04/24/2026
Two years ago this week, we lost Steve.
He was my uncle, but that word never felt big enough for who he was to me.
Steve was my hero, my cheerleader, and in many ways, my big brother.
He was the family historian.
The wild man.
The comedian.
The storyteller.
The keeper of memories.
He could make you laugh, tell a story you never wanted to end, and remind you where you came from all in the same conversation.
Steve is one of the reasons I am a better grief therapist.
He would never have sat down with someone to talk through his own pain. That was not his way. But he always celebrated that I wanted to help people. He believed in the work I felt called to do, even if he might not have chosen it for himself.
He also used to say I was like his mom—my Grandma.
Spicy and loving.
Centered on serving others.
Deeply devoted to family.
And always, always holding the people we love to high standards.
Gosh, I miss her too.
That is the thing about grief. One loss often reaches back and touches another. We do not grieve in neat little boxes. We grieve people, stories, family roles, shared history, and the parts of ourselves that were shaped by those who loved us.
Life has a huge hole in it without Steve.
But his love is still here.
It is in the way I sit with grieving people.
It is in the stories I carry forward.
It is in the standards I hold.
It is in the service I offer.
It is in the name I refuse to stop saying.
Steve.
Loved deeply.
Missed terribly.
Remembered always.