In the interest of being fully transparent, a few of my earlier personal pieces, including Permission to Exhale and Sam’s Story, I used pseudonyms to protect privacy and respect legal constraints while sharing our medical and legal journey.

As we move forward in The Plate Theory, you will see my late husband referred to by his real name, Mark.

I just wanted to clear up any potential confusion for those of you who have been reading from the very beginning. Thank you so much for your continued love, support, and for walking this path with me.

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Introduction: Feeding the Mind and Soul

We understand the physics of taking care of our physical bodies. When we want to feel strong, energized, and healthy, we pay attention to what we put on our actual plates. We strive to balance the fundamental food groups, nourishing ourselves with fresh, vibrant ingredients and adding the vitamins and supplements needed to fuel us through the day. We know that if we fill our bodies with junk, waste, or empty calories, our energy slumps, our health deteriorates, and we eventually break down.

Yet, we rarely apply that same fundamental wisdom to our mental and emotional lives. Each of us carries around an invisible, metaphorical plate. Just like a dinner plate, it has limited surface area and can be divided into sections to hold the different areas of our existence, our careers, our caregiving roles, our relationships, our grief, our trauma, and our daily responsibilities. But too often, we stack that plate high with obligations that exhaust us, toxic dynamics that drain us, and clutter that serves no purpose, leaving zero room for real nourishment.

The Plate Theory is rooted in simple truth: your mind and soul require intentional nutrition just as much as your physical body does. To thrive, you must actively choose what earns a spot on your plate, ensuring it contains the emotional nourishment, peace, and purpose you need to keep going. Just as importantly, you must learn when to scrape off the excess, the heavy unhelpful junk that does not feed or support your spirit.

In the pages ahead, I will share the personal journey, hard-won lessons, and practical insights that shaped this theory. My hope is that as you read, you will find the tools, clarity, and permission you need to audit your own life, set down what is breaking you, and build a healthy, mindful plate that truly feeds your soul.

CHAPTER 1: The Epiphany

Before we can talk about boundaries, bandwidth, or rebuilding, we have to talk about the moment the old life shattered and the 3:00 AM realization that changed everything.

I am a helper by nature. I’m not the type to randomly drop by your house to organize your pantry, but if you are hurting, I am the one who will listen, anchor you, and do everything in my power to fix it or at the very least ease the pressure of it. For the people closest to me, my need to help isn’t just a preference, it’s a physical compulsion. I cannot stand to see those I love and care about suffer. When I am faced with a situation where I am completely powerless to ease their pain, a suffocating helplessness sets in.

That impulse didn’t come out of nowhere. It was forged early. I grew up in a home marked by distinct elements of trauma. I was far too young to understand it, let alone fix it, but that feeling of helplessness lodged itself deep inside me. That was the exact moment I started stacking invisible weight onto my metaphorical plate. To survive, I became a people-pleaser. I learned to keep my head down, silence my own voice, and put everyone else’s needs before my own, unconsciously tying my self-worth to how useful or agreeable I was to others.

By eighteen, I was pregnant by a guy struggling with alcohol and drug addiction and who was severely physically and verbally abusive. Desperate for stability, I guess, I met someone new three months into the pregnancy. We were engaged within two months and married seven months later. He was a good man who stepped up to be a father figure to my daughter, but we were two young kids trying to survive under the heavy weight of outside family drama and financial strain. We lacked the emotional tools to navigate the pressure, and within five years, we parted ways amicably.

My daughter and I moved in with my parents until I met Mark. Mark was a kind, loving, funny, steadfast, nurturing soul. He officially adopted my daughter after she survived a devastating trauma at the hands of her biological father’s side of the family. Together, Mark and I built a life across 25 years of marriage, but our plate was heavy from the start. We navigated high-stress custody battles, the complexities of a blended family, intense court proceedings surrounding my daughter’s trauma, and financial worries, alongside everyday normal stressors. On top of it all, Mark’s health began deteriorating in 2004, leading to years of unpredictable illness and lengthy hospital stays.

I put everything on my plate to handle: raising the kids, running the household, completing my degree, managing my job, managing his appointments, and trying desperately to cultivate a peaceful environment for everyone to land.

That is not to say Mark didn’t carry his weight. He most definitely did despite his health issues. He worked long, grueling hours at a local automotive plant, managed our finances, and bore the heavy burden of providing for our family. After the plant closed, he went back to school to further his education, graduating with honors, and ultimately working at a local health facility in maintenance where working an eight-hour shift, followed by getting called in again two hours later, for another 4 hours became the norm for him and our daily life. He took his responsibility seriously, but he also carried it under the immense pressure of his own rigid OCD tendencies. For Mark, things needed to be in a very specific way to keep his world steady.

Because I loved him and wanted to ease his stress, I quietly took on far more than I should have. I pushed myself to keep our home in “perfect order” before he walked through the door each evening, attempting to manage his environment so he could relax. Seriously, ask our kids, this is no joke. But maintaining that level of control for someone else added a constant, invisible pressure to my daily routine. At the time, it was simply my reality. I took it all on without question, completely unaware that I didn’t have the tools at that point in my life to handle that kind of weight.

Eventually, I finished my degree and went to work for the local district attorney’s office as a legal assistant, bringing home stories of real-world heartbreak every night. In 2016, I transitioned into a role as a Victim Witness Specialist focusing on child maltreatment cases. I loved the work deeply, but every single day, I absorbed the horrific details of child abuse and carried that secondhand trauma straight home in my bones.

Then came 2019. Mark was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, an aggressive brain cancer, and given just 12 to 18 months to live. He fought fiercely for four years, seven months, and two days. Throughout it all, I served as his primary caregiver, managing endless appointments, surgeries, treatments and his at home care. I did this all while maintaining my full-time position at the DA’s office. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I stayed upright. My love for Mark powered me through, but I was piling pure toxicity and exhaustion onto a plate that had zero room left.

When Mark took his last breath on October 6, 2023, the original plate I had been carrying my entire adult life, well probably my entire life if you think about it, didn’t just crack. Fuck no, it shattered into a million sharp pieces on the floor.

Instead of sweeping up the tiny, fractured pieces of the life I once knew, I went back to work just weeks later. I picked up my heavy caseload of child maltreatment cases, blindly trying to stack fresh, secondary trauma directly on top of my own shattered grief. Because survival was the only language I knew, I tried to force a new life onto the broken pieces of a plate that no longer existed.

Predictably, that makeshift fix failed. By late 2025, I was an empty shell. I wasn’t sleeping, my body was inflamed with stress, I had gained weight, and I was completely drained from the inside out.

Then, the week before Christmas, the dam broke. I remember it with terrifying clarity: December 18, 2025. It was the day of our office Christmas luncheon. That morning before work, the pressure boiled over. In a surge of overwhelming frustration, I chucked my cellphone across the room. It slammed into the floor, spider-webbing the protective cover. To this day, that crack remains on my phone. It is a physical reminder of the unbearable pain I was carrying that morning, and a silent vow never to let myself reach that point again. I suffered a complete, invisible collapse that day, and the momentum of that breakdown carried into the weeks that followed.

Not long after, I walked into the office one morning without giving a damn about how I looked. For anyone who knows me, that is not who I am. But I simply had no energy left to care. I dragged myself into work wearing basic jeans, some thrown-together shirt I can’t even remember, my hair thrown up in a messy ponytail, and not a trace of makeup on my face and locked myself in my office that day. I had officially hit rock bottom.

Hardly anyone saw the depth of that collapse. Honestly, I think only one person truly knew. It was the one who happened to be on the phone with me the morning I threw my phone.

Sitting in that dark space, I knew with absolute certainty that if I stayed on that path, I was heading toward one of three places: a psychiatric ward, a hospital bed, or an early grave. But the terrifying reality was that I had no idea how to pull myself out. I felt like I had no one who could help me navigate my way through it. I felt completely trapped, and that feeling was scary as hell. I was trying to navigate a life I no longer recognized, clinging to habits that no longer served me.

By the grace of God, a casual conversation with a coworker led me to review my retirement options. That pivotal moment changed everything! On February 27, 2026, I officially walked away and retired. It was the best decision of my life.

The moment I made the decision itself to retire, I could feel my plate getting lighter. It felt like an immediate release of years of built-up stress from living in survival mode, shedding the emotional weight that had been functioning under a depth of unexplainable pressure. I finally began to heal. I reclaimed my time, re-engaged with my love of baking, spent time with my adult children and my grandson, and slowly began to breathe again. I was doing things that made my heart happy and finding healthy alternatives to rebuild my strength. I was finally feeling good!

Looking back, about two weeks before I officially retired, someone special randomly and very unexpectedly entered my life. He is someone who, without even realizing it, has also helped me find my way back to myself. He didn’t walk into my world to rescue me, nor was I looking for anyone to fix what was broken. Instead, we simply became a much-needed support system for one another. In a season where I felt completely lost, trapped, and uncertain of what my future looked like, his presence offered a quiet, grounding space. Just by being who he is, he gave me room to pause, catch my breath, and begin navigating a path forward.

He is a hard-working, supportive, intelligent, fun-loving, dedicated family man, and also a chronic “fixer,” with little time to spare in his busy schedule. I get it. He is constantly carrying the world on his shoulders, taking care of everyone around him while running on a dangerously overfilled plate.

Then came a phone call in April 2026. My caregiving duties had been done for well over two years at this point, and I had retired, so no work obligations or huge stressors to speak of, right? I was talking with my mom about some things going on in their lives. She hesitated, telling me she didn’t want to bother me because she knew I had “so much on my plate.”

An unexpected wave of anger surged through me once again. In that moment, I practically snapped back, “What fucking plate are you talking about? My plate hit the floor and broke into a million pieces the moment Mark took his final breath! I don’t have a fucking plate left to carry, so don’t use that as an excuse.”

Now, speaking to my mother like that probably wasn’t my finest moment, but it got the point across. My parents are the type of people who hide their personal woes so as “not to bother anyone.” A story for another time. But that conversation stayed lodged in the back of my mind. How many times in my own life, across friendships, family, and work, had I said those exact words to someone else? You have so much on your plate. We say it out of love, trying not to burden people who are already drowning, yet it often creates distance right when we need each other most.

Remember the fixer I mentioned earlier? Fast forward to mid-August 2026. Seeing the heavy load he was carrying constantly brought out the helper in me. One night around 3:00 AM, I was lying awake, my mind racing as I worried, like I always do, about the people I care deeply for. I was desperate to figure out how to ease his burdens so he could clear a little space off his plate. Unable to sleep, I went into the kitchen to make a warm cup of tea. I reached up and opened the cabinet door. Sitting on the shelf was a stack of ordinary white dinner plates I had looked at ten thousand times before. But at 3:00 AM in the quiet dark, all of it, the grief, the snapped words to my mom, and that desire to ease his load, finally collided. Something clicked. I stared at those plates, and in a single, blinding flash of clarity, The Plate Theory was born.

The Plate Theory

We all carry these metaphorical plates through life. We often say to others, or even to ourselves, “I know you have a lot on your plate right now.” I’ve said it dozens of times. But that morning at 3:00 AM, the house was dead silent. I stood barefoot on the smooth oak floor of my dark kitchen, my mind racing with a suffocating helplessness for the man I was trying so desperately to help. Surrounded by the quiet shadows of a room that had seen so many seasons of my life, the weight of it all caught up to me. Staring into the dark, I finally stopped to dissect that phrase and confront what it truly meant to me.

I want to share a story about my own plate: the one I allowed to shatter into a million pieces, and the new one I am carrying today.

For years, I carried a plate stacked high with love, happiness, sadness, heartbreak, and fear. It held parenting, my career, school, supporting my spouse, arguments, financial worries, medical trauma, personal trauma, and childhood trauma. Day after day, I added more responsibilities to it, just like we all do. It’s life. We balance more and more, even on the days when the plate is teetering in our hands and we aren’t sure how we’re going to hold it all up. We lose sleep, get angry, fall ill, and sometimes push away the people we love most simply because we are running on empty.

Anyone who walked side-by-side with me through Mark’s journey knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was burning the candle at both ends. By those final weeks, exhaustion wasn’t even the word for it. I was trapped in a relentless state of fight-or-flight, terrified beyond measure and functioning entirely on adrenaline, fumes, and raw faith. I was lucky if I caught a couple of broken hours of sleep. My body deeply ached, my brain was wrapped in a suffocating fog I’d never felt before, and yet I kept pushing, giving every remaining drop of myself to keep him safe. It wasn’t just tiredness; it was a bone-deep, terrifying weight that gripped my very soul. My plate was spinning on the edge of a cliff, and I knew it was about to drop because the primary anchor that had held me up for so many years was preparing for his final journey.

On October 6, 2023, time distorted into a surreal blur. The house was cold and rainy outside, but inside, Mark lay surrounded by our children. I lay beside him, holding his hand, whispering that it was okay to go home as I read the words of Psalm 23. I finished the final verse just as he took his last breath.

In an instant, the air turned heavy with a stillness I can’t explain. A stillness instantly pierced by the raw, gut-wrenching sobs of our family for the loss of this beautiful soul. Outside, right at that moment, the clouds parted and the sun peaked through the window, resting on his face as he lay finally at peace.

In that exact second, the original plate I had carried my entire life didn’t just crack. Everything I had built, protected, and held together crashed to the floor and shattered into a million sharp, irreplaceable pieces.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions of living, lacking even the strength to pick up anything new. I honestly didn’t know what to do or how I could ever repair that plate. There were just too many broken pieces. But over time, I realized that plate was never meant to be repaired. Even if I glued it back together, it would never look the same, nor should it. It would forever be weakened by all the missing fragments that could never be restored. That plate had served its time and its purpose.

For a long time after, I felt numb. I moved through life with a heavy shield around me, trying to protect myself from the world. I didn’t want to feel anything, so I just coasted. But then one day, I realized that surviving isn’t the same as living. It was time to rebuild.

I realized I could let go of the weight of past traumas while keeping the good memories, the love, the kindness, and the incredible support I’ve received close to my heart. That is where real healing begins.

So, I chose to pick up a new plate. It started completely empty, with room for new moments, new memories, and new responsibilities. I know there will be new obstacles that find their way onto it, and that’s okay. That is life. This is a clean slate. I am learning to trust its strength, to trust the journey, and to trust that it is safe to open my heart again to living in this life. Life is fragile, it goes by in a fleeting moment, and it is okay to rebuild. Trust the process.

Forged in the Fire, Not a Classroom

I am telling you my story not so you will feel sorry for what I went through, but because I suspect you picked up this book for a reason.

Maybe you are standing in your own dark kitchen at 3:00 AM, exhausted down to your marrow, trying to figure out how to keep balancing an impossible load. Maybe you are a helper, a caregiver, a fixer, or a survivor, running on fumes, fear, and adrenaline while everyone around you assumes you have it all under control. Maybe, like me, your original plate crashed a long time ago, and you’ve been exhausting yourself trying to superglue tiny, missing pieces back together. If that is where you are today, hear me clearly: You are allowed to drop the broken pieces.

Before we go any further, I want to be completely transparent with you: I am not a licensed therapist, a psychologist, or a counselor. I don’t hold degrees in mental health or human behavior. What I do have are life lessons forged in the absolute hottest fires of personal trauma, medical crises, bone-deep grief, and burnout. Everything you will read in these pages comes directly from the raw, unfiltered experience of crawling into the depths of my own brokenness, figuring out how to dig my way out when I had nothing left, and finding a way back to real life. (Note: If you are navigating severe clinical trauma or mental health crises, please pair this book with professional medical care.)

This book is not a clinical textbook, nor is it a guide on how to simply handle more stress or become a better multitasker. You don’t need another lesson in how to grin and bear an overfilled life. This book is your practical roadmap and permission slip to stop surviving and start living.

Over the coming chapters, we are going to walk through The Plate Theory step-by-step. I’m going to show you how to audit the heavy weight you’re currently carrying, how to recognize the warning signs before your system collapses, how to set fierce boundaries without guilt, and, most importantly, how to pick up a clean plate and build a life that actually nourishes you. You don’t have to carry it all anymore. Take a deep breath, turn the page, and let’s start rebuilding together.

Author’s Note:

Thank you so much for reading Chapter 1! Building a clean slate doesn’t happen overnight, and in Chapter 2, we are going to dive deep into Auditing Your Plate, learning how to identify the invisible weight you’re carrying and figuring out what actually deserves a spot in your life.

If this chapter resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. Be sure to hit the Subscribe button so Chapter 2 drops straight into your inbox!

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Before we can talk about boundaries, bandwidth, or rebuilding, we have to talk about the moment the old life shattered and the 3:00 AM realization that changed everything.

Below is an exclusive preview from Chapter 1 of my upcoming book, The Plate Theory. Whether you are joining me from Facebook or reading here on Substack, thank you for walking this path with me.

I am a helper by nature.

I’m not the type to randomly drop by your house to organize your pantry, but if you are hurting, I am the one who will listen, anchor you, and do everything in my power to fix it or at the very least ease the pressure of it. For the people closest to me, my need to help isn’t just a preference, it’s a physical compulsion. I cannot stand to see those I love and care about suffer. When I am faced with a situation where I am completely powerless to ease their pain, a suffocating helplessness sets in.

That impulse didn’t come out of nowhere. It was forged early.

I grew up in a home marked by distinct elements of trauma. I was far too young to understand it, let alone fix it, but that feeling of helplessness lodged itself deep inside me. That was the exact moment I started stacking invisible weight onto my metaphorical plate. To survive, I became a people-pleaser. I learned to keep my head down, silence my own voice, and put everyone else’s needs before my own, unconsciously tying my self-worth to how useful or agreeable I was to others.

By eighteen, I was pregnant by a guy struggling with alcohol and drug addiction and who was severely physically and verbally abusive. Desperate for stability, I guess, I met someone new three months into the pregnancy. We were engaged within two months and married seven months later. He was a good man who stepped up to be a father figure to my daughter, but we were two young kids trying to survive under the heavy weight of outside family drama and financial strain. We lacked the emotional tools to navigate the pressure, and within five years, we parted ways amicably.

My daughter and I moved in with my parents until I met Mark.

Mark was kind, loving, funny, steadfast, nurturing soul. He officially adopted my daughter after she survived a devastating trauma at the hands of her biological father’s side of the family. Together, Mark and I built a life across 25 years of marriage, but our plate was heavy from the start. We navigated high-stress custody battles, the complexities of a blended family, intense court proceedings surrounding my daughter’s trauma, and financial worries, alongside everyday normal stressors. On top of it all, Mark’s health began deteriorating in 2004, leading to years of unpredictable illness and lengthy hospital stays.

I put everything on my plate to handle: raising the kids, running the household, completing my degree, managing my job, managing his appointments, and trying desperately to cultivate a peaceful environment for everyone to land.

That is not to say Mark didn’t carry his weight. He most definitely did despite his health issues. He worked long, grueling hours at a local automotive plant, managed our finances, and bore the heavy burden of providing for our family. After the plant closed, he went back to school to further his education, graduating with honors, and ultimately working at a local health facility in maintenance where working an eight hour shift, followed by getting called in again two hours later, for another 4 hours became the norm for him and our daily life. He took his responsibility seriously, but he also carried it under the immense pressure of his own rigid OCD tendencies. For Mark, things needed to be in a very specific way to keep his world steady.

Because I loved him and wanted to ease his stress, I quietly took on far more than I should have. I pushed myself to keep our home in “perfect order” before he walked through the door each evening, attempting to manage his environment so he could relax. Seriously, ask my kids, this is no joke. But maintaining that level of control for someone else added a constant, invisible pressure to my daily routine. At the time, it was simply my reality. I took it all on without question, completely unaware that I didn’t have the tools at that point in my life to handle that kind of weight.

Eventually, I finished my degree and went to work for the local district attorney’s office as a legal assistant, bringing home stories of real-world heartbreak every night. In 2016, I transitioned into a role as a Victim Witness Specialist focusing on child maltreatment cases. I loved the work deeply, but every single day, I absorbed the horrific details of child abuse and carried that secondhand trauma straight home in my bones.

Then came 2019. Mark was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, an aggressive brain cancer, and given just 12 to 18 months to live.

He fought fiercely for four years, seven months, and two days. Throughout it all, I served as his primary caregiver, managing endless appointments, surgeries, treatments and his at home care. I did this all while maintaining my full-time position at the DA’s office. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I stayed upright. My love for Mark powered me through, but I was piling pure toxicity and exhaustion onto a plate that had zero room left.

When Mark took his last breath on October 6, 2023, the original plate I had been carrying my entire adult life, well probably my entire life if you think about it, didn’t just crack. Fuck no, it shattered into a million sharp pieces on the floor.

Instead of sweeping up the tiny, fractured pieces of the life I once knew, I went back to work just weeks later. I picked up my heavy caseload of child maltreatment cases, blindly trying to stack fresh, secondary trauma directly on top of my own shattered grief. Because survival was the only language I knew, I tried to force a new life onto the broken pieces of a plate that no longer existed.

Predictably, that makeshift fix failed. By late 2025, I was an empty shell. I wasn’t sleeping, my body was inflamed with stress, I had gained weight, and I was completely drained from the inside out.

Then, the week before Christmas, the dam broke.

I remember it with terrifying clarity: December 18, 2025. It was the day of our office Christmas luncheon. That morning before work, the pressure boiled over. In a surge of overwhelming frustration, I chucked my cellphone across the room. It slammed into the floor, spider-webbing the protective cover. To this day, that crack remains on my phone. It is a physical reminder of the unbearable pain I was carrying that morning, and a silent vow never to let myself reach that point again.

I suffered a complete, invisible collapse that day, and the momentum of that breakdown carried into the weeks that followed.

Not long after, I walked into the office one morning without giving a damn about how I looked. For anyone who knows me, that is not who I am. But I simply had no energy left to care. I dragged myself into work wearing basic jeans, some thrown-together shirt I can’t even remember, my hair thrown up in a messy ponytail, and not a trace of makeup on my face and locked myself in my office that day. I had officially hit rock bottom.

Hardly anyone saw the depth of that collapse. Honestly, I think only one person truly knew. It was the one who happened to be on the phone with me the morning I threw my phone.

Sitting in that dark space, I knew with absolute certainty that if I stayed on that path, I was heading toward one of three places: a psychiatric ward, a hospital bed, or an early grave. But the terrifying reality was that I had no idea how to pull myself out. I felt like I had no one who could help me navigate my way through it. I felt completely trapped, and that feeling was scary as hell. I was trying to navigate a life I no longer recognized, clinging to habits that no longer served me.

By the grace of God, a casual conversation with a coworker led me to review my retirement options. That pivotal moment changed everything! On February 27, 2026, I officially walked away and retired. It was the best decision of my life. I finally began to heal. I reclaimed my time, re-engaged with my love of baking, spent time with my adult children and my grandson, and slowly began to breathe again. I was doing things that made my heart happy and finding healthy alternatives to find my strength again.

Then came a phone call in April 2026. My caregiving duties had been done for well over two years at this point, and I had retired, so no work obligations or huge stressors to speak of, right? I was talking with my mom about some things going on in their lives. She hesitated, telling me she didn’t want to bother me because she knew I had “so much on my plate.”

An unexpected wave of anger surged through me. In that moment, I practically snapped back, “What fucking plate are you talking about? My plate hit the floor and broke into a million pieces the moment Mark took his final breath! I don’t have a fucking plate left to carry, so don’t use that as an excuse.”

Now, speaking to my mother like that probably wasn’t my finest moment, but it got the point across. My parents are the type of people who hide their personal woes so as “not to bother anyone.” A story for another time. But that conversation stayed lodged in the back of my mind.

How many times in my own life, across friendships, family, and work, had I said those exact words to someone else? You have so much on your plate. We say it out of love, trying not to burden people who are already drowning, yet it often creates distance right when we need each other most.

Looking back, about two weeks before I officially retired, someone special randomly and very unexpectedly entered my life. He is someone who, without even realizing it, has also helped me find my way back to myself.

He didn’t walk into my world to rescue me, nor was I looking for anyone to fix what was broken. Instead, we simply became a much-needed support system for one another. In a season where I felt completely lost, trapped, and uncertain of what my future looked like, his presence offered a quiet, grounding space. Just by being who he is, he gave me room to pause, catch my breath, and begin navigating a path forward, ultimately becoming a steady anchor and a major inspiration behind the heart of this book.

He is a hard-working, supportive, intelligent, fun-loving, dedicated family man, and also a chronic “fixer,” with little time to spare in his busy schedule. I get it. He is constantly carrying the world on his shoulders, taking care of everyone around him while running on a dangerously overfilled plate.

Which brings me back to the helper in me.

One night at 3:00 AM, I was lying awake, my mind racing as I worried, like I always do, about the people I care deeply for. I was desperate to figure out how to ease his burdens so he could clear a little space off his plate. Unable to sleep, I went into the kitchen to make a warm cup of tea.

I reached up and opened the cabinet door.

Sitting on the shelf was a stack of ordinary white dinner plates I had looked at ten thousand times before. But at 3:00 AM in the quiet dark, something clicked. I stared at those plates, and in a single, blinding flash of clarity, The Plate Theory was born.

What happens when you realize your plate is completely gone and how do you start rebuilding from scratch?

This was just the spark. Chapter 1: The Epiphany is officially in the works, where I’ll dive into the exact mechanics of what happened next, how to recognize when your own capacity is cracking, and the very first step to reclaiming your space.

Following on Facebook? Hit share, leave a comment, or pass this to a friend who might be running on fumes today.

Want the full chapters sent straight to your inbox? Subscribe to the Substack newsletter so you never miss a piece of the journey as this theory unfolds step-by-step: https://substack.com/@tammyswritingdesk

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Thank you for reading, for caring, and for protecting your peace today. More coming very soon.

If you haven’t read the foundational concept yet, you can read The Plate Theory post here first!

If you noticed a new name in your inbox today, don’t worry, you’re in the right place!

What began as Real Talk with Tami and Stef is officially transitioning to Tammy’s Writing Desk.

As life evolves, so does the work we share. Moving forward, this space will serve as the main home for my writing, reflections, and the ongoing release of a project very close to my heart: The Plate Theory.

What’s Changing?

• The Name & Web Address: You’ll now find us at tammyswritingdesk.substack.com.

• Your Subscription: You don’t need to take any action! Your subscription remains active, and future posts will come directly to your inbox just like before.

What You Can Expect Moving Forward:

• The Plate Theory: Serialized chapters, deep dives, and practical tools to help you inventory your emotional bandwidth and stop living on fumes (Hopefully).

• Unfiltered Reflections: Honest pieces on grief recovery, boundary defense, overcoming chronic over-functioning, and rebuilding after capacity shatters.

Whether your plate is currently cracking, completely overfilled, or shattered on the floor, thank you for being here. You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore. I am here to listen and help.

With gratitude,

Tammy

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Because of that overwhelming encouragement, I have decided to expand this concept into a full book, right here on Substack.

As I write each chapter, exploring grief, capacity, hard-won boundaries, emotional grooming, and rebuilding after life shatters our foundation, I will be sharing the journey with you step-by-step.

Below is the official introduction to the book:

Introduction: Feeding the Mind and Soul

We understand the physics of taking care of our physical bodies. When we want to feel strong, energized, and healthy, we pay attention to what we put on our actual plates. We strive to balance the fundamental food groups, nourishing ourselves with fresh, vibrant ingredients and adding the vitamins and supplements needed to fuel us through the day. We know that if we fill our bodies with junk, waste, or empty calories, our energy slumps, our health deteriorates, and we eventually break down.

Yet, we rarely apply that same fundamental wisdom to our mental and emotional lives. Each of us carries around an invisible, metaphorical plate. Just like a dinner plate, it has limited surface area and can be divided into sections to hold the different areas of our existence, our careers, our caregiving roles, our relationships, our grief, our trauma, and our daily responsibilities. But too often, we stack that plate high with obligations that exhaust us, toxic dynamics that drain us, and clutter that serves no purpose, leaving zero room for real nourishment.

The Plate Theory is rooted in simple truth: your mind and soul require intentional nutrition just as much as your physical body does. To thrive, you must actively choose what earns a spot on your plate, ensuring it contains the emotional nourishment, peace, and purpose you need to keep going. Just as importantly, you must learn when to scrape off the excess, the heavy unhelpful junk that does not feed or support your spirit.

In the pages ahead, I will share the personal journey, hard-won lessons, and practical insights that shaped this theory. My hope is that as you read, you will find the tools, clarity, and permission you need to audit your own life, set down what is breaking you, and build a healthy, mindful plate that truly feeds your soul.

What’s Next?

Chapter 1: The Kitchen Cabinet Epiphany is currently in the works and will be published here soon. If this message speaks to you, please subscribe below so you don’t miss a chapter, and feel free to share this with anyone in your life who might need a little extra permission to lighten their plate today.

Thank you for walking this path with me. Let’s build something sturdy together.

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This post contains a redacted evidence packet compiled after an extensive amount of time reviewing medical records, correspondence, and timelines surrounding my Sam’s medical care and eventual diagnosis of glioblastoma. It is shared not to accuse, not to litigate, and not to sensationalize, but to document facts, ask hard questions, and advocate for greater diagnostic diligence and patient safety.

Everything shared here has been:

• Carefully reviewed

• Redacted to protect privacy

• Presented in good faith

This is not casual reading. It is heavy, detailed, and deeply personal.

I am placing this post behind a paywall out of respect for the seriousness of the material, the emotional weight involved, and the time required to responsibly engage with it.

If you choose to continue, thank you for doing so thoughtfully.

What This Post Contains

Behind the paywall, you will find:

• Redacted copy of The evidence packet titled “Possible Link Between Enbrel (Etanercept) and Glioblastoma” based on the medical records and timeline of Sam’s journey from being prescribed Enbrel to his diagnosis of Glioblastoma.

• Context from redacted medical records, including laboratory results, imaging, and diagnostic timelines

• Excerpts and discussion of correspondence with the health system that initially treated Sam and prescribed him the Enbrel and legal counsel, including:

  • A formal letter requesting collaborative resolution and legacy initiatives

  • A response from legal counsel disputing causation

  • My written clarification emphasizing that this effort was never intended as litigation, but as advocacy and prevention

I also explain why timelines matter, how immunosuppressive therapies can complicate already complex medical histories, and where current medical literature leaves unanswered questions.

Important Boundaries

I want to be explicit:

• This is not medical advice

• This is not a legal claim

• This is not an assertion of proven causation

It is an evidence-based, documented case study raising legitimate concerns about:

• Diagnostic thresholds

• Risk communication

• Informed consent

• The treatment of patients with complex, overlapping conditions

Why Am I sharing this now?

Time has given me clarity.

Grief pushed me to ask questions. Research taught me how to read the records. Distance allowed me to speak without anger, but not without conviction.

If sharing this helps even one patient ask better questions, or one provider pause before prescribing without full diagnostic confirmation, then my husband’s story continues to matter.

Closing Before the Paywall Locks

If you proceed beyond this point, you are entering a space of careful documentation and lived experience.

Thank you for reading with integrity.

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I hope this finds you well. I’m stepping back briefly from assembling Part 3 of this series, not because it isn’t important, but because something else has been unfolding behind the scenes that feels necessary to share first.

Have you ever had one of those moments of clarity where a decision lands so fast it almost takes your breath away, yet feels undeniable? The kind of moment that quietly changes the course of your life before you have time to overthink it?

If you’ve had one, I’d truly love to hear about it.

I had one.

For years, my life has revolved around caring for others. Because of that, my career didn’t arrive as a neatly packaged calling so much as it evolved through opportunity, momentum, and responsibility.

For the past ten years, I’ve worked supporting victims of crime. Before that, I was a legal assistant, primarily working with attorneys who prosecuted child maltreatment cases. In my current role, I guide victims and families through a system that can feel overwhelming, confusing, and far too impersonal.

I meet people at their most vulnerable moments.

I don’t just carry their files.
I carry their stories.
Their fear.
Their grief.
Their hope.

Often long after the workday ends.

At the same time, caregiving wasn’t only my profession, it was my personal reality. Some of the most demanding years of my life were spent providing around-the-clock care for my husband, Sam.

That kind of caregiving doesn’t pause.
It doesn’t clock out.
It lives in every moment, every decision, every breath.

Somehow, truly, I still don’t know how, I balanced professional caregiving with personal caregiving at the same time.

But I did.

All of it, the professional and the personal, was emotionally heavy in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived inside it. It required a constant drawing from reserves I didn’t always realize were finite.

After Sam passed away and the personal caregiving ended, I returned to work full-time in the office, and I didn’t ease back in.

I dove in headfirst.
Both feet.
No life jacket.

I took on the worst of the worst cases you can imagine. Looking back, I think part of me believed that if I could help others carry their pain, it might quiet my own.

And it did… for a while.

After being back in the office for some time, I began to notice things I hadn’t seen before or perhaps hadn’t had the capacity to see. The dynamics had shifted. What once felt like a home away from home, a supportive and compassionate environment, began to feel divided and unsettling.

The atmosphere started to feel cliquish. High-school-level, “us versus them” energy. There was a growing sense of tension that seemed to surface most when leadership was away. Responsibilities weren’t shared evenly. Problems were created where none existed and despite it all, it was clear that not everyone saw what was happening.

Maybe it had always been this way and I simply hadn’t noticed, being in and out of the office for so long, or so deeply focused on surviving my caseload when I returned, it would not be surprising that it all flew under my radar. But regardless of when it began, just before the holidays, it came to a head.

I hit a wall.

It was stress overload.

Between the emotional weight of the work, the growing workplace strain, and finally sitting down and realizing that the numbers actually did add up, I made a decision, within days, to retire from a job I once loved.

Yes, I prayed I wasn’t making a mistake.

I don’t think I did.

Since making that decision, I’ve slept through the night for the first time in I don’t know how long. My body feels relaxed. The constant tension in my neck, back, and shoulders is gone.

When I wake up, I feel energized.

I still have a few weeks left at work, but knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel makes it all tolerable.

I’m on the younger side of retirement. I still have time to work again if I choose, just likely in a different field. For now, I’m giving myself permission to pause.

To breathe.
To decompress.
To spend time with my family.
To figure out what the next chapter looks like.

It’s scary. I won’t lie.

But I’m also deeply grateful to have this opportunity while I’m still young and healthy. Staying in this job after everything I’ve carried and with the kind of cases I’ve handled, I don’t think I could have gone another year without becoming seriously ill.

Leading up to this decision, stress had me calling into work with flu-like symptoms, extreme fatigue, sore throats, and full-body aches. Each time was worse than the last.

But now?

Since giving my notice, I feel energetic.
Clear-headed.
Calm.

Almost like my nervous system finally got the memo that it’s allowed to exhale.

This pause, this decision, is not separate from Sam’s Story. It’s part of it. Because caregiving doesn’t end when someone passes, and grief doesn’t follow tidy chapters.

What came after mattered too.

Looking Ahead to Part 3

In Part 3, we return to Sam’s medical journey, but with a slower, more deliberate lens. We begin carefully walking through the timeline, the records, and the questions we couldn’t ask while we were still in survival mode.

This next part requires steadiness, clarity, and care. Taking this pause has made it possible to approach it honestly.

Part 3 is coming soon, and it will arrive when it’s ready.

In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you.

Have you ever made a decision that felt sudden, but right?
Has your body or heart ever made the choice before your mind caught up?
Or are you standing at the edge of one now?

Thank you for being here, for holding space and continuing to walk alongside us in this story.

Peace and love,
Tami

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Survival Before Questions. There Was No Space for Questions

After Sam died, there was no space for questions.

There was only survival.

The days blurred together as I learned to exist in a world that no longer made sense. I was trying to figure out things like how to sleep without him by my side. How to wake up without him and how to move through ordinary moments that now felt impossibly heavy.

Grief was not loud at first.

It was numbing.

Practical.

I would describe it as arriving disguised as responsibility.

I focused on what had to be done next, because I was too scared to focus on the why.

The Work of Surviving

There were forms to complete, calls to make, deadlines that didn’t pause for loss. I moved through paperwork, insurance policies, Social Security, retirement accounts, systems that spoke in numbers and checkboxes, not in the language of love or absence.

These were the mundane rituals that had to be tended to.

I tended to them because not doing so felt like another kind of loss.

There was simply no capacity to examine anything beyond the immediate task of getting through each day. Questioning required energy I did not have. Doubt required stillness I could not afford.

A Shared Instinct to Wait

Our children were grieving in their own ways, each of them trying to find footing in a world that had shifted beneath them.

We checked in with one another when we could. Sometimes we circled back to the same quiet concerns. Sometimes we spoke them aloud only to set them aside again.

There were moments when the questions surfaced, but we were hesitant and the thoughts were half-formed.

These were moments when we all seemed to sense, without saying it, that this was not the time.

We would acknowledge the questions.

Recognize the weight of what they might mean.

But then agree, gently and deliberately, that we were not ready to did any deeper.

Facing the possibility of another truth felt like too much when we were already carrying so much. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again. We were still learning how to stand upright in the aftermath of losing Sam.

Coping as a Lifeline

To quiet the questions that continued to linger, I poured myself into coping.

I joined grief groups, searching for anything that might make the ache less isolating. I returned to work and put everything I had into advocating for people who could not advocate for themselves, navigating them through a system that too often provides more protections for offenders than for victims.

If I could help carry someone else through their worst moments, maybe I could survive my own.

I organized every detail of my life “just in case.”

Making sure my affairs were in order.

Trying to control what little I could after losing what mattered most.

Planning became a form of self-defense.

Because doing nothing felt unbearable, I focused on building something that would outlive the pain.

I established an endowment scholarship in Sam’s name. Not because it healed the grief, but because honoring him felt necessary. It gave purpose to the loss, even when answers were still out of reach.

The Questions I Tried Not to Ask

About six months after Sam passed, I did something I had been trying not to do.

I went back and looked at the medical records and timeline more closely.

Not in detail.

Just enough to see whether the question we kept setting aside had any weight to it all.

I told myself it was harmless.

Just a glance.

Just to reassure myself that there was nothing there to see.

What I realized shook me to my core.

For the first time, our suspicion felt entirely plausible.

A Pause, Not a Pursuit

I reached out to the medical facility and had a conversation with leadership. Not to accuse, but to talk about listening, about how standard treatment does not always mean it is the appropriate treatment and about how no patient’s story fits neatly into a box.

There was an initial willingness to engage. A sense that reflection and learning were possible.

But as a family, we decided to stop there…for now.

Emotionally, I wasn’t ready yet.

More than that, I didn’t want Sam’s legacy reduced to a diagnosis or a single decision.

He was more than the way his story ended.

So, we chose, again, to set the question down.

Instinct Does Not Disappear

But grief does not erase instinct.

It only postpones it.

Beneath all the effort to move forward, beneath the coping, the purpose-building, the careful compartmentalization, one quiet question never fully disappeared.

I didn’t pursue it then.

I couldn’t.

Survival still demanded too much of me.

Only after time-passed, when survival no longer required every ounce of my energy, did I return to the medical records and the dates in question.

This was not to assign blame.

It was to understand.

To reconcile what we had lived with, what we had been told.

The Moment We Could No Longer Ignore

What I found led me back to a moment I had once set aside.

To a medication that would eventually become impossible to ignore.

It was time.

We were finally ready to look again. Dig Deep.

Which is what we did.

The discovery we made was shocking, and confirmed what we had long suspected.

The timeline, clearly led us back to something we could no longer ignore:

Enbrel.

Looking Ahead

In Part 3, we begin a careful examination of the timeline, the medical records, and the questions we couldn’t yet ask while we were still in survival mode.

Much of this chapter will be shared through a paid subscription, not to dramatize what happened, but to ensure it can be told with care, space, and the context it deserves.

It will be shared as soon as it is ready. We are hoping within the next two weeks. If this resonates with you and you wish to continue with us, you can subscribe at any time to receive it when it is published.

Thank you for your support and for sharing space with us in this story.

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Sam was a loving husband, a devoted father of three, and a proud grandfather to a beautiful grandson who shared his birthday. To those who knew him best, he was so much more. He was a man defined by integrity, kindness, and humor. His life was built around family, hard work, and helping others whenever he could.

In his early years, he owned his own fence company, but sold it in 2000. In addition to owning his own business, he worked in the auto industry, retiring in 2009 after years of steady work and dedication. Never one to sit still for long, he enrolled at the local technical college soon after. In 2011, he graduated with honors, earning his degree in HVAC/R Industrial Maintenance. That same year, he started a new chapter, joining a local health system as an HVAC/R General Maintenance Technician. He loved the people he worked with and often said it didn’t feel like work because he enjoyed it so much. He finally retired in March of 2017, proud of what he had accomplished and grateful for the friendships he made along the way.

Sam was the kind of man everyone liked having around. He was hardworking, honest, and always willing to lend a hand and was a jack of all trades, literally. He was known for his strong work ethic, his sense of humor, and his ability to turn any gathering into something memorable. He was a good cook and baker, and loved entertaining friends and family. He had a deep faith, loved the outdoors, and was passionate about cars, especially Corvettes. His enthusiasm for life was contagious, and his heart was as big as his laugh.

Early Years

Sam was born in the Midwest, the second oldest of four children, which consisted of two boys and two girls. His father served in the military and later became a truck driver, while his mother stayed home to raise the kids. Sam looked up to his dad, but when his father passed away from colon cancer when Sam was just 14 years old, his world changed. His mother suddenly had to raise three of the children alone, as his oldest brother had already left home. That loss shaped Sam in ways that stayed with him for the rest of his life. He grew up quickly, determined to be the kind of man his father would have been proud of.

Young Fatherhood and Early Struggles

Not long after, Sam became a teenage dad. Wanting to do the right thing, he married his girlfriend, and together they had a baby girl. He took his role as a father seriously from the start, determined to give his daughter a better life. Sadly, the marriage didn’t last. His wife had been unfaithful with one of his friends, and she eventually left him for that man. For a time, she left their daughter as well, and Sam took on the role of single father, raising her on his own for nearly a year. When his ex-wife returned, they battled in court for custody. Sam wanted full custody, but in the end, the court granted shared placement, with it being one week on, one week off. Eventually, his ex-wife remarried the man she’d left him for, and they remain together today.

A few years later, Sam remarried and had a son. Unfortunately, that relationship also ended in divorce, another painful chapter marked by a long custody battle. Through it all, Sam’s focus never wavered: his children came first. He fought hard to stay in their lives and succeeded in keeping regular time with his son, having a one week on and one week off schedule as well. No matter what life threw at him, he stayed committed to being a good father.

Finding Love Again

After years of trying to make relationships work, Sam longed for something real. A true partner. He dated occasionally, but nothing seemed to last. Then, one night in 1997, fate intervened. His sister was out with a friend and invited him to meet them out. He had nothing going on, didn’t have his son, so he thought why not. It was that night that he met a woman who would change his life forever. She gave him her phone number and told him to call sometime. Over the summer, they would bump into each other here and there while out boating and had casual conversation. But on Christmas morning, December 25, 1997, at 10 a.m., Sam picked up the phone and called her. That phone call started everything.

We had our first date on New Year’s Eve, taking his young son and my daughter to his sister’s house for a family party. There was something different about that night, a comfort, a connection neither of us had felt before. We didn’t rush into anything, but deep down, we both knew we’d found something special.

By spring, our relationship had grown, and in June 1998, my nine-year-old daughter and I moved in with Sam and his five-year-old son. His oldest daughter, who was nineteen and in college, rarely came around. Sam told me not to take it personally as she had her own life and would reach out only when she needed something. We settled into our new rhythm as a family and built a home filled with love, laughter, and the usual chaos that comes with blending households.

Three years later, Sam surprised me with the ultimate romantic gesture. On Valentine’s Day, in a small, private ceremony at our home, we were married. Only our two neighbors, our pastor, and our children were there. Sam had planned everything himself and told me just six days before when we went to the courthouse to get our marriage license. Because of family drama at the time, we decided to keep it a secret. It was just about us, our love, and our little family.

Blending a Family

Our blended family had its ups and downs, like any other. We were close, especially with our two youngest, and spent weekends fishing, camping, and going to car shows. Sam’s oldest daughter came around only occasionally, usually when she wanted or needed something. Their relationship was strained, sometimes painfully so. When she involved other family members in disagreements, it created unnecessary drama and even cost Sam something he loved, the right to hunt on family land he’d used for years. That broke his heart. Hunting was more than a hobby; it was something that connected him to his dad and his roots.

Still, Sam always kept faith that things would work out. He never stopped loving his children, even when relationships were complicated. When my daughter was fourteen, she asked Sam if he would adopt her. Without hesitation, he said yes. He started the process the very next day, overjoyed by the idea of officially becoming her dad. From that day forward, their bond was unshakable. Biology didn’t matter, she was his daughter in every way that counted.

Family, Challenges, and Unbreakable Love

Life wasn’t always easy, but Sam made it work. He stood up for his family, loved us fiercely, and never wavered in his commitment to keeping us together. But in 2015, things fell apart again with his eldest daughter. She was finishing her master’s degree and told us she’d be walking in the spring. We wanted to be there, but between Sam’s health issues and a pre-planned family camping trip, we warned her that we might not make it. She said she understood, but when the day came and we couldn’t get cell service to update her, she became upset. Miscommunication spiraled into anger, and the relationship broke down. Despite our attempts to reach out, mailing a card, calling, trying to reconnect, she stopped taking our calls. For the next eight years, she was estranged from the family.

Even when our daughter tried to include her in her wedding, she declined to participate, saying it would be “too hard.” She attended briefly but kept her distance. When Sam was diagnosed with cancer years later, our son reached out to tell her, hoping she might come to see him. Her response was cold and distant, “We’ll see what happens with his surgery.” She never showed up. When she did reach out during his illness, her words only added to his pain. Sam eventually stopped engaging with the drama. He was tired. It wasn’t until he was on hospice that she came around again, saying she wanted to make things right. For a moment, we believed she might mean it, but as time went on, it became clear it was only temporary, a fragile illusion of reconciliation.

The Heart of Who He Was

Despite heartbreak, loss, and struggle, Sam’s life was filled with love, laughter, and purpose. He found joy in simple things, a good meal, a drive in his Corvette, a campfire surrounded by family. He gave selflessly, worked hard, and loved deeply. He was an uncle everyone adored, a neighbor everyone could count on, and a husband who made sure we always felt safe, loved, and valued.

Sam’s story isn’t just one of hardship or illness. It’s a story of perseverance, compassion, and the kind of quiet strength that inspires everyone lucky enough to have known him.

Chapter Two: The Beginning of the Battle

Sam had always been no stranger to health challenges. Throughout his life, it seemed like there was always one thing after another. Something new for him to face, and somehow, he always found the strength to push through. He was treated at several different facilities over the years, and with each medical hurdle, he faced it with quiet determination and humor, often saying, “It could always be worse.” That was just who he was. Even when his body was betraying him, his spirit never did.

A Rare and Painful Diagnosis

In 2002, what started as something simple turned into something life-changing. Sam had sprained his ankle. It was a minor injury, or so we thought. But instead of healing, it grew worse. His pain intensified, his skin color changed, and he developed swelling and sensitivity that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like any injury he’d ever had before. After seeing several doctors, we finally found one who took the time to listen and dig deeper. This physician spent countless hours trying to understand what was really going on. Eventually, he diagnosed Sam with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS), which is a rare and chronic nerve disorder often triggered by even minor injuries.

It was a turning point. CRPS wasn’t just a diagnosis; it was a life sentence of managing pain that few people could understand. But Sam didn’t let it stop him. Thanks to that doctor’s attention and persistence, Sam was finally placed on a treatment and pain management plan that helped him regain some quality of life. He still had bad days, that included days when even the touch of a bedsheet could cause pain, but he learned to adapt, to live fully despite it.

Years of Health Challenges

Over the years, health issues seemed to follow Sam like an unwanted shadow. He underwent back surgeries and battled gallbladder problems that took months to properly diagnose. He was hospitalized several times for Lyme disease, mononucleosis, and pneumonia, among others. Each time, he would bounce back, though a little more worn, a little more tired, but always grateful for another chance to live his life.

Still, no matter what he faced, Sam rarely complained. He would shrug, crack a joke, and carry on. It was a kind of resilience that became his trademark quietly fighting battles most people never even knew about.

A Mysterious Decline

In 2018, things began to change again. Sam started complaining of stiffness and pain in his joints, mostly in his hands, shoulders, and arms. At first, we thought it was age catching up with him or maybe another flare-up of his CRPS or his Lyme’s disease. But as the stiffness worsened, we knew something else was going on.

His doctor ordered a series of tests, and eventually, Sam was diagnosed with severe rheumatoid arthritis (RA). The recommended treatment was Enbrel, a prescription medication often used for patients with moderate to severe RA. But we had serious concerns. Given Sam’s medical history, his CRPS, diabetes, and Lyme’s disease, this drug didn’t seem like the right choice. We voiced our worries, but the doctor was insistent. He said the blood work confirmed the severity and urged Sam to start Enbrel immediately.

Sam hesitated. He trusted his instincts, but he also trusted doctors, maybe more than he should have. Out of fear that delaying treatment might make things worse, he reluctantly agreed. In August 2018, he took his first dose of Enbrel. (That date would later prove to be important. One we would look back on many times.)

When Everything Changed

By early 2019, Sam began feeling worse. His energy levels plummeted, and his blood sugar, which had always been manageable, suddenly spiraled out of control. His doctor put him on insulin, but it didn’t seem to help. He was tired all the time, sleeping more than usual, and nothing we tried seemed to make a difference.

Concerned, his primary care doctor referred him to a cardiologist. The cardiologist wanted to schedule an angiogram but decided Sam should first have a colonoscopy, just in case blood thinners needed to be prescribed later. The colonoscopy came back clear, but Sam still wasn’t improving.

Then came March 3, 2019, the day of his mother’s funeral. Sam didn’t feel well at all. He was pale, moving slowly, and struggling to stay awake. I remember watching him that day, realizing something was very wrong.

The Day Our World Shifted

The next morning, March 4th, I called his primary care provider at 8 a.m. I explained his symptoms, which included weakness, fatigue, and confusion. She told me to bring him in right away for an appointment at 10:30 a.m.

Sam walked into the office on his own, but he was noticeably weak and quiet. During the exam, his doctor discovered his heart rate was only around 40 beats per minute. She immediately started running tests, trying to piece together what was happening. She spent more than two hours with us. She was methodical, compassionate, determined to find out what was wrong with him. By 12:40 p.m., she decided he needed to go to the emergency room for further testing.

At 12:45 p.m., Sam walked into the ER. Moments after being seated in a wheelchair, he began to deteriorate rapidly. His speech became slurred, and he struggled to form words. A stroke alert was called. Within minutes, they rushed him for CT scans of both his brain and abdomen. The abdominal scan came back clear. The brain scan did not.

The doctor returned with the results. He told me a large tumor had been found in the left frontal lobe of Sam’s brain.

Everything stopped.
Time seemed to fold in on itself.

Within hours, Sam was transferred by ambulance to a specialized hospital for emergency neurosurgery. On March 7th, 2019, he underwent surgery to remove the tumor. The operation went as well as it could have. He was weak and disoriented but alive. Over the next several weeks, he went through intensive speech, physical, and occupational therapy to regain strength and cognitive function.

Before his release, we went over his medications and noticed something odd. The Enbrel wasn’t on the list. When we asked why, the doctors told us bluntly that he should never take it again. It was no longer safe for him.

We asked the question that had been haunting us since the diagnosis:
“How long do you think the tumor had been there?”

The answer came softly but firmly, “Three to six months before discovery.”
That meant it had likely begun forming between September and December 2018, shortly after Sam had started taking Enbrel.

The Call That Changed Everything

On March 19, 2019, we received a call from Sam’s neurosurgeon. His voice was somber, deliberate. He explained that the tumor pathology results were back. Sam’s diagnosis was Glioblastoma Multiforme, Grade IV. The most aggressive form of brain cancer. It was terminal.

The surgeon’s final words still echo in my mind:

“I’m so sorry. Godspeed.”

With that call, everything we knew about life, our plans, our routines, our sense of security, shifted forever.

That was the day our journey with Glioblastoma began, and from that day forward, we documented every step of it through journal entries, hoping to make sense of the impossible, to hold onto faith, and to honor Sam’s courage through it all.

But, one question continued to linger beneath it all. From the moment Sam was diagnosed, we could not shake the feeling that the medication he had been placed on months earlier, Enbrel, might somehow be part of this story. We could not focus on it then. With the treatment schedules, therapies, scans, medications, everything else faded into the background. Years later, when the urgency had passed and the grief had settled into something quieter, we finally returned to it. What we found would change how we understood the beginning of Sam’s illness. The answers we found were far more complicated than we ever expected

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This space exists for honest storytelling. The kind that unfolds slowly and thoughtfully, without pressure to simplify experiences that are anything but simple. These are stories that do not always resolve neatly, do not always behave, and rarely fit into a caption. Real Talk with Tami and Stef was created to hold stories rooted in lived experience, reflection, and advocacy. Stories about navigating systems, trauma, grief, love, loss, and those moments when official explanations do not quite settle right. Sometimes the stories will be heavy. Other times, they will be strange, funny, unexpected, or a little “out there.” Because life is all of that!

Who We Are

We are simply two women whose lives were shaped by events that fundamentally changed how we see the world and how closely we listen. We are writers, witnesses, and participants in our own stories, sharing from the inside rather than the outside. Our writing centers on truth, context, compassion, and when appropriate, humor, because sometimes laughter is the only reasonable response left.

Some stories will be shared in parts, layered with reflection alongside facts, memory, documents, and meaning. Even the hardest chapters have moments that surprise us with coincidence, humor, and grace. Some posts will be deeply personal. Others will be analytical. Many will be both. Every so often, we will share stories of signs, strange timing, and moments that make you pause and say, “Well…that just happened.”

Why We are Writing Now

We are choosing to speak now because silence stopped feeling protective. Time has not brought closure, but it has brought clarity. With clarity came a responsibility to document, reflect, and share, not to accuse, but to shed light. This space exists because some stories do not end when the crisis does. They echo. They evolve and sometimes, they ask to be written down.

What you can Expect Here

You can expect thoughtful essays and occasional multi-part series shaped by lived experience and real-life situations as they unfold.

Our first major series will be a multi-part story centered on one brave man’s journey with Glioblastoma, a terminal brain cancer. It will explore:

• early symptoms

• the medical path we were guided down

• Medications and treatment decisions that, in hindsight, raised difficult questions and led us to uncover an earlier misdiagnosis that plausibly could have contributed to the eventual Glioblastoma diagnosis.

This series will unfold intentionally, over time.

• Beyond that, we will write about:

• figuring out systems that can be difficult to understand

• grief that does not move in a straight line

• speaking up for what you believe in, in thoughtful ways

• the evolving dynamics of family relationships, including estrangement, conflict, reconciliation, and how those dynamics can shift over time.

• stories of signs, synchronicities, and moments that defy easy explanation

• and the creative outlets, including artful designs we make and share, that help keep us grounded, sane, and smiling.

You’ll also find a link to our Redbubble shop here on Substack, where we share some of the creative work we make along the way. Consider it part storytelling, part survival strategy.

How Often We Will Publish

We value thoughtfulness over volume.

You can expect:

• one or two posts per month, with series installments sometimes appearing closer together.

• shorter reflections when something feels timely or worth sharing.

There will be no pressure driven posting and no content churn here. We believe stories arrive when they are ready.

Why Subscribe

Subscribing means:

• posts land directly in your inbox

• you will not miss multi-part stories as they unfold

• you are supporting long form, independent storytelling.

For now, subscriptions are free. Paid options may be introduced later to support sustainability, but nothing here will ever be shared from a place of urgency or obligation.

Follow only if it resonates.

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If you are here at the beginning, thank you for your curiosity, openness, and trust.

Tami & Stef, Real Talk

Disclaimer

The stories shared here reflect lived experience, personal reflection, and evolving understanding. They are not intended as medical, legal, or professional advice, nor as accusations. Names and identifying details may be changed or withheld out of respect for privacy. This space exists to document, reflect, and learn, not to assign blame.

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