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.

This is my fourth Thanksgiving without Tom. Saying that out loud still hits strangely, like I’m talking about someone else’s life.

The first one? I was numb. I went through the motions like a ghost in my own house.
The second… that was the one that broke me. That was the Thanksgiving where it was just Trey and me, sitting in the quiet, both trying to pretend the day didn’t feel hollow. That was the holiday that pushed me to send a message to Grant. That simple, brave little lifeline I asked for that ended up changing my whole future.

Year three was mine and Trey’s first Thanksgiving with Grant and his kids. Two families, still tender, learning each other’s rhythms. Trying not to step on toes. Trying to figure out where the old traditions ended and where the new ones might begin.

And here I am at year four. My second Thanksgiving with Grant. We’ve eased into this relationship with an unexpected comfort and a depth of appreciation that only people who have known devastating loss seem to understand. We are building something new out of the ashes of two very different lives, while still holding space for the loves who shaped us. The traditions of the past have shifted, not because we wanted them to, but because ALS had its own say. And even with so much joy, there is still grief. Grief for the time we lost. Grief for the old rituals that quietly faded.

As I’m getting ready for tomorrow, I’d love to say I’m grounded and serene, but let’s be honest, I’m overwhelmed. Not just because there’s a ton of eggs waiting to be deviled or because I’m making several other sides in the kitchen. I’m overwhelmed because I’m still recovering from this injury that has sidelined my independence for weeks. I’ve had to lean on people in ways I never like to. I can move around now, very slowly but I am doing it by myself now. And in my head, that means I need to “do all the things” like cook, clean, pack for the trip the day after Thanksgiving, just to prove I’m back.

But in the middle of that self-imposed chaos, a memory slipped in and sat beside me awhile.

I was suddenly back in the kitchen of my childhood, sitting with my mom, my grandma, and my sisters, watching the Thanksgiving morning frenzy. I could almost smell it: the cornbread being made for the dressing, my grandma tearing the Mrs. Baird’s bread into pieces, the onions and celery sautéing, and the pepper. Dear Lord, the pepper. My mom and grandma believed that dressing should bite back.

As that memory played, it hit me: those traditions didn’t disappear. They didn’t die with the people who taught me. They live in me.

They’re there when I make the cornbread.
They’re there when I inhale the smell of onions and celery.
They’re there when I reach for the pepper without even thinking.

They’re there when I remember Thanksgivings in Memphis with Tom’s family and the laughing and yelling as Euchre is being played…very competitively, I might add.
They’re here now, as I build a different kind of family, one I never expected, one born from heartbreak and hope that sit side by side.

Thanksgiving doesn’t hit the same anymore, and honestly, that’s okay. Maybe it’s not supposed to.

Because in the quiet of my kitchen this morning, as I start to make the things that are “Thanksgiving” to me, I realized I’m honestly thankful for all of it…the past ones, the hard ones, the healing ones, and even the messy new ones we’re still figuring out.

Everything changes. And nothing changes.
I mean, there is still plenty of pepper in the cornbread dressing.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends, especially to my fellow grievers. Hold onto one thing you’re grateful for today. One is enough. One opens the door for the others to follow.

Lara

The other night, I lost it with Trey.

Not completely, but enough that afterward, the silence between us was heavy. It wasn’t really him I was angry at, not fully. It was everything else. The pain in my leg. The fog in my brain from the constant pain. That feeling of helplessness. But that is not what I focused on. It was the way the mess around me keeps growing while I’m stuck here, sidelined. The things I’ve asked him to do, like take the trash out, empty the fridge of old leftovers, bring tables inside, but all these things still sat undone after many days.

He works full-time and goes to school, I know that. But my mind can’t help asking, Why can’t he do it all? I did. I worked, wifed, parented, handled all of Trey’s school activities, and after-school activities. I took care of Tom through ALS, managed his at-home needs, VA care, non-VA care, showed up for everyone, all without letting the big things drop. That impossible standard I lived under has a nasty way of turning into expectations for others. Expectations that after the caregiving years, I am not sure I could live up to now.

The truth is, I’m angry because my ability to “get things done” has come to a grinding halt. I feel useless. Helpless. Like a burden. And that’s when it hit me. This must be what Tom felt. I thought I understood it when I was his caregiver, but I only ever skimmed the surface. Living it is different and this is temporary.

The other night was dark. I wasn’t myself or maybe I was the version of me I try to keep buried, the one who cracks under pressure. I yelled. I cried. And then, I apologized. Because I didn’t like who I became in that moment. I may even have talked to Grant that night and just said quietly, “I think I just need a hug.”

Today is better. The pain has eased a little, my head feels clearer, and I can see a sliver of light through the fog. I still can’t bear any weight on my leg, and while the tenderness is still there, it is tolerable now. I actually got out of the house today for a little bit, and about 30 minutes on my scooter, I was reminded again of the pain. I can also tell you I am maneuvering around the house more on my knee scooter. I do have to do 20-point turns to turn around, but small victories, right?! I can now see the acute phase of this injury may be over as there has not been any new bruising for a day or so and the truly healing part has started.

I still don’t know why this happened. There’s no poetic exchange. I mean, I can’t even say, I tore my calf muscle, but Lou survived.

But maybe this moment was never about the injury. Maybe it’s about what it’s teaching me. To slow down, to ask for help without guilt, to stop tying my worth to how much I can get done, and to show my son that sometimes our emotions run the show… and that owning it and apologizing isn’t weakness at all. It’s strength. The real kind.

I’m learning that I’m not as alone as my mind sometimes insists I am. That love can show up quietly in the son who forgives, the boyfriend who steadies, the friends who check in and help me.

Maybe this isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s preparation. A reminder from God that sometimes the strongest thing you can do… is let go.

This past week has felt like the universe handed me a script and said, “Let’s see if you can juggle grief, physical pain, logistics, and emotional whiplash all at once.” And I, like the overachiever I apparently remain, said, “Sure, why not? Let’s add a torn muscle for flair.” I know, you can’t make this up!

It started with Lou.

Tom’s service dog. Our sweet, gentle, loyal, steady-hearted Lou-bear. A living tie to the life before, a connection to Tom. He was struggling, and I knew something was wrong. The kind of wrong you feel deep in your chest. He needed medical treatment, now! Trey picked up this giant of a dog and placed him in the car, and as I was helping Trey move Lou, the unimaginable happened.

There was a pop.
Then the nausea and pain.
Then the “oh no” realization.

Trey had my keys to the car and he helped me to the stairs in the garage. There was no time to get me in the house, and it would have taken forever as my left leg didn’t want to work. So, I threw my credit card to my son and told him to go…because saving Lou came first.
Trey left to get Lou to the vet ER.

As I tried to absorb this incredible pain, I also had to figure out what I needed to do next. Call 911? Call Cyrus? Yes, I decided to call Cy as she lives less than 5 minutes away. No answer. Okay, call Grant. While we live about 30 minutes apart, he made it to my home in record time. In the 20 minutes I lay there in my cold, dark garage, so many really weird things went through my head. One of which was, well, this is how I go out…on the concrete of my car-hole (Simpson’s reference and one Tom would totally be laughing at). But as I heard Grant’s big ole truck come up the street… absolute relief! Grant, my amazing boyfriend, who was also a caregiver to his wife through ALS, took charge, got me loaded in his truck, and took me to the human ER. Because apparently, we were doing the two-ER special that day.

But the part that still gets me right in the feels…

When he knew I was safe, he didn’t stay.
He drove across the city to be with my son.
Because he knew what was coming.
He knew what losing Lou would do to Trey.
He knew I would want someone there with him if I couldn’t be.

Lou crossed the rainbow bridge that night. Trey and I believe Tom whispered to Lou, “come” which was a command Lou followed, and so he listened to his person, and Lou went to Tom. And just like that, a living connection to the caregiving chapter, to the life between life and death, slipped out of our hands.

The house feels unfamiliar without him. Quieter. Hollow in a way grief knows too well.

And here I am, injured. Torn calf muscle. Deep bruising. Pain that hits in waves with every movement of my leg, but luckily, no surgery is needed…just time to heal.

I am lying in bed in the exact spot where Tom’s hospital bed sat.
Same window.
Same angle.
Same ceiling.
Same view that once held vigil over a life ending.

Except this time… it’s my body that needs care.

The pain has been relentless. The kind that makes the days smear together into one long, pulsing throb. I’ve been doing the ice-elevate-compression routine like an Olympic event and stubbornly avoiding, but not doing a great job at it, the prescription pain meds. That’s muscle memory from the caregiving years, when I didn’t get the luxury of being foggy or slow or “out of it.” I had to be sharp. I had to be on. I had to keep a whole world from collapsing.

But here’s the truth I’ve had to choke down this week:
I don’t have to white-knuckle my way through everything anymore.
I am not in the trenches of caregiving now.
I don’t have to be the granite wall that doesn’t crumble.
I am hurt. I am exhausted from the pain, both physical and emotional. I am human.
And it’s actually okay to let myself be cared for now.

I could ask “why,” but I already know the answer lives in my faith.
This is part of my journey.
The chapter I never would’ve chosen, but the one I was handed…again!!!!

We are devastated that Lou is gone.
But there is peace in knowing exactly where he went.

When Lou’s paws left this earth, I know exactly whose arms he ran to. And so Lou is home, and just as my torn calf needs time to heal, so does my heart.