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Reflections on a different summer

There are some conversations we avoid because they feel too heavy. Too final. Too uncomfortable to say out loud. Talking about a will is one of them. For a long time, it was for me too. But after losing both of my parents - and walking through everything that came after - I see it differently now. Not as something morbid or pessimistic, but as one of the most important acts of care we can offer the people we love. Because what's left behind isn't just memories. It's decisions

The first birthday without him...and the quiet ways he's still raising me up. There’s something about the “firsts” that feels impossible to prepare for. The first birthday without you. I’ve been trying to rationalize my way through it—telling myself all the things I know are true:that you’re no longer in pain, that love doesn’t end just because a life does, that I carry you with me. And I do. But there’s still this quiet, aching truth: I just wish you were here.One more call.

My new year doesn’t start on January 1. It starts at the end of January, when the house settles back to school. When the noise of the holidays fades and there’s finally space to feel what the past year actually held. That’s when reflection finds me—whether I invite it or not. This year, reflection came heavy. We have lived through a lot of loss. Some of it we knew was coming. Some of it took the wind out of us. Almost two years after losing our mom, we lost our dad. Which mea

The complicated truth behind the question people ask after you lose a parent. Someone recently asked how I have been holding up since my dad’s passing. I wanted to share my thoughts here—for anyone else in similar situation searching for some sliver of hope. The truth is…I’m not sure I have taken the real time to process the wholeness of this loss. It’s a new, raw journey—this one carries a significant weight of permanence to it. Even after long roads of illnesses and slow go

The Signs My Mom Sends When I Need Her Most The last time I spoke to my mom, I told her something that felt impossible to say. I told her I was ready to let her go. But, I also told her I wasn’t ready to lose her. Before she passed, I asked—okay, maybe begged—her for something. Come find me in the places we loved. In the gardens, At the beach.In quite the moments when the world slows down—walking, writing or disappearing into a good book. Just give me a sign. Her services at

I arrived at Miraval Berkshires Resort and Spa under a quiet, staggering weight. I had been invited there for an event leadership retreat—with strangers who were brought together to share experiences, lessons learned, and open dialogue to move together based on our collective experiences. This invitation was meant to be a reward as well, a time for celebration and unwinding, especially since I had just wrapped up our company’s largest event of the year only seven days prior.

There's a season of life no one really prepares you for. The one where your children are growing up fast—some already out of the house, others close behind. Many of our parents are gone or fading. We’re not quite talking about retirement like it’s tomorrow, but we see it right there on the distant horizon. And somewhere in the midst of all that—something else begins to happen. We start losing our friends. Not acquaintances. Not the casual people we meet along the way. The rea