Okay, back to a little bit of personal growth and the things that have happened since this blog was a regular thing back in 2020.

 

I’ve spoken before about the loss of my husband. There are times I discount the relationship we had—not because it didn’t matter, but because the memories most accessible to me are from the end, not the beginning.

 

From 2023 into early 2024, I went through something I wouldn’t wish on anyone: three significant deaths in a span of about nine months. My aunt passed away about a month after Jake did. I was very close to her and her husband, and I genuinely enjoyed my time with them and my East Coast family. I made an effort to visit whenever I could, and those memories still mean a lot.

 

Then in January 2024, my mom died.

 

While her passing had been expected for a couple of years, that doesn’t make the blow any softer. What I’m about to share now I haven’t told many people—but it’s time. At the time of her death, I was deep in substance use. So deep, in fact, that keeping up any appearance of functionality was a daily struggle. I was sick constantly—often from the substances, but now I also know I was experiencing undiagnosed strokes and TIAs. Either way, it was not good.

 

As her condition deteriorated, the moment came when it was time to travel to her bedside. But I couldn’t. My use had left me too physically ill to make the trip. I wasn’t safe to travel. So the best I could offer—the best I could give the woman who raised me and put up with all my crap—was a video chat to say goodbye.

 

That… haunts me. If I had to pick one regret in my life, it would be not being there for her at the end.

 

Her death shattered me. I don’t often think of my late husband, and when I do, I tend to feel indifferent or even bitter. But my mom? Even the absence of a memory can break me down. Like right now—I’m crying as I dictate this through speech-to-text.

 

I’m not sharing this for sympathy. Sympathy after a death is a double-edged sword. Sure, it’s comforting when people show up at first and help you through the initial fog. But eventually, the calls stop. The messages slow. Everyone disappears back into their own lives—and that vacuum? That can hit just as hard as the loss itself.

 

I’m not saying I expected ongoing hand-holding, but it’s a tough shift to navigate while grieving. Thanks to two years of therapy and solid psychiatric care, I’ve started to cope with that shift. I know some people pulled away because it’s hard to be around someone processing complex emotions. And if that didn’t do it, the substance use sure didn’t help.

 

For a long time, I felt like damaged goods.

 

But here’s something I can finally say now: good riddance.

 

I view friendship differently these days. I sometimes say I use the German definition—where friends are basically family, and your family treats them as such. By that standard, I have very few true friends. Some I hardly see in person anymore. Some I see often. But most of the people in my local orbit are strong acquaintances—not family. And that’s not an insult—it’s just the reality of who answers the phone when it rings at 3 a.m.

 

If you think this post is about you… well, Carly Simon wrote a pretty famous song for you, didn’t she?

 

We all know how this story unfolded: the investigation, the loss of my professional license, and, unrelated but compounding everything, the strokes that followed across the last 8 to 9 months leading into August 2024.

 

Wild, right?

 

The last two years have been, objectively, a giant suckfest. But the strange part? The overall trend has shifted—surprisingly—toward something better.

 

My mom’s death, horrible as it was, was the catalyst that finally shook me loose. I chose sobriety just days before she passed. And I haven’t used since January 2023.

 

That decision has given me a new life—one I didn’t expect but one I am grateful for. Like a friend of mine said: “Retiring is different… but it doesn’t suck.” He’s right.

 

So, just some Saturday musings. Thanks for being here, for reading, for listening.

 

If you’ve got comments—kind, harsh, or in-between—drop them below or on the blog’s Facebook page. I’m always open to thoughts. That’s part of the deal here.

 

And as always:

Be the kind of person your mom and your dog hope you are.