I wish I could sugarcoat it, package it in a pretty little bow, and say something poetic like “life has a funny way of teaching us hard lessons” — but no. It’s been relentless. It’s been grief stacked on grief, with barely enough room to breathe. And ironically, I literally couldn’t breathe for months.

It all started back in November 2024, when I came down with pneumonia. Not your run-of-the-mill cold. Pneumonia. The kind that clings to your lungs like grief clings to the body. I was down for the count — and it only got worse from there.

In January, my beloved Grandmother started hospice at home. The woman who shaped so much of who I am was slowly fading, and I couldn’t even go to her because my own health was spiraling. I was too sick to be there — a kind of helplessness I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Then came a blow I wasn’t prepared for: I found out that my ex-husband, Scott, had passed away — in October. And I wasn’t even told until February, while I was still sick, already fragile, already trying to keep my head above water. No heads-up. Just grief dropped in my lap like a heavy stone.

But in all that mess, something unexpected happened: I formed a bond with someone new — Stacey. She had been close to Scott, and together we made sure his ashes were claimed. His own family didn’t even take that step. But we did. Two women bound by heartbreak, doing the right thing for someone we both cared about in our own ways.

Just when I started feeling like I could stand up straight again, my Aunt Suzy died. On my birthday. Because why not? Why not tie grief to another date that I’ll never see the same again?

And then — while I was finding out more about losing her on Monday, April 21st, I was asked to write her obituary. And not just hers. At the same time, I was also asked to write my grandmother’s obituary — even though she hadn’t passed yet, we knew it was coming. At first when asked by my aunt Jeanne, I was overwhelmed but also honored to be asked to do these tasks.

I’d never written one before. The only experience I had was through genealogy, reading hundreds of obituaries to piece together the stories of strangers from the past. So I did what I do — I researched. I read dozens of examples, learned the format, figured out how to tell a life story in a few hundred words.

Writing Suzy’s was tough. But having gone through that process made writing my grandmother’s slightly easier — emotionally harder, of course, but more familiar structurally. I started a rough draft and shared it with my family, who gave input and suggestions to help shape the story of her long, meaningful life. It became something collaborative and deeply personal. But Grandma’s love letter I wrote to her before she passed which I have shared was 100% me.

Now, Stacey and I also plan to write one for Scott. A real one. A proper one. A memorial that actually reflects his story — not just the facts, but the man we both knew in different ways. We’ve only started a little of it, but it’s something we’re committed to finishing. He deserves that much.

I barely had time to sit with any of that when my Grandma took a turn for the worse. And just three weeks later, she was gone too. On May 13th, which also happens to be my cousin Jasmine’s birthday. Because the universe seems to have a twisted sense of timing.

And in the middle of this emotional collapse, you’d think maybe, just maybe, work would show some compassion. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

When I tried to arrange time off to travel to Rhinelander for my Grandma’s funeral, they made it as difficult as possible. I was grieving, shattered, trying to pull myself together to say goodbye properly — and they hit me with a denied PTO request. I was already so scared to go home, because of all the past trauma that lives in that place, and now I was also terrified of losing my job just for trying to show up for my family.

And then, as if the emotional bandwidth hadn’t been maxed out enough, my ex-sister-in-law came for me — furious that I hadn’t told her about Scott’s ashes. Never mind that I was grieving. Never mind that I was barely surviving. She made it about her. And I was just too tired, too sad, too broken to fight back. The next day I left for Wisconsin, and I’m so grateful for my friends and family, especially my best friend Paula and Joe for being there for me and a lovely visit with Aaron and Jennifer. Yes, I went, and no, I didn’t get fired.

But here’s the shift: in June, something different happened.

I was asked to fill in as a co-host a couple of times on a podcast I’ve loved as a listener — The God Damned Program on Reapers Underground. It felt really good to join the guys on a show I had once only been part of as an audience member. It helped me reconnect to a part of myself that I’d lost — it helped me find my voice again. I started writing more. Not just out of grief, but out of a desire to say something, to tell my story, to feel real again.

And now, I’m even flirting with the idea of revamping this blog into a book. Or maybe starting a mental health & grief podcast — one that doesn’t shy away from the dark stuff, but balances it with a little humor. Nothing’s set in stone, but for the first time in a long time, I’m excited about something. I’m writing again. I’m dreaming again — even if just quietly.

I’m still standing. Barely. But I am.
And if this year has taught me anything, it’s that grief doesn’t care if you’re ready. Life doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath. But somewhere in all of this — the death, the distance, the disappointment — I found moments of connection. With Stacey. With myself. With my words. With the mic.

So if you’re reading this, and you’ve had a shit year too: I see you. You’re not alone. We’re crawling through the wreckage together, one breath — and maybe one podcast episode — at a time.