights:

• The Dole Bill was signed into law in January, and most importantly, the provision allowing access to skilled care for qualifying veterans was implemented in September.
• I started working again, doing something I genuinely enjoy, which makes it not feel like work at all.
• I had the honor of attending not one, but two events in El Paso, Texas, supporting military and veteran caregivers.
• I celebrated 55 years on this planet in March. I used to complain about getting older. Now I embrace the wrinkles, the gray, and the stiffer joints—because growing old is a privilege Tom and so many others never got.
• I went on multiple incredible camping trips with Grant, both just the two of us and with his kids.
• I had a sudden opportunity to see Andrea Bocelli in concert with my Cy, an experience you don’t just watch, you feel.
• I had the honor of speaking at several events, sharing my lived experience as a caregiver and survivor to bring more awareness to our community.
• I supported and assisted caregivers in other states as they advocated within their own communities.
• I began to feel more peace about the life I am creating, which no longer includes guilt (or at least not as much), but peace and gratitude, without ever forgetting the cost that was paid for that peace.
• That peace also comes from building a relationship that values honest communication and healing, one that doesn’t erase the past, but honors it while moving forward.
• I shared many beautiful experiences with Grant, including seeing amazing places and attending not one, but two galas. Both of which supported what is near and dear to my heart-the veteran and caregiver community.
• And I practiced gratitude and more importantly, grace. Giving grace to myself, as well as to others.

I have a lot to be thankful for. Yes, there was pain in 2025, and at times it tried to overshadow the good. But there are no perfect years.

But I’ll take growth over bitterness, gratitude over resentment, and peace over guilt—every time.

That’s not toxic positivity. That’s survival with intention and I plan on being giving that same effort I did in 2025 to 2026!

Happy New Year Troops!

Lara

Stay with me, and for those who really know me, you can stop rolling your eyes now because I can do less; it’s just sometimes I choose not to.

This was my fourth Christmas without Tom. In past years, I’ve described Christmas as transitional. Some traditions from before stayed. Some new ones were cautiously introduced. I worked, and sometimes struggled, to keep pieces of the past alive while figuring out how to live life without my husband of 32 years.

Those Christmases mattered.
They were necessary.
They were also exhausting.

Last year, I wrote about hitting a wall. About that familiar funk where grief shows up wearing many disguises like sadness, anger, numbness, dread. I didn’t know how long it would last. I just knew I had to feel it and work my way through it. That was still a transitional Christmas, with one foot in what was and one foot unsure where to land.

This year felt different.

Not easier. Not painless. Just quieter.

There were still reflections. Still memories. Still that familiar ache of missing Tom and the life we shared. But the pressure to recreate Christmas exactly as it used to be wasn’t there. The struggle to hold everything together didn’t show up. And honestly, the absence of that struggle surprised me.

This year, thanks to a series of unfortunate events like a torn calf muscle, losing our Lou-bear, and some travel, I didn’t get all the Christmas decorations out. And let’s be clear: Hobby Lobby and HomeSense did not explode inside my house for once during December. I managed a small tree, a few wreaths, and stockings. The rest was subtle; candles, ornaments resting in pretty bowls, enough to say we decorated without demanding a performance. I mean, I used my buffet to place all the presents because why not!

Instead of stressing over multiple trees and the 35+ years of decorations I’ve curated, Trey and I kept it simple. And what I chose to pour my time and energy into instead was baking, something I haven’t done in many, many years.

Baking forces you to slow down. To pay attention. To be present.
Who has time for that?

Apparently, I didn’t because I was busy decorating.

I made cookies from my childhood. My mom’s pecan sandies. The first batch was a failure. A quick call with her helped me figure out the mistake, and the second try was perfect. That first bite stopped me in my tracks. It tasted like Christmas. Like being a little girl again.

In past years, doing things differently felt like a betrayal of Tom and the Christmases we shared. That’s why I worked so hard to keep traditions alive, to preserve them, protect them, prove something through them.

But this year, that feeling wasn’t as strong.

And here’s the truth: the betrayal wasn’t in doing less.
It was in realizing that this Christmas reflected who I am today. Not the wife I was ten years ago.

I didn’t just adjust a transitional Christmas.
I moved past it.

I removed parts of the old without rushing to replace them. I found a new way. One that worked. One that didn’t stress me out. One that allowed me to be present in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.

This was also my second Christmas with Grant and his kids. Last year, everything was new and tender. We moved carefully, aware of the weight each of us carried, respectful of the past and pain that shaped us. It was a year of learning how to share space, emotionally and literally, without overwriting what came before.

This year felt different.

His kids gave both Grant and me thoughtful gifts. Gifts that reflected the past while acknowledging the present. They didn’t ignore where we all came from, but they didn’t get stuck there either. It was a quiet acknowledgment that memory and movement can exist at the same time.

What none of us planned and what made the moment even more meaningful was how naturally Tom and Clare were woven into it all.

Without knowing what his kids were up to, Grant and I gave them a beautiful reminder that their mom is always with them. Not in a heavy way. Not in a way that demanded sadness. Just present. Steady. Familiar.

It mirrored what their gifts had already done for us. Acknowledging the past without being trapped by it. A quiet understanding that love doesn’t disappear when someone is gone. It shows up differently. In small objects. In familiar handwriting or their voice. In moments that say, you’re still held.

That kind of exchange can’t be forced. It only happens with time, trust, love and a willingness to let memory and movement share the same space.

Last year, two families came together carefully, almost tiptoeing around grief and memories. We were learning a new normal, afraid of stepping on what once was. We gave ourselves a year to find our rhythm.

This Christmas, those same two families came together again. Less hesitant, more confident, more settled into a life being built in the present, not the past.

Even as the years press on, the ones we have loved and lost remain with us. They don’t disappear as life moves forward; they continue to guide us as we learn how to live and love after loss. We don’t betray them by moving forward. In moving forward, they get to live. Carried in our memories, woven into new traditions, and present in the quiet moments that shape who we are becoming.

This Christmas reminded me that love doesn’t end. It adapts.
And if we let it, it grows right alongside us.

Less really was more.

Lara

Today I did something I’ve been dodging for a long time: I went to the storage units.

One is stacked wall-to-wall with medical equipment…DME from a life built around ALS, the tools that kept my husband alive, comfortable, dignified. The other is just… the leftovers of an old life. Furniture I don’t want anymore. Boxes of Tom’s clothes. Baby items from when Trey was small. Christmas decorations. More medical supplies. More reminders.

It felt like cracking open a door I’ve been holding shut with both hands.

The minute the metal rolled up, that familiar heaviness rolled out. Grief, memory, obligation, love, resentment, all mixed together in one big emotional soup that nobody warned me would still be simmering years later. I took a breath so deep it hurt and one of those sighs that feels like surrender.

There’s something brutal about seeing your past stacked in plastic totes. About realizing how many versions of you are piled on top of each other like caregiver, wife, mom, widow, survivor just waiting for you to decide what stays and what finally gets to go.

Trey and I grabbed the tiny handful of Christmas things I’m willing to put up this year. Just enough to say “yes, we’re still here” without pretending everything is normal. Then we rolled the door back down. Click. Locked it. Walked away.

And damn… it was harder than I thought.

But maybe this is what healing looks like on some days. It is not big breakthroughs, not symbolic bonfires of grief-stuff, but simply choosing to open the door, take what you can carry, and leave the rest for another time.

Here’s the truth I keep learning on repeat: you don’t have to conquer the past to keep moving into your future. You just have to be willing to face it without lying to yourself about how much it still hurts.

And today, I did that.

And that’s enough.