It has been one month.

It feels like two minutes and two years at the same time.

I miss you so much that it’s hard to express the magnitude of it.

We had 3,083 days.
73,995 hours.
4,439,730 minutes.

And it was not nearly enough.

I feel robbed.
I feel that you were robbed.

Of time.
Of more expansion.
Of more love.
Of countless adventures.
Of more stamps in your passport.

I’ve had so much trouble handling the reality that this all happened. Today is three months and one day from the beginning of this whole impossible journey.

That’s the part my brain still can’t make sense of.

The doctors who withheld information.
The false hope of treatment.
The optimism that you would walk again.
The hard work and determination you put in.

The promise of months, then weeks, and finally days — once someone actually had the balls to sit down and tell us the reality of the situation.

It is just so fucking unfair.

To you.
To me.
To everyone who knew you.
And to all the people who hadn’t even had the chance to meet you yet.

Then there is another layer of anger I haven’t really known how to talk about.
Your death was determined to be service-related.

I hate that.
And I am relieved.
Both things are true.

I hate that you died far too young because of your service to this country.

And I am thankful that your sacrifice was recognized.

I know the Navy saved you in so many ways. It gave you experiences and opportunities that shaped you into the human I know and love.

And it seems cruel beyond comprehension that some of those same opportunities also contributed to your death.

It makes my blood boil.
I am working on that part.
Trust me.

Your funeral included full military honors.
I haven’t really talked about that.
I couldn’t.

I watched the ritual and the ceremony and the recognition of your service, while carrying all of this anger inside me about what that service ultimately cost you.

When it came time for the flag and the military presentation, I insisted your mom receive it.

I didn’t want it.
The truth is, I still don’t.

I couldn’t hold that flag and accept it in the space it that you deserved.

Maybe someday that will feel different.
Maybe it won’t…I’m not really sure.

I can honor your service without being grateful for what it took from you.

I can be proud of you and furious for you.

I can understand that the Navy helped make you the man I loved while hating that your service also took that man away from me.

Grief apparently has room for all of those contradictions.

But when I went to see your grave, that felt different inside me.

Maybe it’s because underneath the military honors and the folded flag and the language about sacrifice, there is simply you.

My person.

And I’m there sitting by your grave, eating tacos with you and trying to understand how the hell the world managed to keep moving when yours stopped.

And I know this: I knew the version of me that you loved.

Not the angry Betsy, with cynicism rolling wildly through her veins.

You knew the curious one.
The ridiculous one.
The brave one.
The woman who wanted to see what was around the next corner.
The one who believed there was always another country to visit, another road to take, and another story waiting somewhere.

You loved that version of me.
And I know you live on inside that version of me too. I feel it every day.

So I am trying very hard not to let losing you destroy her.

Eventually, I will find something helpful — maybe even productive — to funnel all this rage into.

Because that’s who I am.

But today I don’t need to turn it into anything.

It has been one month.

I miss you.
I’m furious.
I’m grateful.
I feel robbed.

And I love you.

All of it gets to be true at the same time.

Military honors photo credit: Kelly Segre of Gré Photo.

I didn’t go to pray. I went to touch grass. Literally.

I sat down on the damp ground and held blades of grass between my fingers, listening to the breeze mo…

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Not better or worse, but definitely different.

Ten years ago this summer, I learned that the hard way when I was widowed.

I entered that chapter as one version of myself and emerged as someone else entirely.

Stronger in many ways, and admittedly harder in others.

When you survive something that alters the landscape of your life overnight, it changes you.

There’s just no way around it. It’s not like you really get a vote on whether you’d like to participate. Change arrives anyway.

This season is teaching me that lesson again, through a new lens.

Look, I wasn’t exactly seeking another character-building experience or a fresh opportunity for personal growth in this way.

A few weeks ago, Todd and I were planning summer concerts, kayaking trips, and talking about where we wanted to travel next.

Then he woke up one morning unable to feel anything below his waist, followed by sitting in the ER hallway, learning that tumors had wrapped themselves around his spinal cord.

Life-whiplash of the highest order: emergency surgery, paralysis (we are declaring it temporary FFS), cancer.

Everything in your life starts shifting before you’ve even had a chance to absorb one single ounce of it.

Along the way, you start hearing things like:
“The universe only gives us what we can handle.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“God has a plan.”
“It’s all in divine timing.”

Kindly, fuck all the way off.
Thank you for your understanding.

Look, I know people mean well. I genuinely do.

I recognize that they’re trying to offer comfort when they don’t know what else to say.

Trying to make sense of something that seems senseless, attempting to close the gap between themselves and another person’s suffering.

But I’ve been widowed.
I’ve stayed awake at night in the ICU.
I’ve watched the person I love get wheeled down the hallway into emergency surgery.

These “helpful” phrases have never once been useful in the moments when I actually needed something.

Not once.

Nobody is whispering those mantras while waiting for their own pathology reports or wondering if their person is ever going to walk again.

These are things people say when they’re standing safely outside the fire, not in the middle of the ring of fire.

Sometimes there isn’t a reason.
Sometimes there isn’t a lesson.
There.
I said it.
Yep.
No takesy-backsys.

I think what bothers me most about those platitudes is that it’s a rush to fill the space instead of holding it.
The discomfort.
The uncertainty.
The grief.
The fear.
The rage.
The love.

And somehow, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with all of it, our caped superhero: Hope.

Let’s not dismiss the absolute mindfuck of holding all of those things at the same time.

It’s basically a three-ring circus in there.

Grief is setting something on fire.
Fear is catastrophizing in the corner.
Hope is running around trying to keep morale up.

And somehow, we’re expected to function like normal humans.

But isn’t this the truth of the human experience?
We’re fully capable of feeling the full spectrum of all the feels.

You can be grateful and devastated, hopeful and terrified.
Making inappropriate jokes one minute and sobbing your heart out the next.

Two things can be true at the same time.

Most of our lives are lived there, right?

That might be one of the greatest gifts of the past decade in my own life—
being able to hang out in the weird space with people.

The uncomfortable, uncertain limbo (icky—my least fave) between what was and what comes next.

Widowhood, loss, and grief taught me how to stay present when there are no answers.

To sit beside someone without needing to fix them, holding the space instead of filling it.

It’s something I’ve spent years doing with my clients after realizing how critical it is to our existence, true expression, and feeling truly deeply seen and understood.

I know what it feels like when someone allows you to have your entire human experience without rushing you toward a more comfortable emotion.

My people—the ones who have helped me most through the hardest chapters of my life—have done exactly that.

Not trying to explain my suffering or forcing meaning onto it.
They weren’t trying to convince me that everything happens for a reason.
They were willing to stand in the fire with me.

Three days after my first husband died, one of my friends showed up carrying a cake.

Written across the top in green frosting were the words:
THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT
in the prettiest buttercream cursive that ever existed in the history of ever.

(fun party fact: courtney-mother-fucking-tibbets is the best wedding coordinator in the existence of the universe, and she had to go to three bakers before finding someone who would happily pipe curse words on a cake)

I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants as I collapsed on the floor.

It all probably sounds completely insane and might not seem relevant, unless, of course, you’ve lived through something like this.

She wasn’t trying to hand me a lesson wrapped in a bow—she was acknowledging reality.

This.
Is.
Fucking.
Bullshit.

It was.
It still is.

These days, the people who keep me afloat are the ones who send me a message like:
“Fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. What the actual flaming motherfucks, Betsy?”

My peeps are not trying to pull me out of the fire, but instead, are willing to stand in it with me.
And most importantly, witness it.

What I know now is the same thing I learned ten years ago:
The person who walks into a life-altering chapter is never the same person who walks out.
Not better or worse.
Different.

This chapter is changing me, whether I choose to cooperate or not.

The person who walks out of this season will not be the same woman who walked into it.

That’s already true.

The only real question is whether I choose to meet that transformation consciously.
Whether I remain open enough to notice what is emerging instead of clinging to who I’ve been.

Oops.
Sorry.
She’s not at home.

As if I could somehow go back.
As if the version of me who walked into this chapter is still available for retrieval.

I trust that something new is being revealed underneath everything that’s being stripped away.

I didn’t choose this chapter, but I do get to choose how I walk through it.

Most days, that looks a lot less like finding answers and a lot more like taking the next breath, facing the next decision, and taking the next step forward.

Trusting that it’s enough—even if it’s just for today.

Support Todd on his Journey

That’s not saying things were easy. NONE of this has been easy.

This weekend marks 3 weeks of hospitals, emergency surgery, paralysis, diagnoses, scans, uncertainty, and learning an entirely new language of medicine.

But this week started feeling like we were actually finding a rhythm.

Todd was crushing rehab, and every day seemed to bring another victory, which felt UHHHHH-MAZING.

He was learning to navigate his new center of gravity, transferring himself from the bed to a wheelchair. Building more endurance and gaining more independence was shining a light on what is possible.

Although the full picture of the future isn’t crystal clear, we were riding the high of at least seeing the next few steps appear on the horizon. Anytime we try to go much beyond that, it all becomes far too overwhelming because the floor beneath us keeps shifting each day.

Yet another point for the Universe on the message: FUCKING SURRENDER.

Thursday afternoon, it felt like we hit a concrete wall at 70 mph, like a crash-test dummy.

At 2 p.m., during physical therapy, someone noticed bleeding from Todd’s lower spinal incision.

Suddenly, those celebrated rehab victories faded to the background as they sounded the alarm.

Before I knew it, I was frantically packing bags so they could transfer him back down to Kalamazoo (our home base), an hour away, because his neurosurgeon wanted to see him as quickly as humanly possible and figure out the new plan of attack.

As quickly as humanly possible turned into a 12-hour tour.

People started making phone calls and arranging transfers to get him there.

Then that got cancelled due to stupid bureaucratic bullshit about crossing county lines. It didn’t sound like we were going anywhere.

Half an hour later, the whole thing wound up again with a new workaround. Admit him to the ER next door in Grand Rapids so they could do an ER-to-ER transfer, which seemed to be the only way possible to be transferred and admitted, so that he could see his surgeon.

Don’t ask me why. I have no explanation for it.

I felt my blood pressure rise and adrenaline shoot through my body. I was definitely fraying at the edges. I was getting spun up, ready to defend the line and make sure that Todd got whatever he needed.

For hours, it felt like nobody seemed quite sure where exactly he was supposed to go, or how he was supposed to get there. It felt like a 3-ring circus, and we were definitely on a wild ride.

We waited in the ER for over 5 hours, only to turn around and do it all over again in another ER down south. It’s exhausting explaining the situation over and over again to new faces, while we’re still trying to understand what the fuck is happening, and simultaneously trying not to imagine all the things that might be happening.

The thing nobody talks about is sitting in the unknown.

That icky, sticky place that goes beyond the logistics of it all, where your mind attempts to fill in every blank space with worst-case scenarios. The awfulizing. The nauseating pit in my stomach that refuses to go away.

I call it purgatory.
Apparently, chocolate chip cookies are served for dinner there.

Oh, wait. That was actually just a happy accident. A few hours earlier, I had asked Todd’s mom to bring me what I called an emotional support cookie. As dumb luck would have it, I had stuffed it in my purse. We shared it for dinner while the flames licked at our feet in purgatory.

After arriving at the cramped ER room in Kzoo, we saw several people over the course of another couple of hours before a doctor finally came in and said Todd would be going into surgery in the morning—and this was his last chance to eat.

I ran to the late-night cafe and grabbed soup for us both before he was cut off for the night, and we got moved into an overflow space in pediatrics. There was no room in the inn for us on this strangely busy night in the hospital.

At the end of the day, we had been awake and actively go-go-going for over 18 hours nonstop. The day had started around 7am with the work-up simulation for his Cyber Knife radiation treatment, mapped out to start next week. We were genuinely excited for that, honestly. Progress. Currently, we’re in another holding pattern over the weekend, waiting to see what actually happens next with that next week, considering the current state of affairs.

We were delirious, and our nervous systems were on fire. Todd started to drift off to sleep while slurping his soup. Understandable.

I had been running on adrenaline for so long that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d checked in with my own body. I was beyond frazzled and burned out from the day.

But I recognized that.

NOTED.

That is so different from what I would’ve been capable of a decade ago, and for that, I am thankful.

Every self-care practice I’ve embraced, and every self-care lesson I guide others on, is built around real-life application. Not spa days and bubble baths (although we do love those!). But to me, the real-life value lies in everyday practices that help me reconnect with myself when life is asking more of me than I think I can give.

Even though I was beyond exhausted, I was still protecting and honoring the moments, no matter how brief, that help me regulate, reconnect, and recharge so that I can be there for Todd in all the ways he needs right now.

We finally settled into the room around 1 am and slumped into a restless sleep.

We knew we’d be facing a busy day the next day, facing surgery again.

The morning started with a bumpy MRI, followed by a whole lotta the-right-hand-not-knowing-what-the-fuck-the-left-hand-was-doing situations that left me UNRAVELED and UNDONE.

I was falling apart at the seams.

Exhaustion. Stress. Hunger. Lack of sleep.
Actively advocating for the past 24 hours and then some had left me in a heap.

I sat in pre-op with Todd. I was edgy.

The woman in the bay next to us was loudly recounting every person she knew who had died over the past year while her husband waited to be wheeled into surgery.

Helluva pep talk, lady.

Finally, I interrupted.

“Excuse me. Can you please be mindful of what you’re talking about right now?”

She got the hint.

In moments like that, I have to remind myself:
Strong and SOFT.
Not Strong and HARD.

I know I’ve got an edge. It’s one of the things Todd loves about me.

It’s also a double-edged sword.
I’ve definitely embarrassed the FUCK out of Todd with my Frosted Bitchcakes over the years.

Anywho.
Thankfully, the surgery went well.

They drained the fluid buildup and placed new drains. We are maintaining the hope that everything heals properly this time around. He’s feeling better, and his surgeon stopped by to give us a full recap and check on his progress and pain. We really do like her and are so thankful for her talents, expertise, and genuine care.

While I am incredibly grateful for that outcome, I’d be lying if I said this whole thing didn’t feel like a blow.

That’s not because the victories weren’t real leading up to this moment. They were definitely real and worth celebrating.

But after the rollercoaster of the past three weeks, in the hardest moments, it’s difficult not to feel defeated when the landscape shifts in tectonic ways that completely turn our new and seemingly fragile world upside down

I have noticed a pattern:

Every time we begin to orient ourselves to this new reality, it feels like someone pulls the floor out from under us.

I am being reminded daily that progress and setbacks often occupy the same space.

For the past decade, I’ve referred to this kind of thing as Sunshine and Rain.

As a kid, I was oddly obsessed with those moments when it was raining while the sun was still shining. It seemed mystical and somehow out of place. I’d stop whatever I was doing and wonder how that was even possible.

Maybe I’ve always been drawn to the mystery of how two contradictory things can coexist.

Just like this.

Todd can be making incredible gains while also facing serious complications.

We can be hopeful and exhausted.

Grateful and scared.

Strong and completely overwhelmed.

Those things aren’t contradictions. Two things can be true at the same time.

It reminds us what it is to be human in the middle of something hard, complicated, and messy.

This entire journey keeps asking us to surrender our attachment to what we think should happen next.

We don’t get to demand a straight line or stop believing that forward only counts if it’s smooth.

We have to trust that healing has its own rhythm, its own tides, and its own undercurrents.

And even when it feels like we’re caught in the rip current, all we can do is stop fighting the water and keep paddling.

Today, Todd is tired. I’m tired.

We’re disappointed that another hurdle appeared, yet we’re grateful that it was caught.

We have new data that helps us hone in on the next move that makes sense right now, meeting us where we’re at.

We’re uncertain about what’s next, but we’re still moving forward.

One wave at a time.

Many of you have asked how you can support Todd through this chapter.

If you’d like to contribute to his recovery journey, help offset mounting medical expenses, or simply share his story, I’ve included the GoFundMe link below.

Thank you for helping us keep moving forward. One wave at a time.

Support Todd in the good fight!

Betsy McCue Gibson is a creative who works with women on an identity level through fine art portraits and boudoir as well as guiding women through Owning Who the F*ck You are as you rewrite the rulebook of your life in 90 days.

Two weeks ago today, Todd was rolled into emergency spinal surgery.

Life has a way of dividing itself into before and after, doesn’t it? I think that may be a function of human nature.

This week, he stepped into a world of intensive rehab which is six hours a day.

We knew full-time rehab would be A LOT, but seeing it in action is something else entirely.

He’s not just rebuilding strength, he’s retraining his brain to reconnect with his body.

Every movement is deliberate. Every transfer from the bed to the wheelchair. Every shift in weight. Every exercise. The first day, he was absolutely exhausted afterwards. He felt defeated as he recognized how much work this was going to be.

I reminded him that he’s done countless “hard things” in this life. Serving 20 years in the Navy, he’s told me stories of so many things he’s navigated that seem impossible. But he’s always gotten the job done. I held the space for him to have that moment. Let the emotions flow through and pass. Maybe let a tear fall, followed by several deep sighs. We share those unfiltered moments. We’ve both been through too much therapy to ignore the importance of that processing. Over the 8 years we’ve been together, we’ve both continued to “do the work” individually and as a couple. I think every bit of that has prepared us for this moment. And I’m incredibly grateful for that foundation as we face our biggest challenge yet in life.

On Wednesday, day one, every single movement felt monumental. He was coming out of lying in a bed, hardly able to move after the spinal surgery, for 10 days. It hurt to be upright in the wheelchair, and I could see it written on his face every second of the one hour he managed to do it.

His body and nervous system are learning how to communicate again, and that is a huge thing.

Now he’s practicing safe transfers from a flat surface to the wheelchair, learning how to protect his spine, engage his core, stabilize himself, and move through the world in a completely new way.

On day two, he wheeled himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth and brush his hair.

This was a big deal. One of the first moves to regain his independence and some sense of normalcy.

Todd is a man of rituals. His morning routine is sacred territory.
He likes to take care of himself, start the day intentionally, and set the tone.

When he looked in the mirror, he let out a long sigh.

There was a moment of recognition.

He hadn’t really seen himself in almost two weeks.

“I look different,” he said.

I met his eyes in the mirror and replied, “I see my handsome husband.”

And for a moment, I think we both did.

The joy on his face as he reclaimed that simple ritual was bigger than a toothbrush or a hairbrush.

It was a glimpse of something familiar.

A glimpse of the Todd I knew before all of this.

Before surgery, or the pain that became the center of the conversation.

Definitely before fear and uncertainty moved into our lives and made themselves right-at-fucking-home.

Watching him progress from tolerating an hour upright to spending eight hours in a wheelchair feels enormous this week, and we’re celebrating the hell out of that. Sitting on a sunny terrace having a normal kind of conversation and saying all the things to each other that slip sometimes when you’re moving through your busy lives.

We even got to sit across from each other and share lunch, which felt like a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of chaos.

Yesterday, when I walked into his room, I immediately noticed something different.

There was a spark in his eye, and I could see him wearing his confidence again—in his face, the way he held himself, and how he spoke.

For the first time since this began, it felt like I was sitting with the version of Todd I know and love to Casseopeia and back.

We talked, joked, and connected. Not as patient and advocate. Not as two people trying to survive this shit sandwich.

It was just US.

When I can’t stay overnight, I call him in the morning before therapy starts.

I give him a little pep talk.

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

He responds:

“RAWRRRRR.”

That roar tells me everything I need to know.

The sass is still there.

So is the fight.

The determination has surfaced and is claiming what’s his.

He’s giving this everything he’s got, and I’m thankful for that.

Todd has always loved being in his body. He loves movement, challenge, and discovering he’s capable of more than he thought.

That part of him is showing up every day.

We still don’t know what this road is going to look like. There are many unknowns ahead.

But one thing is becoming increasingly clear:
Todd has absolutely no intention of giving up.

And maybe that’s why this week felt different.

Not because we have all the answers or it all suddenly felt less scary.

But because for the first time since this began, I wasn’t only seeing a man navigating all the things that now fill our days.

I saw my Toddy.

And that felt like a victory.

P.S. Many of you have asked for the GoFundMe link, so I’m leaving it here.

This journey is bigger than anything either of us expected, and there are still a lot of unknowns ahead. If you’d like to help lighten the load, support Todd’s recovery, or simply share his story, you can do that here:

Help Us Weather the Storm

Please know this: your encouragement matters just as much as gifts during this time.

The comments, messages, prayers, good mojo, stories, and candles lit in ancient chapels we might never see.

All of it reaches him and us. It’s helping fuel a fire in Todd that is inspiring AF to witness.

Thank you for helping remind us that we’re not walking this road alone. ❤️

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14 days ago, Todd and I were on our feet for 3 nights of They Might Be Giants in Chicago. His favorite band of all time. 

Swaying and singing out loud. He complained about back pain as we sat in a biergarten in the sun on the river, but we didn’t think much of it.

7 days ago, he woke up and told me he couldn't feel anything below his waist.

In a herculean feat of strength, pumped full of adrenaline, I carried him down the wicked switchback staircase in our Victorian. I have no idea how it worked. The body does what it has to do in those moments, I suppose.

Eight hours in the ER, lying in a bed in the hallway, watching the guy in the next bed over get his head stapled back together while we rode the ebb and flow of being wheeled in for another scan. Wheeled out to the hallway. 

Scanned.
Wait.

Scanned.
Wait.

Dr. Peacock came in and delivered the news. “I wish I had something better to share. This fucking sucks, but we found tumors that are crushing your spine.”

It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. 

Todd was admitted and sent in for a midnight MRI. 

I slept in a chair with one eye open, convinced that those tumors might finish the mission they were on in our sleep. 

I’d wake and watch in the wee light to make sure I saw his chest moving up and down. 

The next morning at 10 a.m., a neuro critical ICU doctor came in with films. 

THAT look. We all know that look. 

I call it the shitty pity look. A trained expression of forced empathy. I’ve grown to hate it over the years and through my life experiences you’ll be hearing about here at some point. 

Unfortunately, this is not my first rodeo.

Todd was in pre-op within an hour and rolled into surgery by 11:30. 

The plan was to remove two tumors that had a chokehold on his spinal cord, moving with whiplash speed to give him the best chances at being able to walk again.

We were still in shock, locking eyes as they wheeled him away.

I waited for six very long hours.
Made calls to equally surprised friends and family members.
I was delivering news that I hadn’t even begun to absorb or accept myself.
It's taken us all week to even begin to process what the actual fuck is going on.

My husband, Todd, is recovering from emergency spinal surgery while we face the fact that he’s going to have to learn how to walk again. 

Oh, right, AND he has cancer.

Again, whatttttttt the actual fuccccckkkkkkkk.
Or as my friend messaged me:
“Fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, what the actual flaming motherfucks, Betsy?!”

Clearly, my favorite, most aligned response ever. 

The life we were actively and enthusiastically building looks nothing like it did two weeks ago. 

The woman who has spent her entire career creating space for others to be fully seen is sitting in a hospital room trying to figure out what her next chapter, our next chapter, might look like, while being painfully forced to only spend energy on the very next step.  

Literally, life flipped the table on us. 

We went from talking about how soon we could get out on the river to kayak, where our next big trip was going to be, and what concerts we wanted to line up for the summer.

Now our conversations look very different. When is the next dose of pain medicine? How soon can we get to the rehab facility for PT? Can someone give my husband a bath?

It's been one week which feels like a month.
Time is such a strange construct.
It's wild to even try and comprehend just how much our lives have changed so quickly.

The warp speed of pivots, grief, optimism, and coping with it in our own way with dark humor has been enlightening as fuck. We've been living in a space where we celebrate every tiny victory, some bigger than others, juxtaposed with the quiet moments where Todd and I let the tears flow and express our biggest fears around. 

La Vita a Bella.

We started a practice this week where we end each day with at least three things that we are grateful for, despite the dark cloud that's over our heads at the moment. 

Otherwise, it’s wayyyyyy too easy to slip into the abyss of staring at the big shit sandwich of it all. 

But both of us have spent far too much time (and money) in therapy, learning to be self-aware and actualized, that one pleasant surprise is that we’ve found we are bouncing back from those dark moments of fear in a way neither one of us was capable of a decade ago. 

Grounding into the glimmers that we can hold onto to keep that burning flame of hope and optimism alive as we journey down this unknown path. 

We all have the opportunity to truly live in the moment in our everyday lives, but we don’t, 95% of the time. 

At this junction, we’ve been forced to surrender to the process and float from one moment to the next—because that is certainly all we know and have as we wait. 

Wait for the back to heal. Wait for test results. Wait for the diagnosis. Wait for the plan.

It’s a trustfall and a total SURRENDER. 

It’s also allowed plenty of moments where we can’t help but re-evaluate what is actually important and what we couldn't give one last fuck about anymore. 

That’s what happens when you sit in the quiet moments and the uncomfortable spaces, forced to wait and watch, to see how things unfold. The mind plays a lot of what-if games with you and winds down paths to the musty corners of your brain where you probably need to knock down a few spider webs. 

All we can do is concentrate on the next move and focus every ounce of our being, love, energy, and trust into that. Just one next step forward.

We have been saying that 2026 was going to be our big year; we just didn't expect our plan for THIS. The floor dropped out from underneath us. 

Life loves a good ol’ Plot Twist sometimes, doesn’t it?

Before the holiday weekend started, I realized I hadn't thanked our incredibly gifted neurosurgeon for saving his life. 

It felt really good to say that out loud and voice our gratitude for what she had done for him and for us. We don't know quite where this road is going to take us. The spinal surgery in and of itself is a wonder of modern science, but of course, we have the cancer to face and deal with as well.

The two of us have lived more life together in eight years, and most people live in their entire lifetime. This is a whole different kind of adventure than we ever pictured ourselves being on.

Something happened this week with all the distractions and busy stuff of everyday life. 

We grounded back into how we we talked to each other when we first started dating, using terms of endearment like, “hey handsome”, “hey beautiful”, “hey gorgeous”, but this time, grounded in the trust and depth of our relationship and growth over the past 8 years. 

You tell each other, “I love you” 14 different ways and and least 18 times a day. 

An editor told me once that she loved my voice. That she believed in my story, but she didn't think the hero’s journey’s arc was complete yet. 

I think I understand what she meant now.

I don't know who I'm going to be when this chapter closes. I'm not supposed to know that yet. 

What I do know is this—I need to write. 

It's the one thing I can do right now that feels true.
Somewhere in the writing, I believe I'm going to find out what's still solid underneath me when everything else has shifted.

My identity has always been tangled up in my work, but in the most beautiful way possible. 

I’m an artist. A creator. A healer. 

But I’m also the one who shows up and sees .
The one who holds the space so someone else can fall apart safely inside it.

What happens when I'm the one falling apart?
What happens when I'm the one who needs to be held?

I'm writing to find out.

Because I am having my own experience within Todd’s experience.
And that is something separate that is my responsibility to sort and process. 

This is the journal of a woman in the middle of an excavation, trying to figure out what's still true about herself when everything she built her life around suddenly looks different.

A witness learning to witness herself.

🖤

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The witness becomes the witnessed.

Beginnings are strange.

Especially the ones you didn’t choose.

For twenty years, I’ve helped women be fully seen.

As a photographer, I’ve spent my life holding space for other people to step out from behind performance and into something more honest. More human. More themselves.

Then life handed me a plot twist I didn’t see coming.
Now I’m being reminded of what it means to be the one inside the frame.

This Substack exists because I need somewhere to put all of this.

Unfiltered. Raw. Unpolished.
Truth—in real time.

Life cracked me open in a way that’s impossible to ignore as our entire future suddenly reshuffled overnight.

Somewhere inside all of that, I realized: I need to get back to writing. I abandoned it and it’s been knocking on my door for awhile. Today, I answered the call.

I’ll be writing about:

• identity and reinvention

• marriage, fear, hope, and dark humor

• caregiving and partnership

• art and embodiment

• the strange emotional terrain of living through a plot twist in real time

• and the humanity of it all

Some posts might be reflective.
Some might be messy.
Definitely some of them will be toto inapprop-pro.

This isn’t a polished “healing journey.”
It’s dispatches from the middle.

So this space will be part journal, part essay collection, part witnessing, or whatever stuff comes from the messy middle of whatever this is...

For now, most posts will be free because, honestly, I’m still figuring out what this space wants to become. If paid subscriptions eventually happen, they’ll likely include deeper essays, behind-the-scenes writing, voice notes, photo essays, drafts, and more personal reflections.

But mostly, I just wanted to build a space that feels human and real.

Where people are allowed to be complicated.
A space where we don’t have to be resilient and “strong” 24/7.

So if you’re ever looked around at your life and realized the story changed faster than you could process it, I hope you’ll subscribe and follow along.

I’m really glad you’re here.

🖤