I came home to a space where the love of my life was no longer physically here. But I didn’t come home to an empty house. Mac, Sophi, Finn, and Livvy made sure of that. There were paws, purrs, laughter, ridiculousness, and a house still very much full of life.

Grief has changed my life, but it hasn’t changed everything about who I am. I’m still a whole person. I still want the invitations, the laughter, the stories, and especially the memories of Doug. You don’t have to protect me from my grief, or decide what it should look like.

Grief and joy aren’t opposites, and one doesn’t have to leave before the other can enter. I’m learning that I can miss the love of my life deeply while rediscovering cooking, finding stillness in meditation, looking forward to new adventures and trusting myself to find my feet when grief knocks me off balance.

For most of my adult life, I have been very good at doing. In fact, I wore busyness like a badge of honor. Then life became quiet in a way I never could have imagined. I gave myself 30 days with no expectations of what any of it was supposed to look like. What I discovered in that quiet surprised me.

Sometimes the most meaningful celebration isn't a single day, it's a legacy that continues to help others. This is why I've chosen education in lieu of flowers and how you can be part of honoring Doug's memory.

After years of encouraging care partners to accept help, I realized I'm still learning how to receive it myself. Sometimes love arrives disguised as a dish towel, a pitcher of punch, or someone quietly asking, "Can I help?"

When someone shares that they are living with dementia or caring for someone who is what they need most isn’t reassurance or comparison. They need to be heard. Minimizing the disease doesn’t make it easier; it often makes it lonelier.