When Grief Comes Crashing
I haven’t written in so long.
This morning I woke up feeling hollow—like something sacred had been scraped clean inside me—and I knew. The words needed to come.
So here I am.
On August 2nd, we lost my father-in-law in a tragic, gut-wrenching accident. And ever since that phone call, I’ve been drifting in a fog. Eleven days later, and it still doesn’t feel real. Not even close.
I can’t explain the emotions. I wish I could.
There’s a rage in me. A helplessness. A need to scream until something gives. I want to scream for my husband—for the time he didn’t get. For the peace they had finally found after years of clashing and circling back and trying again. At 44 and 66, they had finally become friends. Finally found laughter. And then it was taken.
Just like that.
What I Can Say
I won’t speak for my husband. That’s his story to tell, or not.
But I will say this: the man he is today—strong, loving, dependable—that man was shaped by his father. And for that, I’m forever grateful.
We looked through old photos recently, and my God… my son is the spitting image of him. So is my husband. Even my daughter has that same spark in her smile. Those genetics are loud. And now, painfully beautiful.
It crushes me that my children will never open the door and see him standing there again. Never hear him say “I love you.” Never get another laugh or hug or holiday.
It’s just… gone.
And the worst part? The most fucked up part of all of this?
There was no closure. No space to mourn properly. No sacred pause to feel the gravity of the loss. And without that, grief gets complicated. Tangled. Furious. Wild.
I watch my husband carry that weight. Haunted. Hollowed. Breaking.
And I can’t fix it.
God, I want to fix it.
But I can’t.
Watching My Protector Break
This man—my protector, my rock—is shattered.
And I know he’ll never be the same. I know this loss will shape him in ways we haven’t even begun to understand. That realization guts me more than anything.
I want to take his pain. Absorb it. Bury it somewhere it can’t touch him.
I want to hurt the people who hurt him. I want to throw hands and cuss and go full wild-woman on the world for letting this happen.
But instead, I sit in the ache.
I hold him. I watch him unravel. And I try to be soft.
The Beautiful Pieces
Even in all this pain, the love has shown up.
Family we haven’t seen in years came together. Stories were told. Tears were shared. We hugged and laughed and let the presence of others patch us up for a moment.
We were lucky enough to spend time with two of his brothers after his passing. That helped. That mattered. To be in the presence of people who’d known him since birth—who’d seen the same man we did, in all his complexity—it brought a strange kind of peace.
Because yes, he was rough and rugged.
But he was also generous. Hilarious. A damn good man.
A carpenter. A craftsman. A magician with wood. The kind who could build anything and charm the hell out of you while doing it.
“The Love Was Never Complicated”
What hurts the most is the narrative some folks keep spinning.
Like they knew the whole story.
Like they understood the dynamic between him, his son, and his daughter.
They didn’t.
Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it was layered.
But the love? The love was never complicated.
They butted heads because they were too damn much alike. And honestly, it was funny sometimes—watching three stubborn souls clash like cymbals.
But underneath all that noise was real, solid love. Respect. Appreciation. It wasn’t perfect, but it was true.
And we’ll hold on to that. For the rest of our lives.
I want his life to be honored. I want his memory to outshine the misconceptions. I want my husband and children to remember the man who showed up, who gave, who loved, who built. A father, a son, a friend… but always our Poppa.
The Final Shape of Love
Grief, for me, is not just loss. It’s witnessing the ripple.
Seeing the hurt in my children’s eyes. Watching my husband crumble. Feeling the silence of someone who used to fill a room.
And it brings out the younger version of me—the one who wanted vengeance. Who knew how to hurt back.
But I won’t go there.
Not this time.
Age and growth and healing have taught me to choose peace, even when I’m drowning in rage.
I just want his life to matter. I want the world to know the truth.
He worked through pain. He built with skill. He laughed loud and loved hard. He passed down his blue eyes, his talent, his grit.
And I hope he knows—wherever he is—that we loved him fiercely.
That we always will.
That he’s not gone.
Not really.
He’s in the laugh of my son.
The eyes of my daughter.
The steady hands of the man I married.
We carry him with us.
Always.
