07/11/2025
One year ago, I was walking through one of the hardest seasons of my life. I had to accept that the house I had lived in for 27 years would no longer be part of my future. I started packing in May, surrendering to the reality that I couldnât reach my stepdad to try to buy the home. He had disappeared, refusing to return my calls, and even his girlfriend met my outreach with silence.
So I began the slow process of packing up decades of memories â my sonâs childhood, the echoes of my momâs life, her belongings carefully tucked into boxes and trunks, all stacked in. Itâs surreal to dismantle a home, especially when the realtor assigned to sell it repeatedly made inappropriate and sexual comments about my body, disregarding the grief I was experiencing. He would show up unannounced, asking personal questions about who I was dating, and how weâd be a great match, leaving me feeling unsettled in my own space.
All of this unfolded while my stepmom of 35 years fell into a coma. In just a few days, on July 15th, it will be one year since her passing â the loss of an incredible woman in my life. And if I rewind further, 14 years ago at the end of July, I lost my champion â my mom. Last year, I had to go to court to become the litigation representative of her estate, 13 years after her death, just to gain the legal right to bury her ashes because her husband had disappeared. That process alone cost close to $10,000 so I could finally lay her to rest with her family in just two weeksâ time.
I share all of this not from a place of resentment, but from a place of resilience. Because today, I choose to see life through the eyes of love rather than pain. The path I have walked over these decades has been nothing short of a miracle, and I am still standing firmly on this earth because I choose to be here, rooted.
If I were to tell this story to my grandchildren one day, I would tell it like this:
There once was a woman who faced one of the hardest years of her life. She had to say goodbye to the house she called home for 27 years â a house filled with echoes of childrenâs laughter, the quiet presence of her motherâs spirit, and trunks packed full of stories waiting to be told. She tried to keep the home in the family, but her calls went unanswered, so she began to pack, surrendering to what life was asking of her.
If there are any whispers, gut feelings, or red flags, take them seriously. Never say, ânext year Iâll do it,â because next year with those same people may never come. Say yes more often to memories.
The story Iâd tell is of a little house on Marquis Place, with trees as old as your grandmother. It hosted your fatherâs childhood â from crawling on the carpet to hockey championships and graduation parties. It was where your great-grandmother woke before dawn to bake buns at 3 AM, and where Santaâs magic felt most real. This small home held so much love. But eventually, it was time for your grandmother to dance into a new life. Reluctantly, she went, but before she left, she hugged each tree and harvested the fall herbs. She said goodbye to the squirrels, crows, and deer that would visit and asked them to come find her again. That sheâd be the one dancing two miles away.
She wouldnât speak of the heartbreaks or the time her ankle gave out beneath her. Because the ones who truly matter will always be around you, in spirit and in love, as the rest of life passes by like a movie.
That year, she learned that pain could be alchemized into beauty if you walked with it gently. That even when everything felt stripped away, her roots were deeper than she ever imagined. And in the end, she chose to see the world through the eyes of love instead of pain.
This is not a story of loss. It is a story of resilience, devotion, and love rooted so deep that even the fiercest winds could not tear her from the earth she chose to stand upon.
Thank you for witnessing this chapter with me. đđšđâ¨â¤ď¸
