And tonight, I just returned home from an evening with our dear friends the Lances.

OK - the Lances are more than friends. They are counted among my family, for sure. Pat, Heidi, Spencer, Graycen and Karlee - a beautiful, fun, down-to-earth and amazing family that Geoff and I love so dearly.

Tonight, we carved out a little time to just be together, and it was so, so nice.

Our history is long, and it is filled with fun and joy.

We met the Lances when our oldest children were in first grade together. I’ll never forget the day we began our relationship: Geoff and I decided to host a Halloween party for the entire first grade class, as well as the preschool kids who were friends with our younger children. I think we had about thirty children at our house that day, along with many parents.

At this particular party, we pulled out all the stops. We had a “monster mash” dance party in the garage, only accessible by crawling through a human-sized accordion tube. The garage was blacked out and filled with strobe lights and fun kid-friendly Halloween music.

There was a pumpkin decorating tent, a treasure-hunt in the hay bales, and a story-telling witch in the woods, situated comfortably in the stick-built teepee (Melissa Schuler, you were an amazing witch!).

The children had magical adventures at this iconic party (my kids still talk about it).

And the adults also created some great connections, and this was the first time the Kinseys and the Lances bonded. And that bond has only grown stronger through the years.

We became two families that considered each other as family.

I am smiling big as I recall the many evenings at our little farm, kids running around in the night enjoying their somewhat contained “freedom.” Bonfires, New Year’s Eve gatherings, evenings on the deck… hide and seek throughout our six acres that felt like the universe to our children.

The Kinseys and the Lances created really meaningful traditions together. The two most meaningful included Christmas morning gatherings in our pj’s - alternating between each other’s houses, just a few miles away from each other. After Santa came and gifts were opened, one family would head to the other’s house for a late breakfast, usually including hashbrown casserole, eggs, and definitely mimosas. We have so many family photos together taken on Christmas morning.

And then there’s Hot Springs, North Carolina…

The Lances and the Kinseys spent many Fourth of July’s at Hot Springs Campground. These were magical days - truly some of the very best days of our families’ lives. The kids had so much freedom and would walk to the little town together, stay up late into the night at the campground stage or playground, talking and dreaming and just being free, amazing young people.

Heidi, Pat, Geoff and I would laugh out loud around the campfire or sitting in our camp chairs in the French Broad River. We would joke and dream and then tease Heidi about her huge fear of snakes … and work really hard to keep her from seeing the many water snakes that were swimming around us in the river.

Geoff and Heidi were the most inappropriate members of the group, always making jokes that could never be posted on social media. They made each other laugh so much.

And Geoff and Pat had a bond, like brothers. Easy. Never any judgment. Always there for each other.

While I am so, so sad that Geoff is no longer a part of these gatherings any longer, I am simultaneously grateful that we have been blessed with such beautiful friends in our lives.

Pat and Heidi (and kids), I love you and look forward to whatever comes next.

Thank you for always saying Geoff’s name, loving him, remembering him and our connection. I have no doubt that he feels your love, and I want you to know that I look forward to our continued bond together. You mean a lot to me. You meant so much to Geoff.

A few photos from Hot Springs, the most special place for both the Kinseys and the Lances.

I haven’t had the bandwidth to give this anger much emotional attention, and I also know that it is most likely somewhat misguided and irrational - a one-sided, super-charged experience, for sure. But the anger has lived as a dark, hard ball in my gut for a long time now, and it needs some release.

The doctors at UNC Chapel Hill were the last people to physically interact with my precious husband. They poked him, prodded him, performed surgeries, procedures, gave him so many drugs, tested him for every disease, infection, bacteria, condition - you name it, they considered it.

They flipped him over onto his stomach to perform lumbar punctures. They flipped him onto his back so the pericardiocentesis and several thoracenteses could be administered. The movements were precise, orchestrated, somewhat militant … but not gentle.

They took him to the operating room with the transport team’s assistance to move his unresponsive body, his ventilator, his many tubes and machines, and then back to his room again. They sucked fluid from his throat because apparently that has to happen when someone is on a ventilator.

They cornered me suddenly in the last hours of his life to get my signature yet again for another procedure - now they wanted to amputate his foot immediately, right there in his ICU room because this “could save his life.” It was the foot that I had begged them to pay close attention to the entire time he was in the hospital. The foot that was swollen and painful due to stepping on the nail (which one student doctor a few days before stated could perhaps be a “red herring” and suggested that they should be looking for different causes of his symptoms other than the nail).

I listened to them when they made rounds - the teaching physicians and their resident students. They talked about my Geoff as if he was one of the most interesting cases that had come across their paths in a very long time, and they pontificated about his symptoms and every possible cause they could think of.

I kept saying, “It was the nail! He was completely fine until he stepped on the nail!” But I was somewhat invisible. They kindly humored me, but it felt like they didn’t really listen to me.

Geoff was at Chapel Hill for eight days. And in that time, not one doctor asked me about Geoff … who he was, what he enjoyed in life … not a single human-focused interaction or question. Geoff was a science experiment to these doctors. Not a person. Not someone who was vibrant, exercising, making jokes, enjoying being a new grandfather, planning a camping trip with his four grown sons literally days before.

Geoff was a challenge placed before them, arriving by ambulance, already in a medically induced coma. We were told that the coma would be temporary - he needed to be on the ventilator so a feeding tube could be inserted so he could gain some sustenance and energy, and so he could get some rest. We were assured that he would only be on the ventilator and in the coma for a few days, and that he would most likely be pulled out of sedation once transferred to the tertiary hospital.

But this didn’t happen like we were told.

The doctors at Chapel Hill kept him sedated and unconscious. They never saw his eyes. They didn’t to talk to him. His personhood seemed unimportant, secondary, theoretical to the work they had to do.

“This is my best friend!” I would plead to any healthcare worker who entered that awful, bright, messy ICU room. “I need you to give him everything you have. He was fine just days ago. Please help him. He stepped on a nail, and then all of this happened. He is my everything. Please, please. He deserves the best care.”

I felt pitied, placated. But I did not feel listened to.

And the night that the young infectious disease resident came to the ICU and told me that he wanted to do another lumbar puncture to test for mad cow disease, I asked, “OK. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, but if that’s what this is, how do we treat it?”

He just looked at me and said, “We don’t. It’s always fatal.”

Period. Mic drop. What?!!

I think that moment best describes the experience Geoff and I had at this hospital. Mad cow disease? It was the damn nail!

And I still feel so pissed, even as I write these words … these visceral memories.

But… emotions are one thing, and as I stated before, I am describing my one-sided, supercharged and life-altering experience.

I know that Geoff was presenting some really crazy symptoms, and none of the blood cultures or other tests performed many times each day found any specific bacteria or isolated pathogens that could be treated. Therefore, the doctors were looking for a needle in a haystack and providing medications and procedures to assuage his awful symptoms, trying to buy time while they worked to unravel the twisted puzzle before them.

I also now know that Geoff’s body was shutting down for all those days, and that his good health and strong fitness probably slowed what should have been a much swifter death. My rational brain tells me that the doctors were doing everything they could, using every tool in their toolbox to try to figure out what was happening.

Geoff was a medical mystery.

But he was also an amazing, funny, strong, sensitive, kind, stubborn, adventurous, generous, talented, smart, beautiful man. And I genuinely wonder that if true human connection could have been made with him, and not just the sterile, somewhat harsh transactions I witnessed in those last eight days, would it have made a difference? Would the energy have shifted in the room, in their hands, in Geoff’s body and helped with healing?

I will always wonder.

My guy. My person. I have always seen you and seek you still. You were amazing on this earth, and I bet you are even more amazing in spirit. I love you. And just because I need to make a joke in your honor - what’s up with your giant clown hand in this photo? :-)

And let me tell you, learning to live with purpose in “the after” is the hardest work of my life.

Losing your soul-partner in a tragic, unexpected and “way too soon” way - that person who literally was the other half of your happiness, joy, memory-making, memory-remembering, life architecture, contentment, excitement, safety … I completely understand how this kind of loss could easily - EASILY - destroy a person.

I’ve written so much about the emotional, physical, spiritual and neurological challenges that continually affect a widow like me. So - no judgement for anyone out there who has lost like I have and can’t quite find a path forward.

But …

There’s that promise I recently made, and I’m going to uphold it. I’m going to do the hard, hard work to make myself face each and every day with at least one intentional action or thought that focuses on gratitude, joy, blessings. Because they do exist. They do.

And this morning, I need to think about yesterday.

Yesterday, I woke up fairly rested, after a quiet evening the night before. I had even watched a movie curled up on the couch that night, something I rarely do anymore.

When I got out of bed, I walked to the kitchen to make my coffee just like I do every morning, and no water came out of the kitchen faucet. Uh-oh. My stomach sank, because I knew what this probably meant. It had happened many times before.

You see, when Geoff and I built our house, a type of plumbing hardware was used that later (years later) was found to be defective. And we even learned that there was a national class action lawsuit because of the problems encountered.

And we definitely encountered problems. On numerous occasions, pipe fittings would corrode and fail, and we would find water leaking from the ceiling downstairs and our finished basement would be flooded. This happened at least four times when Geoff was alive, and one other time just weeks after he died.

I thought we had replaced all of the defective fittings.

Nope.

Yesterday morning, after my stomach dropped and I walked downstairs to find a completely flooded basement (yet again), I waded through the den toward a sound of gushing water and found a broken pipe (at the fitting) in the utility room. I took a deep breath, turned off the water and then stood in the silence permeated only by sounds of “drip, drip, drip.”

I cried.

Not because this was insurmountable - hell, I’d fixed these situations multiple times before.

No - I cried because it felt like one more heavy stone placed on my shoulders. How much more can I take? I’m so tired, and damnit, Universe, haven’t you dealt enough blows to my life? What have I done to deserve this? I had planned a fun day with friends boating on the river - that was going to be my intentional focus on joy on this day.

Deep breath, and then I texted my friends: “Hi, everyone. I woke up to a broken pipe in the basement and it is completely flooded. Sooooooo - no boating for me. At least not on a river - I could boat downstairs! Ughhhhhhhhhh.”

I called my local sons, and they both said, “On my way.”

I put on water shoes and got to work - it was only a little after 7am. I moved furniture and began sucking up water with the shop vac.

The boys and their wives and kids showed up soon thereafter, my daughter-in-law Arianna with a McDonald’s burrito and coffee in hand for me (weirdly, my favorite breakfast!). They also had my grandchildren in tow and seeing them immediately lowered my stress level. A baby snuggle definitely resets my brain.

The boys began their assessment, and Tim determined all the plumbing parts that were needed and headed to Lowe’s. Bryce started clearing out the utility room and moving water-soaked rugs from the house.

Then, over the sound of the shop vac I heard, “Hello!” I looked up and dear friends Jeff and Suzanne were walking in the room, shop vac in hand. Next, David and Heather arrived. My friends did not go to the river without me; instead, they decided we would all have a different kind of day “on the water.”

So, for many hours, we all worked in my basement. Everything was moved, cleaned or discarded, and dried. The broken plumbing in the utility room was fixed, and my son Tim decided that all the other old fittings in that room needed to be replaced. Sheetrock and insulation were cut out; dehumidifiers were outfitted with hoses and positioned to drain continuously. And my friends Jeff and David thought through next steps for me to take to proactively manage this issue in the future.

We ended the morning of work with Dominos pizza and beer on the porch, my friends taking turns holding my new grandbabies - so happy to meet them and also get some baby snuggles.

The comfortable camaraderie with these special people who all love each other (and who also love Geoff) - my family and friends who without hesitation just show up for me still - brought tears to my eyes … but these were different kinds of tears. These were tears of deep, deep gratitude.

Universe, what did I do to deserve this kind of love?

In the midst of clean up… water, water everywhere - and it almost derailed me. Almost. But some wonderful people brought me back to what’s really important and real - and it’s always love. (Oh, and by the way - after the worst flood experience downstairs, Geoff replaced all the flooring with tile. All of it - about 1,500 square feet! He hated that project. But Geoff, thank you, babe.)

One of the many “baby snuggles” I enjoyed yesterday.

For thirteen months, I have kept these memories deeply tucked away, but they’ve started to resurface in sneaky ways. It’s clear that I need to get some of the feelings figured out; face the pain and maybe find some peace.

I’ve been thinking about the fact that I couldn’t talk to Geoff for the majority of the time he was in the hospital … but I could look into his eyes, and they communicated so much to me. So, I’m starting there. Geoff’s eyes: windows to his soul, his love, his confusion, his pain, his anger, his pleas for help. My last tangible connection and communication with him when he was alive was transmitted with his eyes. His beautiful, kind, loving blue eyes.

His eyes pleaded with me

We were at home; he was a little confused.

I nervously laughed even through my frown -

And he looked at me, seemingly amused,

Urging me to calm down.

But soon confusion won, and swiftly we left

for the emergency help we needed.

The hospital was bright, his head wasn’t right

and his eyes pleaded for answers and healing.

When I left him there on that very first night,

He was cozy and calm in his bed.

Tired from the day of unknowns and slight fright,

His eyes asked me to stop the dread.

But oh, so fast …

strong delusion was next, in that small sterile room I now hate.

And when I gave them permission to strap his hands down,

his eyes bored into mine: “Is this my fate?”

Days and days, he writhed and screamed -

and sang hateful words, so very loudly.

It was “fight or flight,” it was poison, it seemed -

And his eyes … they showed defiance, proudly.

A few fleeting times, Geoff broke through the craze

and found me again by his side.

I frantically spoke, rubbed his head, made a joke

And his eyes … they were so tired of this ride.

Crazy words, jumbled up - He was scared, he was mean

and the drugs - those damn drugs changed the scene …

But his eyes, they still pleaded,

I knew it was me who he needed…

Then he left me again - back to his fear,

and the doctors were stumped, at a loss.

Intubation came next, feeding tube, I leaned near -

Unconscious, closed eyes, no response.

Geoff, are you here, are you right here with me?

Can you see? I know this feels wrong.

We’re getting you transferred to the best - Chapel Hill!

Stay with me, babe. Please stay strong.

Then briefly awake again, eyes open to see!

I saw his trust and the fight for his life.

His eyes were his soul’s pleas, focused on me -

He, my dear husband. Me, his dear wife.

Then the last day awake, face to face, glasses on -

I rubbed his hands, and his head and his hair…

Relieved that he looked like his fight might be won,

I locked eyes with pure love to share.

He was scared, yet relieved … relieved to see me -

No words from his lips, still confused.

But his eyes - they pleaded for some kind of light -

His body had been so abused…

The clear, deep connection we both tried to send

Was fleeting … his brain wouldn’t mend…

Did I give him enough - enough love at the end?

Then his eyes closed,

…And I never saw them again.

His eyes closed, and I can’t see them again.

I can’t post a photo from those weeks. I didn’t take many. Instead, here is a photo of my Geoff looking lovingly at me with his blue eyes, in the Linville area on one of our weekend camping trips. I loved his eyes.

I literally reach moments each week in which I crave my pajamas, a glass of wine and my computer. We’ve become friends, my little laptop and me, because she patiently invites my thoughts and feelings, never minding long pauses, mass deletions, tears on the keyboard or run-on sentences.

Topics to “unpack” and try to further understand pop into my mind at all times of day and night, and my practice has been to text the unvetted thoughts to myself for further exploration later. There are literally another 50 unfinished, unpublished essays in the hopper, representing thoughts that I haven’t been able to flush out quite yet.

But … the computer sat untouched for a while tonight. First, I soaked in the bath and talked to Geoff. I explained that I need to write, to get it all out, but that I need him with me along this path to help me find the right words to move me just a little bit farther into a better head space. “Please merge your energy with mine, let me know without a doubt that you are near.”

This seems to be one of my most fervent and frequent prayers … pleas to my soulmate.

“Geoff, I need you near.”

I do all kinds of strange things to try to feel Geoff near me. Tonight, I put his mouth guard into my mouth. But I had a dual purpose to this action.

I’ve been clamping my jaw tightly at night when I’m sleeping, and I think I’m grinding my teeth again. I feel so much tension in my body, from my sore teeth and related headache each morning to noticeably tight, slumped shoulders and a stiff back nearly all the time. Grief is so physical, it’s kind of unbelievable sometimes.

I beg Geoff to help me know what to do so my body feels better. And I keep hearing him tell me exactly what I don’t want to hear.

Process the trauma. A knowing from Geoff. A very clear message. It’s time. You’re ready.

I don’t know. That’s a scary, scary prospect, and I mean that with full-blown authenticity. I have pushed the terrible, unfathomable experience that resulted in Geoff’s death deep, deep down. The very real and awful experience is something that is always lurking and hasn’t been faced head-on just yet. In fact, many of my started-yet-unwritten essays pertain to deep, harsh wounds that are surrounded by the salve of familial and friendship love but truly have not yet healed. These wounds are deep, gross, painful and hard to look at.

You can’t release the pain without facing it all.

I know, Geoff. I know. But I don’t want to. Those were the most unimaginable and awful weeks of our lives. I still can’t believe what happened. My heart is broken for me, but even more so for you. The guilt I feel every day when I am gifted more breaths, more heartbeats, the experiences of seeing our children and grandchildren grow and thrive is suffocating… you should be here right beside me, the patriarch of our family. Our amazing, goofy, big-hearted, hard-working, solid and genuine hero.

It’s unbearable. Your absence is unbearable. The circumstances of your death … unbearable. The kind of anguish that accompanies this kind of traumatic loss is hard to face, impossible to describe with mere words.

So, I push it all away. I must, so I can function.

But here I find myself feeling the keyboard beneath my fingertips once again. And I feel you urging me to revisit those unfinished essays … the inklings of partially formed thoughts, jumbled words not yet coherently organized …

I can’t do it tonight. And I also recently and purposefully committed to try to focus on the joy still available to me in this life, like you encouraged me to do. So, I’ll have to split my time as I write and reflect, divide my efforts and unpack both important facets of life that I must face: the traumatic ending, and the tenuous new beginning.

Just writing these words tonight - facing the fact that the trauma is real and is still plaguing my soul - will urge me toward a baby step, perhaps in my next essay, in which I’ll face at least one piece of that darkness with genuine reflection. And maybe that will help me. Geoff, I know you think it will.

This project started long before her husband died. In fact, she and her husband worked on all of the construction “to do’s” together for more than a year and made a lot of progress. The bathroom was nearly done, the floor tiled, the kitchenette functional and almost finished.

Working on projects was a huge part of their relationship, these two lovebirds who enjoyed each other so much when the tools were out, when a vision was being created, and hard physical labor was happening in sync. Geoff was always the knowledgeable carpenter; Tina was the willing helper, making many trips to the barn to gather needed tools, screws, paint, scrapers, or whatever else was required. She learned to take measurements, hold the boards, sometimes use the saw to cut the boards (A.K.A. “Saw Woman”) and be the second pair of hands (and delightful company) for the primary contractor.

After her husband died, the basement project halted. But over time, Tina hired some help to repair some ceilings, and she bought a paint sprayer and tackled the job of refinishing the solid wood doors … twelve of them, to be exact. The continuation of the renovation project wasn’t much fun, because she missed Geoff so very much. But she wanted to honor their vision and work to complete the unfinished project in his honor.

It took a long time to remove the doors from their frames, take them to the barn, set them up on sawhorses, sand the doors, fill the scratches with wood putty, and then sand them again. Then came the two coats of primer, while learning how to use a paint sprayer and running into so many issues along the way.

After priming, each door was painted and then carried back into the house (thankfully, her boys helped with this because solid wood doors are crazy heavy!).

Then came the installation of hardware. She started with hinges and hanging the doors, with help from several sons.

And finally, tonight, she decided to install the doorknobs. It couldn’t possibly be that hard, right?

Well, here’s where the story goes a little sideways.

Tina (non-mechanical, klutzy, somewhat challenged in the home improvement category) read the instructions, and chose her first door for the doorknob installation: the grandbabies’ room. The latch assembly and strike plate installed pretty easily, and Tina was proud, thinking, “I can do this! That didn’t take long at all.”

Then it was time to install the door handle (not really a “knob”).

Tina placed the front and the back on either side of the door and attempted to screw them together but was met with resistance. It was time to use the phone flashlight to see why the screw wouldn’t line up. Ok. Got it.

She tried again, and needed more purchase to get the screw in. She stepped inside the bedroom, and thought, “I’ll just close the door and then I can get the screw in more easily.

Nope.

The screw wouldn’t go in.

OK, so she would just try again in a minute.

But … uh-oh. She was inside the bedroom, the door was closed and latched, but there was no knob or handle attached to open the door.

“No problem,” she thought. “I’ll just use the screwdriver to pop the latch out .”

Nope.

Not too worried, she kept trying. And trying. And trying again. Nothing was working, and she was locked inside her grandbabies’ bedroom. Seriously - locked inside with no way to open the door.

Six months ago, this scenario would have broken her. She not only would have been devastated because she couldn’t call out to Geoff to come help her; six months ago, half a year into her widowhood, she would have questioned her ability to handle this weird and unexpected situation. Tears would have fallen, and a sense of despair would have been the first emotion felt.

But …

Tonight, her first emotion was very different. She actually started to giggle. What a stupid situation this was! Ridiculous! Oh, my gosh. So, so ridiculous. Locked in a basement bedroom with no phone, no one to call out to, all because she was trying to do a new and unfamiliar project that typically would have been handled by her husband.

Yes, this was a pretty funny moment. What was she going to do? Well, she was going to laugh out loud at herself for a while.

Ant then … magically … she could clearly envision - could imagine - Geoff laughing at her, too. She could hear him saying, “What a doofus! You don’t close a door until the knob is installed!” She saw him in her mind’s eye, laughing hard at his wife on the other side of a locked door, shaking his head as his eyes crinkled at the edges while he worked to free her from her self-inflicted imprisonment.

It genuinely felt like he was laughing along with her in this unexpected, strange moment.

And then she realized: laughing out loud right now was a shift in this grief journey. She wasn’t falling apart at finding herself in a predicament with no one to save her; instead, she was realizing the ridiculousness of this moment and how much she and Geoff would have laughed about it together.

While giggling in this moment, Tina also truly knew she was completely on her own in this awkward situation. What to do?

She figured it out. She opened a window, popped out the screen, and climbed to her freedom (after moving some plastic dinosaurs, babydolls and a giant stuffed giraffe out of the way) - hoping the doors to the house were unlocked so she could re-enter and keep working on the project. (The front door was unlocked.)

She went back to the basement and continued working on the doors. She successfully opened the babies’ room from the outside and installed the door handle properly. Six more of the door handles were then installed, and five more remain for another night’s work.

The doors look great, one more step toward finishing this long project. And Tina was deeply grateful for the unexpected, silly and self-deprecating moment that helped her feel Geoff’s laughter again … and hers, too. It had been a hot minute.

This is a photo of a very happy Geoff. This is his smile when he was genuinely laughing - eye crinkles and all.

The culprit of my giggles tonight.

For the past year, much of my evening time has been spent going down so many rabbit holes on social media. I don’t really engage with friends and family on these platforms so much anymore; instead, the algorithms have me pegged, and I am served up seemingly endless videos that relate to this life I now must live.

I see hours upon hours of videos each night about grieving widows. I hear from grief coaches. There are even mediums who connect with those who have crossed, giving “collective” readings that surely hold very specific messages for me. Surely.

I’m served up groups to join: the Modern Widows Club, Young Widows, GriefShare, The Sisterhood of Widows… And I see so many posts from people like me. “No one understands.” “People say awful things but have the best of intentions.” “Night is the most isolating when you’re completely alone in the silence.” “Year Two is the hardest - prepare yourself!”

But here’s the thing: while all of this is relevant to my new existence, I’m growing weary. The heaviness and deep sadness that is expressed in just about everything I read or watch was comforting during this last year. I didn’t feel so alone sometimes and resonated with much of what was being communicated. But something is shifting in me, and I don’t think I can carry this heaviness every single day, in perpetuity. It feels like I’m constantly dredging the bottom of the swirling ocean. And now, pulling that heavy net to the surface where I can get a clearer view of what’s weighing me down is getting harder and harder.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful that the awful, terrible, unwanted sisterhood of widows exists. Truly. My ability to keep facing life each day has been propped up by the twisted camaraderie I anonymously developed with Facebook and Instagram widow-influencers.

But recently, just these past weeks, I’ve begun to feel less support and understanding when I immerse in these rabbit holes. And I think it’s because I’m beginning to feel a twinge, a slight yearning … a need for something more consistently and upliftingly helpful.

Not sure what this means, this distant and unfamiliar feeling. Hope? What even is that emotion? But because I’m who I am, I have to meet this intrinsic and now persistent feeling head-on.

This last year has been pure hell, truly. Hell on earth. It is so difficult to imagine a worse nightmare than the hand that was dealt to me and Geoff and our family, and yes, life is harder than I ever imagined it could be.

…And also…

This last year - especially these last few months - has brought some incredible moments of joy. I’ve written about this joy before: grandchildren (Jay and April) were born; a beautiful wedding was held (Blake and Cami); the kids are flourishing in their careers; travel has been planned and experienced; friends and family have shown up with love and patience and gusto…

And through it all, I’ve had to dig so, so deeply to find a genuine presence to recognize the blessings placed before me. How is it that holding my grandchildren or toasting my kids at their wedding have been difficult steps to take?

The simplest way to describe this widowed life: it is so easy to feel the constant pain that you so desperately want to go away; and at the same time, it’s a Herculean effort to purely feel the joy that you crave with every ounce of your being. The huge swings of pain juxtaposed with the glimpses of joy are incredibly exhausting.

Which brings me to the point of this reflection: I need a shift. I feel this deeply, even though I’m not sure how to transition to a more intentional, present space in which life’s joys become more natural, buoyant and free.

I’m putting this out there tonight - I will begin to purposefully and intentionally write more about the positive moments happening in my life. And even more pointedly, I will seek the joy, the life still available to be lived, and unpack those thoughts here in this very public journal of mine.

It’s an intention. I’m setting this intention: it’s a purposeful effort meant to shift the narrative, perhaps even change the algorithm, and ultimately help change the trajectory of this new life that I did not choose. I will focus more on what is right and good in my very broken life. I can’t do this all the time, but with intention I hope my focus can shift more and more naturally, genuinely.

And tonight’s start: I will spend time thinking about our three sweet grandchildren … Geoff’s and my legacy that, if lucky enough, I will have the privilege to know and love for many years to come. I will love them doubly - big love from me, and even bigger love from G-Pop.

Geoff, aren’t they simply wonderful? Yes. Yes, they really are.

Yes.

I immediately texted those words to myself, knowing that I would need to unpack this concept in a journal entry.

The life I am living still feels foreign, scary, unchartered, unwanted and lonely. Even though it has been just over a year since Geoff died, it is still nearly impossible to imagine a different life than the one I face each day, here without him.

Right now, this life is filled with hard work, and not just when I’m at my job. The hardest work of this new life takes place in the early morning hours and after 5pm, sometimes in the middle of the night, and always on the weekends. It’s a life focused on “making it” just one more minute, one more hour, one more day.

I am immersed in the home we built, the yard we curated, the art and photos on the walls that tell our story.

But there’s also the water filter that needs to be changed but is stuck, and I’m not sure how to use the special tool to loosen it. And the leaking farm spigot that needs to be replaced. And the barn deck that is rotting and needs attention … but when? I’m too busy working to ensure I can pay the bills and save for the future, trying to be a mom and a Lolly, and setting my sadness aside as much as I can so I can function in the day-to-day … not to mention the mountain I climb every day to attempt to regulate my nervous system that is still so confused. There simply isn’t much extra time to do anything else.

My “to do” list gets longer and longer, and I wonder if I can do it all. Can I do this? This life that Geoff and I created together, a life that is built for a team … a couple … an active, complementary, capable duo?

The level of “tired” I’ve reached is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before in my life. Not even during the “baby” years. And this exhaustion, I’m learning, has a lot to do with all there is to do, but even more so with the physiology and neurology of deep grief.

Even though it’s been a year, my brain is still trying to connect new dots to make sense of it all. I’m still wired to live a life that was imagined and developed by “Geoff and Tina.” And attempting to make new and different connections in my brain is the hardest work of my life.

But that statement: “Travel helps break the illusion that the current life you’re living is the only one that is possible.” Something in that statement struck an immediate chord in my soul.

Is it false to think that my current situation - this life that has tackled me to the ground and just sometimes lets me up for air - is this the life I have to somehow come to terms with for the remainder of my days? Or, conversely, do I need to step away and immerse in new experiences in order to get those damn brain synopses to connect differently and help me breathe again? To shatter the illusion?

When I took my first solo trip and physically and mentally changed everything about my life for a few days - my routines, my surroundings, my interactions, my thoughts - life did feel a bit more … mine. I didn’t leave Geoff at home - he was with me, and with me in a very special way. But I was also with me - a new me, without the now familiar noise and pressure and survival routines I keep doing … the hard work that surrounds my new life.

When travel happens for me - when I’m standing in unfamiliar places, tasting different foods, tackling solo adventures … it is freeing and calming. It always has been - for both me and Geoff.

And yes, as I reflect, the little bit of travel I’ve been able to do in the past year - going to places unfamiliar and interesting - these breaks from the norm have provided some needed balance and mental space so I can see myself in new ways. I need the unique brain stimulation provided only when I step away from the here and now and into a new adventure … I need these experiences to help me figure out my future, who I am now, how I see myself in this world.

Soon, I’ll be taking a long weekend trip to Colorado. Geoff and I started our lives together in Colorado, so it’s not really somewhere new and different. But the experience will be. I’ll be there with some special people, with the goal to tackle some brand-new hard high-altitude hikes in a gorgeous place. Our “home base” will be an area of Colorado that Geoff and I never really explored fully. So even though I’ll be visiting my beloved Colorado, this trip will be new to me. And that’ll be good.

Then - next on the calendar is an epic adventure to Peru. I’ve had mixed emotions about this particular adventure because Geoff and I were planning to hike Machu Picchu together in the next few years. But I’m called to go and I want to. I have high hopes that when I’m there, I’ll be gifted some visions of what life can be for me for however long I have left on this earth … maybe I’ll gain some new brain connections … some calming balance - and hopefully continue to see myself in different ways than ever before.

Simultaneously, I never want to leave my life with Geoff behind. He must come with me wherever I’m going now, just in a different way. And what is that different way? Not sure yet.

But I do need to break the illusion that my current life is the only one that is possible.

After our walk, we were sweaty and made our way to her kitchen to pour some “reward” beverages and then to her deck to sit and chat.

She asked: “How are you doing?” (Careful! This is a loaded question!)

I only know how to be honest, and after a moment I was able to articulate to her that I’m “just ok.” Now in the second year without Geoff, the days seem longer and lonelier than before. The reality of my solo-life is stark and ever-present now, and, I shared, I have no vision of my future anymore. When I think about a year from now … three years from now … my mind is utterly blank.

“I try to plan things for the week, or for a few months from now, just so I have some idea of what my future holds.” This is the only way I could explain the strange and unchartered headspace I’m in. “I don’t know who ‘Tina’ is anymore. And building a future feels almost impossible.”

Heather - in true sister-fashion - spoke bluntly and from her heart: “I don’t know if this is even the right thing to say, but you know how you jot down or text yourself things to write about in your blog when they pop into your mind? Well, maybe you need to start a new journal or a vision board where you can capture thoughts about who you want to be in your new future.”

Well, hmmmmm. OK. That’s an idea.

Who do I want to be?

The true answer is that I want to be Geoff’s lover, his confidant, his adventure partner. I want to be Lolly beside G-Pop. I want to walk into the kitchen after work every day and get enveloped in a huge bear hug from my guy. I want to work hard and play hard, laugh, dance, sing and share my deepest thoughts with Geoff by my side. We are “Tina and Geoff.” That’s the identity still so woven into the very fiber of my being, and who I am.

But here I am, beginning “Year Two,” and what I want more than anything is impossible: it is a complete and unattainable fantasy. Who I have always been can no longer be.

Does that mean that I will remain in this limbo - this Purgatory - forever?

I’ve been doing the hard, hard work of putting one foot in front of the other for what seems like an eternity now, and I’m not going to stop. That’s one thing that has remained consistent and true about “Tina” - determination. Grit.

But that persistent trudge forward hasn’t really included a significant focus on “just” me. In fact, I’ve never lived alone, forged a life as an adult alone, or even had to consider what I would want to accomplish or become without a partner by my side.

Heather’s suggestion to intentionally focus on little moments of insight into who I may want to become … well, she got me thinking tonight. She used the words “Vision Board.”

I truly don’t have a lot to contribute to the “Who is Tina now” vision board yet. But I’m going to internalize this suggestion … give it some serious consideration.

Looking into the future and coming up empty is a tough pill to swallow. This doesn’t feel right to me, and I know Geoff would also urge some introspection and serious self-reflection in this situation. (Geoff and Heather were always pretty aligned in many ways…)

For now, this is what the future looks like for me: (1) I have some interesting work projects on my plate that are challenging and important, and I’m grateful; (2) I want to hold and hug my grandchildren in the next week; (3) I do want to focus on my health and fitness to get ready for Machu Picchu; and (4) I want to begin to proactively reach out to others for connection and not just rely on my friends and family to lift me up.

Geoff, how does this sound?

Actually, Tina, are you ok with this plan?

A few weeks ago - Heather and I on an uphill hike to Looking Glass Rock. Machu Picchu, here we come!

Even in the midst of amazing joy (new babies in our lives), reaching and surpassing Geoff’s one-year deathaversary has been one of the hardest and most challenging periods in my life so far.

But tonight … tonight, I opened my phone and saw a dreaded message from Facebook: “You have memories with Geoff Kinsey.”

Often, I can’t click on the memories. I just can’t.

But tonight I was compelled.

And here’s what I saw: two years ago tonight, July 27, 2024, well … it was one of the best nights of my life with my Geoff. It wasn’t anything spectacular or momentous by worldly standards, but to me, that night just two years ago is seared into my heart.

Geoff, in his sweet, quiet way, surprised me with tickets to an outdoor concert at The Outpost (now no longer in existence because of Hurricane Helene). The Outpost was a little outdoor concert venue operated by The Grey Eagle in Asheville, North Carolina, situated on the banks of the French Broad River. An impressive stage was at one end of the field, flanked by little tents and huts where local breweries and food trucks set up shop when concerts were taking place.

The reason Geoff purchased these particular tickets is because my favorite band was performing there, in our little Asheville, their next stop immediately after a big performance at Red Rocks in Colorado. The Fruit Bats always put me in a good mood, I loved their sound and their lyrics, and this night - just two years ago - I was suddenly settling in at The Outpost to enjoy a beautiful summer night with my guy.

We were two of the first four people there. And in true form, Geoff totally made fun of me about this. I insisted that we get there before the gates opened so we could get a good spot. Well… we got a good spot. (The opening act started at 7pm; we arrived at 5:30pm.) We had our pick of the field where camp chairs were allowed (about halfway back from the stage) - there were only two other (grey haired) people there when we arrived. We laughed and felt kind of old as we set up our chairs and wandered to the beer tents, still being set up.

It was so fun to sit in the sunshine and just enjoy each other’s company. We felt so free and happy.

When people started to arrive, we realized that the “camp chair” crowd was the old folks. WE were the old folks. The younger crowd filled in up front where people STOOD UP for the concert, right in front of our camp chair island, and suddenly we couldn’t really see the stage.

The music started. Oh, my gosh. One of my favorite songs right out of the gate. I was straining to see while I was enjoying the music. Suddenly, Geoff grabbed my hand and said, “Come on. Leave the chairs. Let’s go up front.”

He pulled me all the way to the front row, weaving and maneuvering through all the younger “standers” in front of us. And the really fun part of it all was that he was singing and dancing the whole time. If you knew Geoff, just imagine his awkward bounce and his one arm in the air, probably balancing an IPA in his hand.

I see him now as I lovingly remember, a big smile on his face. He was so happy and carefree, and so glad that he gave me this night, this experience, this memory. Oh, my god, I’m so grateful.

We laughed, we danced, we sang, we kissed, and we played along with all the fans around us in that front row.

And we were home before midnight (a success for a night out by Geoff’s standards!).

All I felt on that night, just two years ago, was simplicity, freedom, pure happiness and love for my husband, and filled with my favorite music and lyrics.

I’m actually feeling really happy that I chose to click on that particular Facebook memory this evening, when so many other times I ignore the notifications.

So tonight … I decided to set up a little outside situation for myself. It wasn’t The Outpost, but I did go outside at dusk and open my hot tub, and I lit some tiki torches. My twinkly lights illuminated and the frogs started their songs. With a concert-appropriate beverage in my hand, I turned on a Fruit Bats album, sat in the warm water under the stars, closed my eyes and remembered.

Then a very poignant lyric caught my attention as I was listening to the song titled “Cazadera”: "I’ll rise above ‘cause I was loved by you.”

Yes. YES! What a feeling.

I was loved by you, Geoff, and I am filled to the brim with gratitude for you, for all of you. Your amazing love will carry me forward. I will rise above.

And I am remembering in a big way tonight. So big. So, so big. I can almost feel you beside me, dancing at The Outpost.

Just before we left the “old people” camp chair area to head to the front row. Two years ago tonight. God, I love that man.

I crave feeling this carefree and happy again. Thank you for this night, Geoff.

July 27, 2026

LISTEN

Cazadera by Fruit Bats

[Verse 1]
Sometimes I'm more than lost
I can't even remember what I'm here for
So terrified that when my last day comes
I'll be unprepared for it

[Pre-Chorus]
But I'll rise above
'Cause I was loved by you

[Chorus]
Cazadera, Cazadera

[Verse 2]
Sometimes I just feel gone
Can't wrap my mind around who I am
I can't envision who I'll become
Or remember who I was

[Pre-Chorus]
Then I recall
You came and warmed me

[Chorus]
Cazadera, Cazadera

It’s a pretty simple thought that I need to articulate: today was the first Monday of my second year without Geoff.

First of all, I can’t believe it has been a year - a whole year. Seriously. Time doesn’t feel the same to me anymore, and I doubt I can even find the right words to explain what I mean.

I can look at photos, and it feels like Geoff and I were hiking that trail, laughing with those friends, cutting down that Christmas tree just yesterday. The memories are palpable, down to the most mundane details like the vest he was wearing, the way he walked slightly ahead because he was tired of me taking pictures every few minutes, or the way he tied his shoes and organized his backpack right before hitting the trail. All of these details are immediately accessible to me because they just happened.

Simultaneously, I can strain to recall his laugh, or the witty quips that always left his lips at every turn. And while I know he had a scar from his hip surgery, the one I traced with my fingers so many times … I can’t envision which hip nor the specific direction of his incision. And what was the last sweet thing he said to me? None of these details are accessible to me because they happened more than a lifetime ago.

Of course, my brain knows that a year has passed since Geoff passed. A year and three days, actually.

Today was Monday, the start of a new week. The beginning of a new year. The first Monday of the second year.

Can I do another year without my Geoff?

Looking ahead feels daunting, long, hard. Today our house and farm felt way too overwhelming. The grass is tall and needs to be mowed, and I didn’t want to do it. The house is dusty and the laundry is piling up. But I’m paralyzed at the moment because I’m tired of keeping it all going. I’m tired of the constant lists of “to do’s.” I’m just tired.

The idea of this first Monday - the start of a whole new year - feels almost unmanageable to me today.

I’ve read so many books about deep grief, and I’ve really hated the reflections about the second year. Multiple authors have expressed that the second year is harder than the first because reality has set in. You’ve just experienced a whole year of hell so there aren’t any mysteries any longer, just the realistic knowledge of what life looks like now. And the world expects you to move on now, now that you’ve “made it” through that terrible first year. And truly, tonight as I write these thoughts, what’s ahead definitely seems long and lonely and hard.

But, because I am Mrs. Geoff Kinsey, I will have to shift my perspective somehow. I don’t know how right now … Tonight is a night to feel these particular emotions … but I will rally once more and try to examine ways to keep moving forward in this new unchosen life. Slow and steady is how I’ll make it through this marathon. I will keep trying, perhaps when I’m not so tired.

Maybe on a Tuesday…

Remembering a happy moment in May 2025, on a rock in the middle of the Chattooga River. It was gloriously warm, we had just set up camp along the shore - Geoff in his hammock, and me in our little tent. Bryce, David, Heather, Griffin, Elise, Quinn, Steve and Monica were also there. There was a lot of laughter, bald eagles, waterfalls, problems with canoes, campfires, and warmth in the sunshine. We had no idea there were just weeks remaining in our lives together on this earth. No idea.

We both felt the freest, relaxed and at peace when in our boats on one of the gorgeous rivers around us, the cool water flowing and carrying us downstream … sometimes slowly, and then sounds of rapids would get louder and louder, so we would sit up straighter (Geoff would balance his beer!) and we’d pay closer attention to the lines we needed to take. As we paddled through the rapids, we would look at each other and smile, laugh out loud, sometimes let out a “Woo, hoo!”

The beauty of our surroundings filled us up. Seriously. When you buy yourself a kayak and learn to read a river, a whole new way of experiencing nature opens to you. This beauty is reserved for those who know. Who get it. Who understand the magic that the river holds.

God, I can see Geoff in his boat ahead of me easily paddling, sometimes catching an eddy to play a little bit. He’d go inward at times, just taking it all in and allowing the constant white noise of the moving water lull him into a meditation.

Other times, he’d laugh and joke, sometimes sing loudly when he picked a harder line to challenge himself or enjoy a little jolt of adrenaline.

I was the most in love with Geoff on our river days. It’s like we were exactly aligned and free to just be.

My boat has gathered dust out in the shed. It’s been hard to look at. But I inspected it last night, made sure I knew exactly where my gear was located. And I’m about to walk outside and load it all into my car.

This is going to be hard. Hell, why not? Everything I do now feels hard in some way.

But I think this is something I need to do sooner rather than later. I’m being called back to the river.

Some of our friends organized this day, and it’s going to be different than what Geoff and I would normally plan. Today is a simple river float. In fact, I could probably forgo a PFD and helmet and pack a little cooler with some beer. The section of river we’ll enjoy today is close by and one that we’ve floated before, but it isn’t our usual routine. And that feels right to me … easing back in with dear friends by my side feels manageable.

The guys going today - Pat and Chris - have been in the river crowd for decades, a core group of guys that included Geoff who went on pretty big whitewater adventures together in the early years, and who enjoy a bond that is woven together with ratchet straps, carabiners, Big Pillow, Pinball, boat Jenga, great lines, big swims, love of nature and adventure, takeout beers, storytelling and camaraderie.

It feels wonderful that I received a text inviting me along today. Geoff was always the organizer or the recipient of the boating plans, not me …

It also feels scary to take this step, to drive my car to the barn to load up my boat and gear by myself … to get back on the river, to meet everyone at the takeout and run shuttle to the put-in. Familiar stories will be told. The sounds and smells of the river will greet us. There will be laughter and happiness. Will I feel it? Will I feel free today? Will Geoff and I be perfectly aligned?

I don’t know. But I have to go.

Wish me luck.

This is a day on the Upper Green River in Saluda, North Carolina. I cherish these memories so much. We felt free and perfectly aligned. Happy.

Geoff and I loved this four-mile trek so much, and when we were training for races together this was one of our early morning runs. We’d get to the falls and take a little break to sit on the rocks, listen to the rushing water, dream a little.

Sometimes we’d make our way to the top, if water levels were low, and walk behind the small waterfall you could only see if you took the extra time and effort to scramble up that way.

Lucas and I made the extra effort on this morning, and we quietly sat. No words needed.

Yesterday was one year since our hero died.

The previous two nights witnessed our emotional breakdown moments. This week, we’ve been reliving the horror of that awful day one year ago, and all that happened leading up to that shocking moment.

But I have noticed that interwoven into this deep sadness is some sort of resolute determination to make Geoff proud. During some much-needed long talks, Lucas and I both articulated that we hope Geoff will be a strong guide for us for the rest of our lives … and that we often ask Geoff to be that for us.

So, we decided that on the one-year anniversary of that terrible, terrible day we would rise at 6am and go to the woods, just like Geoff would have done. We’d go to some of our most familiar, favorite woods, and follow a path that holds so many images of us all in our minds’ eyes: hiking, biking, running, birdwatching, throwing rocks into the water, cooling off under the waterfalls or in the swimming holes.

And when sitting in silence by the falls on this somber morning, I felt a message from Geoff: Try to look forward today, not backwards.

I told Lucas what I heard. We talked about it.

In the afternoon, Bryce and Tim and their families were coming to the house, followed by Blake and Cami in the evening. I wanted to finally, finally watch old family videos and hear Geoff’s voice. I wanted his voice physically in my life on this day. Is that looking backwards?

I think the advice to “look forward, not backwards” related more to “the” day: July 17. He doesn’t want us to bury ourselves in the trauma and sadness associated with this particular day, but instead to remember the joy that was and is yet to come. I know my Geoff. That’s what he meant.

I took a quiet moment to wander our beautiful property - the land that Geoff cultivated for more than twenty years. It was a blank slate when he found this amazing little spot on our earth, and he spent so many years thoughtfully choosing plants and trees to place just so, often to provide food and shelter for his beloved birds.

I took my pruners with me and slowly wandered and remembered him planting everything around me. I snipped one twig from one of the Aspen trees. They always make me think of our time in Colorado and all the adventures we shared together there. He planted the Aspens to remind us of that time in our lives. I smiled.

Then I clipped a little bit of the service berry, then a hydrangea (the kind his mom always planted), the holly, canna lily, lemon cypress, lady fern.

The butterfly bush is huge this year, and I took one of its beautiful purple blooms. I distinctly remember him choosing just the right spot for this specimen, directly beside the little garden pond he built years ago. All the plants surrounding this pond were curated for birds and frogs, either from the food provided by the plant or the insects they attract. He wanted the area to look natural and peaceful. (It does.) That particular garden has provided countless nights of frog symphonies, and mornings with bird baths and bird songs.

By the time I had made my loop around our farm, my arms were literally full with tangible memories, and my heart consequently full of Geoff’s special touches and care on our property … in our lives.

I placed each single cutting in a vase, and the most beautiful, natural, glorious bouquet formed. Every single leaf, flower, berry and stem exists because of Geoff’s patient, meaningful and thoughtful cultivation over many years, and all together they create such an impact.

What a metaphor.

So yesterday, it did feel right to press “play” on a few of our family videos. I haven’t been able to watch them until now, but I desperately wanted to see him again, hear his voice, his laugh … feel him in the room with us all.

We watched with love and beautiful remembrance, and his voice was loudly in our presence.

And I looked at our boys, their wives, our grandchildren and realized what a beautiful bouquet we cultivated together. And I am grateful.

I’m also so thankful for the unexpected and obviously organized day of remembrance that was happening in our circle of family and friends. While I definitely unplugged from the world yesterday, the world did not unplug from us. We received countless texts with loving words, and so many candles lighted for our Geoff. If you were among those sending such positive energy, you know who you are, and we felt the love and it feels wonderful that you all say his name and continue to love and remember him.

This week has been a big one in so many ways. The biggest and best part of this week happened yesterday afternoon with the birth of Geoffrey Jay Kinsey, our first grandson. Simultaneously, I have experienced big worries about Geoff’s dad who is currently in the hospital with some difficult health issues. And both of these really big things are happening as the worst day of my life is quickly approaching: July 17 is indiscriminately arriving in just four days.

This week … it all feels so huge. There is new life, aging life, and end of life all tangled up together in my mind and heart, with all the emotions that come with each competing for my attention.

My soul is so, so tired.

I am absolutely grateful for the wonderful part of this week: Geoffrey Jay. This huge moment - this long-awaited miracle for our Bryce and his bride Arianna - it’s what’s keeping me afloat this week. Our kids’ long infertility journey is something that Geoff and I both witnessed, counseled, sympathized, soothed, supported, and ultimately just held space for as Bryce and Arianna navigated so much for so long.

Geoff never had any doubt that Bryce would be a dad and repeatedly and gently told him so. He also lovingly listened to his daughter-in-law with patience and empathy when she needed to talk about their struggles. Geoff and I talked often about how these two kids of ours would be amazing parents one day.

And yesterday at 3:12pm, that dream came true for them. And they named their little boy after Geoff.

The swell of emotion I felt when I got the text - that very first photo from Bryce - well, that swell of overwhelming and heartbreaking love nearly drowned me. I had to find a private place to let it all come forward, upward and out, all that I had been holding together nearly all summer.

Somehow for months I was able to embrace our big family moments with minimal tears. I smiled and truly embraced the joy of Blake and Cami’s long-awaited wedding in our backyard in June; and the birth of my second granddaughter just weeks later brought genuine happiness and just a few tears, even without having Geoff by my side.

But this week … this birth … there is a complicated joy happening in my heart. I feel so alone. Geoff should be here. I just want to scream that he should be here!

When I met Jay for the first time and saw his sweet little face, I caught my breath. His eyes … they look like Bryce’s eyes … like Geoff’s. And when I held him and felt his little fingers, I was taken back to twenty-eight years ago when another twenty-eight-year-old new dad was feeling the fingers of his little guy, introducing him to his grandparents.

Last night was the first time I met Geoffrey Jay. And tonight I went to see him again, and I got to feed him a bottle. My heart has grown two sizes and has also broken in half.

Why am I so distinctly and suddenly fragile again?

Of course, I know why. It’s this week, these days, these hours. The countdown that has been happening for so long is in its final moments. In just four days, Geoff will have been gone for a full year - somehow and inexplicably poignant. What is a year? It’s a moment. It’s a lifetime. It’s the beginning of another countdown.

I truly still can’t believe that my Geoff is gone, and the palpable anger I felt in the earliest months has resurfaced. He should be here, holding our granddaughters and grandson. He should be embracing his kids with fatherly pride, enjoying this hard-earned and beautiful part of life when we were to witness our legacy together.

Instead, here I am. Just me. It’s just me making the long drive to the hospital, checking in at the visitor’s desk, riding the elevator to the fifth floor of the Mother/Baby Unit, knocking on the hospital room door, taking a deep breath and putting a smile on my face as I enter… tapping into my well of joy reserved for my kids and their families.

Am I enough? Can I keep doing this all on my own?

I will, of course. I will find a way.

And those babies will help, for sure. They are literally and figuratively new life.

Geoff, do you see? Do you see our legacy?

Geoffrey Jay Kinsey, born July 12, 2026 at 3:12pm. 8 pounds, 22 inches long. Wearing the Denver Broncos shirt his G-pop bought for his dad, Bryce, 28 years ago.

28-year-old Geoff as a new dad with his first son, Bryce (both in their Broncos shirts … notice in the photo above that 28-year-old Bryce is wearing his dad’s same Broncos shirt shown below… we are a sentimental family!)

Almost every reel, ad or sponsored post that makes it into my social media feeds relates to grief, widows or loss. Sounds like a fun place to hang out, huh?

Today, an image popped up with these words superimposed:

“Hard truth: If you wait until you feel better to start living, you might be waiting forever. Go live your life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain. Because healing doesn’t always come before the experience. Sometimes, the experience is what heals you.”

I’m not sure I agree with the concept that I need to “heal.” Grief isn’t a disease or condition that needs to be fixed. However, the deep emptiness and sadness can be debilitating and is certainly not a space in which I can live in perpetuity. That level of persistent and unrelenting despair is not really “living,” at least in any meaningful way.

Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain.

These words resonate with me. They resonate because that is exactly how I have to live my life right now. I “have to” because Geoff taught me through example that moving forward is the only way, even when it’s really difficult.

Geoff was so good at finding perspective, no matter the situation. He worked hard to do so and moved forward through hard things in the best way that he could. I’m reminded of when his cornea ruptured and he suddenly couldn’t see. His vision had always been poor, but this was a terrible moment that led to years of limitations. Years.

He finally was prescribed a special contact lens - a hard lens - that he could only wear up to eight hours a day. It was the only thing that allowed him to see … but for only eight hours each day. Once the contact came out, his world was blurry again.

Geoff absolutely felt sad, and sometimes angry or depressed because of this limitation in his life. But he rarely complained. He had a resolute determination to keep moving forward, and if I expressed sympathy he would stop me and say, “There are so many people who have harder issues to deal with. I can do this.” He didn’t want sympathy or for anyone to even focus on his disability. And when he felt sad about it, he allowed himself to feel sad. Then he’d get going again.

He quietly met his life in that years-long moment, sometimes retreating to his room when his contact was removed and he didn’t want to interact with anyone, and other times trying to enjoy his family and friends in spite of the blurriness.

I can envision him lying in the hammock on the porch at night, just listening to the conversation around him. He couldn’t see faces, and he preferred to be in the background yet still a part of the evening activity. Sometimes he would join us around the little round coffee table to play cards, but he would have to bring the cards all the way to his face to try to make out his hand, and we would have to tell him the suit for the tricks. We didn’t mind and always wanted him with us no matter what.

He learned that on the weekends if he waited until about noon to put his contact in, he could have a pretty full day of sight. Every now and then, he also would suffer through nearly a full day of blurriness and wait to wear his contact late in the day so we could go to a concert or out with friends at night.

I was so excited when he decided to move forward with a cornea transplant, and just one day after his surgery - even with sixteen stitches in his eye, when the bandage was removed, he could see better than he had in many years. What a highlight - it could have been one of those goosebump reels on Instagram. Geoff was stoically tearful in that beautiful moment, and I excitedly gave him a huge hug as I exhaled years of pent-up anxiety.

Geoff lived just over a year with his new vision and was scheduled to have his remaining five stitches removed last summer. He seemed to have new energy and drive to focus on experiences he craved. He swam once or twice a week and really got into road and mountain biking. For the first time in his career, he would actually leave work when the day officially ended and head to the forest or the pool, and he’d call me at the end of my workday to meet me out for a beer. This was so different than his behavior in the previous five years because by about 6pm every day in those years, he would have taken out the special contact lens and then stay at home where he was more comfortable in his blurry state.

After his cornea transplant, he was so excited to plan adventures. We made it to a few national parks in that year and planned to go to Europe and really see the beauty of the Alps, Venice, the Dolomites, and more. He was excitedly making plans for the next thirty years, now having moved through a hard chapter with grit and intention. That’s how he lived his life: he got up every day and lived life even when he was sad, angry, depressed or physically limited. And he slowly moved through to an easier place.

His lived example is powerful.

Go live life. Do it sad. Do it anxious. Do it uncertain.

And eventually, hopefully, there will be something easier to come.

I’m trying. I’m trying really, really hard.

This weekend, we have an amazing experience happening in our family: Bryce and Arianna will deliver their son, Geoffrey Jay. And I will live life as fully as I can when I get to hold our very first grandson. I know that I will have to do it sad in some ways, because … well, it still feels so unfair that Geoff won’t be there, too. But I also know that I wouldn’t miss this moment for the world. And Geoff wouldn’t want me to.

Go live life.

My quietly determined, amazing guy. You are my inspiration, Geoff.

The wonderful moments happening in my kids’ lives do bring me joy. I am so grateful that they are moving forward and experiencing the amazing parts of young life. They have so much ahead of them, and they deserve all the good that can come their way.

But there has also been another, darker side to this day … ever-present, waiting.

One year ago, on this day, was my Geoff’s very last day living in our home … my last time ever sleeping beside my love in our bed … the final moments when our lives were normal and happy. July 3, 2025 was the date when I began to really pay attention to the signs that something was wrong, off, changing in Geoff. We went to the hospital early the next morning, and he never returned home with me.

And that reality stayed really close to me all day.

After everyone left today - Tim and Cara took their little girls home, Bryce and Arianna headed out to go meet some friends and Mom and Dad went out to lunch, I remained in my now quiet house. The silence felt so much more pronounced than its usual heftiness.

I had to stay really busy to keep the tears from flowing. And I didn’t want to leave our home - our precious, beloved home where we planted our roots, raised our boys, made a life together. I needed to be here.

As evening approached, I poured a glass of wine and walked the property, just like Geoff and I would always do on nights like tonight. I slowly breathed in the scent of the freshly cut grass and listened to the sounds of summer, asking Geoff to please be with me … to please walk with me tonight. I wanted to feel his hand in mine, his arm around me, hear his laugh, have a deep conversation about our kids and how proud we are of the choices they are making. I craved hearing him tell me how cute I am, how much he loves my eyes. I wanted to stop near the creek and give him the biggest hug, one that ended with a kiss and maybe some sarcastic comment from him.

God, these milestones are tough. It’s like I’m still learning to breathe in this new life of mine, this new life that can truly suffocate.

When will I stop gauging every moment by Geoff’s death experience and my grief journey?

I don’t know. I really don’t know.

It’s hard, guys.

I’m shook.

Allanna was a bit shook today, too. But she had love all around her, helping her to step into her unexpected life change.

Hmmmm… What a great little analogy.

I also have love all around, and boy do I need it. That’s what helps my tears flow freely and sometimes more briefly. It’s what helps me breathe, take tenuous steps into this new life, and keep going … even on July 3, 2026.

Allanna’s first plot twist in life… meet your little sister, April Wren!

Get out of bed and step into my slippers.

Take the dogs out.

Pad to the kitchen and get the coffee started.

Pour fresh water into the dog bowl, then food, then one special lamb and carrot treat for each pup.

Sit for a few minutes to ease into the morning … pour a cup of coffee. Sometimes I sit on the screened porch or deck; other times I sit in Geoff’s favorite chair in the living room. That chair is a hard location sometimes because it faces the fireplace where Geoff’s urn lives on the mantle. Often, I pick up his urn and hug him to me just to feel the weight of “him.”

Then, I head to my room to get ready for work.

First, I make my bed: pull the sheet and covers up on my side, tuck the white pillows under the spread, and the decorative pillows are placed just so.

Then, to the bathroom and closet to choose my clothes, fix my hair and makeup, and always spray two or three mists of Geoff’s cologne onto my wrists and neck. Then I pause and breathe him in deeply, remembering.

When it’s time to go, I take the dogs to their pen, pour a “to go” cup of coffee, lock the front door and drive to work. I do my best to leave my grief at home or at least buried deep inside by the time I walk into the building to give the best of what’s left of me to the day, to my team.

After a full day of work, I pack up my bag and walk to my car. The moment I sit in the driver’s seat and buckle up, I have to breathe deeply to transition into a headspace that can handle walking into our big, quiet, empty house once again, and then find purpose or things to keep me busy until my eyes won’t stay open any longer.

And then, always, I ask Geoff to come to me in my dreams. He never does. Maybe it’s not time yet.

Every single day, this is my routine.

Sometimes I have either the motivation or the need to interact with others after work. But more often, I need to be alone, and this is really hard to explain. I think it has to do with my limited capacity to give energy to others, especially after digging so deeply to be present and productive at work.

To the outside world, it looks like I’m doing pretty well - functioning, laughing sometimes, traveling, working, celebrating the kids’ milestones… and I guess in the context of what this life is now, I am doing pretty well. But when I hear people tell me that I’m “strong,” that’s not the case.

I’m reluctantly, sometimes resentfully and sadly moving through all of these routines each day. Internal pep talks happen, because I desperately want to feel excited about … well, anything. But excitement is not a part of my life right now. I’m in survival mode. I’ve been there for nearly a year, and it doesn’t feel like this mode of existence will change any time soon.

I suppose I do have the choice to lie down and give up, and I’m certainly not going down that path. Geoff wouldn’t want that for me, and we have a wonderful, growing family that needs me in it. But I understand how people could make that choice.

I guess I also have the choice to say, “Well, such is life!” and just move on, move forward, smile and embrace life. However, I don’t understand how people who loved like I have loved could make that choice.

So, instead, I’m in a place where the only choice for me is to rely on my grit to get up every day and slide into my slippers, take care of my dogs, hug Geoff’s urn, and see what the day brings. I wish I had a different path, my true chosen path with my guy. But I don’t.

There’s no strength here. I’m pretty broken. I just have a survival instinct, I guess. And I think that’s one of the hardest parts of losing your life partner so tragically. Constantly, I think about the fact that I get to move forward and be a part of our kids’ and grandkids’ lives, but Geoff doesn’t. If I choose to, I can see all the beautiful places in this world that Geoff and I dreamed about, but he can’t.

I also know that the huge number of responsibilities to keep our property in good condition is now all mine: the house repairs, the land maintenance, the taxes…

Every decision, large and small, is mine to make. Mine alone.

I don’t have a confidant in my bed, nor daily touch and reassurance.

Loneliness is a new companion; one I am meeting for the first time in my life.

So, I write. I walk. I work, clean, mow, repair, shop, purge, watch tv, immerse in nature, and exhaust myself so I can sleep. Basically, I survive.

I also read and learn, and what my “grief” resources tell me is that “just surviving” is pretty normal for me right now, and there’s no specific timeline. Not the “one year” mark, and possibly not even the “two years” mark. And this resonates. I’m approaching the dreaded one-year anniversary of the worst day of our lives, and the heavy sadness is stronger than ever. I think it’s just so real now. There’s no more numbness in my body, and the outreach from others has slowed (understandably!). I think I’m entering a time in this journey when I have to just give myself what I need, whatever that is.

Survival. I just need to survive this.

Sometimes I wish I could disappear for about six months, deep into the wilderness with no responsibilities or obligations to stay in contact. When I escaped for just four days by myself and truly unplugged, I could feel Geoff so clearly. Healing happened. A little bit of clarity was gifted.

But this choice to leave for a while isn’t available to me … nor to most people in my position. I know this.

However, on a micro level, I can escape from time to time and definitely plan to do so.

True solitude - time in nature to connect with spirit - will be an important part of my survival. I know this with absolute certainty.

And maybe strength will come next.

And then I felt called to set up our camper, and that’s where I finally was able to sleep. When I moved into the camper for about two months, my nervous system eventually calmed some, and I felt close to Geoff each night when I settled into the cozy bed and turned on the tiny bedside lamp to read or journal.

Geoff and I bought the camper in 2023 after searching for about a year for just the right little pull-behind travel trailer. This one was perfect, the layout exactly what we wanted. And we could pull it with our small SUV.

I remember how excited we were to get it all set up. I bought all the kitchen supplies, bedding, cute decorations. I would watch Instagram reels about how to organize, maximize storage, keep the weight low inside the camper.

Geoff made sure we had the right leveling blocks, long hoses, adapter plugs and extra fuses. He chose the side of the bed with the lower bedside table so he had a place to put his C-pap machine; I got the side of the bed with the cabinet where I could hang some clothes.

We had two years of awesome adventures in our little camper, pulling it all the way to the coast of North Carolina, about seven hours away. A few times, we headed to the Triangle and camped at Falls Lake State Park when we visited Blake and Cami, or to Coosa River State Park in Rome, Georgia when we would visit Lucas.

Our little camper made its way to Linville, Boone, Andrews, Cashiers, and Hot Springs - all on multiple occasions. We learned that we liked taking it about two hours away, max. That way, we could enjoy weekends without too much work or travel time.

We would always drive in and immediately level the camper. Then Geoff would work on hooking up the water, electricity and sewer, and we’d pull the awning out just a little so I could clip the lights into place. Then we’d lift the awning, roll out the astro turf rug, place our little aluminum table next to the door where we’d set up our coffee maker and ice maker. The camp chairs came out next - we each had our own special chairs that we loved: mine was big and deep; Geoff’s reclined and had a footrest.

We’d open the fridge - cold and stocked - and take out a couple of beers. We’d sit under our awning in our special chairs and exhale all of our stress.

Geoff and I would play cards, I would play my guitar. We’d read, hike, swim, nap. If the dogs were with us, we’d take them for quiet, slow walks around the various campgrounds.

Sometimes we would ride bikes, and always when in Hot Springs, we would kayak.

Campfires always happened, and one October we carved pumpkins at the picnic table at our campsite.

We had such a sweet few years in our little camper.

After Geoff died - just six weeks after he died - I hooked up the camper and took it to Dreher Island State Park for a weekend. He and I had booked this trip a few months before, and I was determined to still go. I don’t know why. I wasn’t thinking straight at all during those first few months.

But I did go. And honestly, it was really hard.

My family came, too, which was so sweet. I’m sure they were watching the train wreck (me) with zero idea of how to stop the destruction.

Reflecting back on that weekend, I was somewhat manic, attempting to make the weekend as normal as possible. Tim, Cara and Allanna pulled their camper and were in a spot two spaces down. Clay, Reef, Sunny and Sage came and set up their tent behind my camper. And Mom and Dad came for one of the days we were there.

I was determined to hook up my camper and pull it to the campground all by myself, and I did. But it wasn’t easy for me. Geoff always handled the towing preparations and was always confident about how to safely do so.

He taught me. But did I remember how?

It took me a while, but I got everything hooked up. Towing the camper felt ok, but I was going to arrive at the campground after dark, which felt stressful. Could I do this? Yes, I could do this. And I did.

The drive was long and slow, and at one point the lights on my camper quit working so I had to pull over to figure it out. The trailer had come unplugged from my car, and the cord was dragging on the ground. Half of the protective covering was gone. I just plugged it back in, even without the covering, hoping that was ok to do. It worked, so I kept going.

When I arrived at the campground and got to my spot, my stomach dropped. There was no way I was going to be able to back into this narrow, sloped spot. But Clay was already there, and he hopped in the driver’s seat of my car and handled it for me.

That was the last time I pulled the camper anywhere, except into my driveway.

During the two months that I basically lived in the camper, I was experiencing my deepest, saddest and most disorienting grief of all. The little camper became my safe haven. I think, unlike our huge home and little farm where we raised our boys, our camper held a more manageable number of memories - all happy and very recent - so I could feel Geoff’s presence there and like I could really talk to him, connect with him in that small cozy space of ours. I could hide from the world and just be with Geoff.

Then one day a few months later, for whatever reason, I decided to give our bedroom a try again, and I never returned to the camper. Geoff came with me, back into the big house, and a more expanded way of grieving began. I let others in a bit more, and I could manage the larger space of it all.

The camper has been sitting in its spot in the driveway ever since. A few guests (my kids) have slept in it when we ran out of bedrooms in the house when everyone was visiting, and Lucas and a few of his buddies hung out in the camper one night so they wouldn’t wake up everyone else in the house.

Now it’s summer, the time when Geoff and I would be hitting the road on the weekends towing our little camper with us. But the thought of pulling our camper to any beautiful spot makes me so, so sad. I can’t do it. I can’t make new memories in our adventure-mobile.

Recently, I had the strong and undeniable “knowing” that it’s time to let her go. And while I am completely resolved to do so, it also feels like another death. Or maybe the continuation of what’s still slowly dying in me - my and Geoff’s dreams, adventures, future.

Looking at our empty, unused camper has become really painful, so it feels healthy to release it from my present life.

I can feel Geoff urging me to do this. But I also feel the tug to keep camping. (In fact, at just the time I was making the decision to sell the camper, our two-person tent inexplicably fell off the top shelf in the closet, which felt like Geoff saying, “You can camp in this!”)

So today will be a tough day as I slowly remove our carefully chosen things from our camper and place them in bins. I plan to thoroughly clean the inside, hook up the water to ensure it’s working well, and then I’ll tackle the exterior storage bin. Last, when everything is spotless on the inside, I’ll pressure wash the outside and take photos. Soon, I’ll make a post on Facebook Marketplace, when I’m truly ready.

I thought about sleeping in the camper one more time, but I don’t think I will. My “camper” experiences have been made, and right now, the positive memories in the camper with Geoff outweigh the harder ones in it without him. I’d like to keep it that way.

There have been some really beautiful, big life moments in recent weeks, and there are more to come very soon. But today, I could barely think straight, and I needed to escape from the world as soon as work was done.

I walked into my quiet house and wandered to the kitchen to put a few groceries away. Then I turned and walked through the living room, my room, my bathroom and then into my closet. When I flipped on the light, the lightbulb above my side of the closet began to flicker. It started doing this a lot right after Geoff died, though not all the time … just sometimes. Does it happen when I’m missing him the most? Or when I’m talking to him in my mind? Or when he knows I need him?

Obviously, in these moments, my brain wants to believe that Geoff is making the light flicker to tell me he’s with me … that he’s “got” me, and that I’m going to be ok.

But tonight, when that light started to blink, I got angry.

Am I supposed to think this is you, Geoff? I’m tired! I don’t know how to keep doing this! I don’t know how to do this life without you. I just don’t. I need to know that this is you. I’m going to turn the light off, and I need a different sign - I want a hawk. Show me a hawk tonight.

I hit the light switch, maybe a little harder than necessary, and then leaned on the wall as the tears came.

Deep breath.

“Don’t think about the rest of your life, Tina,” I said to myself. “Just look ahead to the next 15 minutes.”

I took a walk outside. Was I looking for a hawk? Yes. Did I see a hawk? No.

But walking outside in the quiet early evening helped me center and calm myself, and now here I am at the computer attempting to journal about this part of widowhood: the unpredictable nature of each day, and the fragility of any stability.

I seem to function the best when I can keep life at an even pace and find time away from all people and responsibilities at least some of the time each week, combined with interactions with those I love sprinkled in. That balance is hard to calibrate, especially when big life events are happening.

Recently, I have also been contemplating the permanence of the grief that permeates nearly every moment and experience in my life. Because my love for Geoff is so pure, strong and everlasting, so, too will be my grief … they are one in the same. Therefore, in existential logic, there’s no way my grief will ever end.

And this realization paralyzes me sometimes. How can I face decades of life knowing that I will carry this heavy loss every single day, every single moment? And that I won’t ever again have my partner, confidant, lover waiting for me at home each night? It’s really hard sometimes to accept my new reality. I think that’s when I need to hide away and meet life in 15-minute chunks. Looking farther ahead - even an hour farther ahead - can sometimes send me spiraling. It’s a lost and lonely feeling.

Plot twists in life are hard to rebound from. And the only reason it appears that I’m rebounding most of the time is because I don’t have much of a choice. Life moves on all around me, even though I often feel frozen in place.

And today was particularly hard, for no particular reason that I can pinpoint. It’s just the fragility that is part of being widowed like me.

…Well, it took me about 15 minutes to journal tonight. I’ll think about the next 15 minutes now … and then the next. And by the fourth 15-minute segment, I’ll probably be tired enough to go to sleep.

**********************************************************************************

Postscript: When I opened my photo gallery on my phone to choose an appropriate photo for this journal entry, a picture my mom sent recently was front and center. I posted it below. And now my heaviness has lifted a bit.

When I pulled in, I saw Tim exiting the hospital looking for me. I stopped and he hopped in the car and I pulled into the lot to park. He was brimming with excitement, telling me all about the birth of his second daughter - my second granddaughter - April Wren.

I was so grateful for his excitement, and for my job to bring the exhausted parents hard-earned burgers, fries and smoothies from McDonald’s following the long two days since Cara’s water broke. He was still telling me details as we entered the building and approached the security desk … the familiar desk.

This night-time walk to this exact spot, the place where you check in as a visitor before heading up the elevator to see your new grandchild… Geoff and I made this same journey late one night just nineteen months ago. Was that the same security guard? Maybe. She was kind and smiled when she realized I was headed to meet this new little baby in our lives.

Tim pressed the button on the elevator, and I felt that familiar pit in my gut. Deep breath.

Stepping into the elevator meant that not only was I about to continue that similar journey we took not so long ago, but I was also going to walk down a long, quiet hospital hallway. I would see the nurses’ stations, the monitors, hear the beeps. I would walk into a hospital room, all for the first time since.

Deep breath.

I had to wait outside for a moment while Cara made herself ready for a visitor. Tim left me standing outside in the hallway, which actually was good. I had a moment to breathe and center myself.

Then, I walked inside.

When I saw Cara - beautiful Cara - she looked healthy and strong, she smiled and was chatty. There were no wires or tubes, no beeping sounds. She reached happily for her banana strawberry smoothie and fries, and I was so relieved to see how well she was doing. That was a different scene from the last time she gave birth … and from the last time I was in a hospital.

I listened to her story of April Wren’s difficult appearance into this world and heard a calmness in her voice that comes from life experience. April had to go to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for several reasons (none too serious, we don’t think), and Cara and Tim both exhibited a calm resolve that she is where she needs to be right now. I couldn’t help but notice such a difference in their mindset and maturity this time around, and I was both proud of and sad for them that they have endured such hard things that have contributed to this shift in their young lives.

Then it was time to head up one more floor to the NICU. Geoff and I spent many days in this unit visiting Allanna, a place where you have to be on a special list to enter, you have to scrub your hands and wash and bag your cell phone. When you exit the elevator, you turn left and you are immediately in the little waiting room. I got chills when I saw it and could envision Geoff washing his hands aggressively at the little sink right outside the door, getting soap in-between every finger, probably counting to thirty in his mind to make sure he washed long enough.

As we walked inside and then I followed Tim to April’s bassinet, again I caught my breath. She was on the same hall, just a few beds down from Allanna’s spot where Geoff and I met our first granddaughter together. Oh, the memories from just months ago - those happy moments when Geoff and I were stunned and excited to become grandparents together, when we held our grandbaby’s little hand for the first time … when Geoff leaned down and talked to her, rubbed her head, and finally got to hold her in his arms … the memories flooded into my heart.

And then …

I saw the most perfect little person lying on her back, sleeping peacefully - arms outstretched. I knew this was April. She had that similar black hair (although not nearly as much hair as Allanna had). All the sadness in my heart turned to joy in that instant, and I felt massive love for this little one.

Deep breath.

Geoff, look! Are you with me? Do you see April?

I knew he must be here, and most likely has been the entire time. I don’t think he would leave her side just yet.

I touched her little leg, and she flinched like she had been tickled. She was making little cooing sounds in her sleep. Her little six-pound body looked healthy: she had a pink hue to most of her skin, and I noticed some glorious little fat-rolls on her legs. She looked absolutely perfect.

Then I looked at Tim and saw the sheer wonder and happiness on his face, here in this intensive care unit, this hospital, with all the beeps and wires and lights and nurses. None of that mattered because this moment was all about new life.

What a gift.

April Wren Kinsey, born June 22, 2026, at 7:09pm.

Fuzzy photos (taken with my phone inside a protective plastic bag) in the NICU last night. Tim with his daughter, April Wren.

Little Allanna Face-timing her parents.

Another fuzzy photo, taken late last night.

Geoff - A.K.A. G-pop - in the same NICU with April’s big sister Allanna, just nineteen months ago.