I’ve been absent from Substack for the last month.
On the surface, the reasons are simple enough: a new editing job, other projects, and the chaos that comes with having two daughters graduate high school at the same time.
Something had to give.
And it was this.
But the truth is, my absence has been about more than just being busy.
After the initial shock of losing my wife, Judy, to cancer in 2024, I found myself lost in a storm of guilt and grief. I was looking for a life preserver and found several: books, journaling, therapy, and eventually this Substack.
Around this time, I began looking at life as really a series of seasons that we constantly move in and out of. The almost endless summer of childhood. The turbulent fall of adolescence. And the ever-changing seasons of adulthood.
After Judy died, I gradually accepted that I was entering a dark, harsh winter and needed to act accordingly.
To anchor myself through that blizzard, I kept my focus on mainly two things:
my health and my kids.
For my health, I got back in shape. I even started making my own yogurt for gut health and tried eating fermented foods every day. That quickly faded as I rediscovered how much I hate sauerkraut and kimchi.
Mentally, I gave myself permission to grieve. I filled journals with my endless thoughts. I dove headfirst into therapy. I talked to almost anyone who would listen about Judy’s death.
“Hey man, I just wanted to know if you wanted paper or plastic.”
For my girls, I did my best to keep their lives as stable as possible. Judy was very much a homebody, so that meant being home as much as I could. I passed on jobs that would have taken me away. I didn’t fully commit to possible new relationships. I cut back on activities and didn’t pursue any new ones. And I stopped beating myself if I wasn’t “maxxing” my life to its fullest potential.
As I began writing here, I could already feel the thaw. But over the last few months, the sun has truly broken through. The ice is melting.
That winter coat I insulated myself in now, at times, feels like a heavy, soggy… burden.
So between the normal demands of life and the growing realization that a new season is approaching, I’ve struggled with what to write about.
Instead of forcing another piece about grief or retracing the same ground, I chose to step away and enjoy the fleeting days of this season.
A few years ago, I read a newsletter, or maybe heard it on a podcast, that roughly 90 percent of the time we’ll ever spend with our children happens before they turn eighteen.
Well, then I am at 89.5 percent.
They’ll be leaving for college in just a couple of months.
So whenever they’re not running off with friends, I’ve tried to savor every last minute with them, even when it came at the expense of my health. One weekend, we hunkered down, ate far too much junk food, and streamed every episode of Pluribus. It wasn’t some exciting adventure, but it felt special at the time. As if this might be the last time I’ll ever get to do this with them. And it might.
As for the next season, I’m still figuring it out.
For twenty-three years, I was a husband. For sixteen of those years, a husband and father. Then, for the last two, a widower and father.
Soon, for the first time in more than two and a half decades, I’ll mostly be on my own.
Will it be a spring of reinvention where I overhaul the entire garden? Or will I simply let things grow naturally and see where they lead?
I don’t know yet.
I’m still teeter-tottering through it.
Either way, I don’t know exactly what it means for this Substack.
The grief will always be there. Judy will always be part of my story. But I don’t feel the same need to write or talk about grief as often anymore. The grocery clerk is probably thankful for that.
There are other things I’m curious about. Other things I want to explore. Other stories I want to tell.
What I do know is that I’m grateful for everyone who has taken the time to read these essays over the last year.
And if my writing changes a little going forward, I hope you’ll understand.
Sometimes the reason we stop doing something isn’t because we’re quitting.
It’s because the season that required it has finally passed.
A quick shout-out to Aaron Sorenson, who reached out to me and helped me realize that maybe I do have a few things left to say. Writing this essay alone helped me work through some things.
Kudos (I kinda hate that word, but what else says it? Congrats? My respect? All equally bland. At least kudos sounds like it could be Klingon or some other language) on getting through/passing through/moving through whatever it is into this next stage of the process. It sounds as if this has served its purpose and done it well. I hope you keep it up to some degree just because I enjoy reading your thoughts, and you always have something insightful, often wise, darkly funny and deeply human to say about where you're at in a way that's mighty relatable to anyone else suffering from the human condition. Even if it's not as frequent, I'm not some creature of habit that has to have a weekly update from everyone I follow, and anyway I expect we'll be hearing from each other pretty regularly regardless. Congrats (kudos even!) on the new gig, the new headspace, and the new pathways that are splaying out in front of you as the next chapter of your life emerges into view.