When I added this line to the revamped version to record, I wanted to add a little more depth by adding a number that reflected our dating and married time together. On this anniversary, I can’t help but feel this number a little different. Especially as I tip toward 7 years without Josh's physical presence – another strange parallel, (7 was our unique celebrating number.) 
​
The song “Everyday (It’s Hard to Be Blue) truly does reflect so much, from our story to the many pieces it represents within my grief journey. Yes, it is just one song, but it is also a way to express my feelings rolled into one bunch. It’s like a giant chord of emotions, maybe like one of those extended jazz chords with lots of notes. 

Yeah, that's it, anniversary 24 is like a big fat jazz chord of emotions. It's complicated, and at times, it even sounds a bit bizarre.

As I start this Monday, I am trying to tackle it with intention by taking my nephew and bride-to-be to dinner and talking about Josh and our love story. I'll continue my work at the grief center, post this blog, and most likely play some melancholy/hopeful music at some point.

In this ever-changing space of my widow-life journey, I still acknowledge that there are many complicated parts in between. There is new blending with the old. There is sorrow and hope. There is now and then. There is contrast in all, and at various moments, I still feel the blues deep because Josh is truly gone. Even as I sing about joyful memories, there is a note of sorrow in the bass. This is just part of the song and journey. 💙​

"It's Hard to blue, when I think of you.
You brought a smile to my face every time
You brought laughter to my life
And joy to my soul." 

Find links to listen to the full song here Everyday (It’s Hard to Be Blue)
&  View all the lyrics to the song below

Six yea​rs later . . .

I pen the words imagining they appear like an opening caption to a movie sequel or the return of a favorite tv show. 

It has been six years, since I said the long goodbye to Josh. Even as his presence lingers like a ghost at times, I notably feel his absence in my everyday life. There are still moments when I would love to talk about a significant event happening and get his perspective. The sorrow doesn’t grip my heart quite as intensely as it did six years ago, or even five. I can’t fully say it has lessened each year, but it has toned down generally. This year, I find myself reimagining what I would do with one more day with him. 

Working on staff at a grief center, this year especially, has also heightened the conversations around me about grief and given me a new type of permission to talk through the layers that linger within anyone’s grief narrative. We talk about our people — living and dead. It’s refreshing. Maybe that sounds weird to say but I think so often in our culture, we skip over talking about people who are no longer here. Maybe it’s uncomfortable, maybe it’s just still so sad. I think honestly, it sometimes just feels easier to do ANYTHING else instead of looking that grief monster right in the eye. 

I recently watched the season finale of a show called “The Bear” which is riddled with themes of grief. The last episode of season 4 had me crying as it so fiercely tackled the topic – and all the things we hold inside trying to avoid truly facing it or talking about it. (Warning, there is a lot of language in the show and that episode, so it might not be for everyone)

Part of the tears came because of the timing of the year, but I also found myself caught up in how the characters addressed the heaviness and intensity that is grief. The journey impacts us all uniquely. As I take this September 30 day off work and sit outside a quiet cabin surrounded by birds, chattering chipmunks, and scurring squirrels, I know my friends and family are each navigating this day differently. 

Grief is hard because the significant days (birthday, death day, anniversary, etc.) are so unique and personal. It’s easier to remember or recognize a birthday (thank you social media) but a death day (which is also significant) can slip past without recognition for many. Yet, it is very memorable (and emotionally hard) to those who faced it head on.

There is a poem called, “The Dash” that references the time between our birth date and death date as our dash. Interestingly it was written the same year Josh graduated high school. In overview, it encourages readers to live, love and maximize our time between the two dates – our dash. While I agree with this sentiment, I know the markers of each beginning and end are also important to note.

With all this in mind, I thought on this sixth anniversary, it would be fitting to share six things I wish everyone (including my newer friends who never met him) knew about Josh’s dash of life.  

1. Josh loved a good story - telling it, watching it in a show or movie, or hearing it in a song.
2. Josh loved to laugh and enjoyed a good level of sarcasm.
3. Josh sincerely believed and trusted in Christ and loved the Church. He understood and believed in the good it could be when operating well, and was often frustrated when it didn’t.
4. Josh only had one lung (due to the 8 lb cancerous tumor being removed when he was 15 years old).
5. Josh loved the KC Royals, European Soccer and the Chiefs (probably in that order)
6. Josh loved his family and friends, this includes me, who he loved to his very core (and we in turn loved him greatly too).

Narrowing this list down to six was a challenge as there is so much more to any person, especially Josh, but at first pass these are the key things I’d want people to know about my beloved on this sixth anniversary.

Side note: Thank you to many who follow our story still today and who have told me so. It’s an honor to share my grief journey and to share about Josh and our life together. 

​Anniversaries seem to include a lot of math. How many years have we been together? How many years has it been since we did this or we did that? And each time you do the math somehow, it still doesn’t seem accurate. How could it be that long or that short? Today would be my 23rd wedding anniversary. Coincidentally our anniversary day math equals our “would be” years. I just realized this writing the title!

​This day, especially, still leaves me in a melancholy mood. The sorrow is not quite as severe as it was the first year, but it manages to sit on my chest like a brick. ❤️‍🩹💔

Just yesterday I was talking to someone about their “would be” 40th anniversary and she said, “you were so young to lose your husband.” My response, “yes, but it still hurts no matter how long.” 

Our grief and sorrow is not for comparing. It is different for sure but thinking, “oh they were married longer so it hurts more or it hurts less”, is not always accurate. Comparing is not fair in life or in death. Of course, there are a lot of things that aren’t fair in the world - I know there’s a whole lot we can say about that and I probably have at times.

Anyway, as I attempt to process the thoughts and feelings in my mind and heart today I am still thankful for saying, “I do” and “until death do us part” on May 18, 2002. I still greatly wish Josh and I could be celebrating another anniversary. If I add in the seven years of dating, I guess we’d be 30 years together at this point - crazy math once again. The bonus is that I got some added family members out of this mix that I still get to call my own. For that, I am very thankful. 

I am not an expert on grief, but I have lived it and there’s a lot of talk about you not moving on from grief. It’s true, you don’t just move on. I call my blog Grieving On, not because it’s about moving on, but I feel like I am carrying it with me so I’m grieving on. I’m grieving on in the sense of movement. On days like today, the movement is not as active but also life still happens around me. There are new memories and joyful moments still happening. Even still, the day can feel a little bit like sticky mud where it’s hard to gain traction. Even if trying to make the best of a sticky situation, mud pies don’t always taste so good.

So a sigh for a Happy/not so happy anniversary. But a smile for the love I experienced and the joys we shared as Mr and Mrs. Brown. 🤎

​Mother’s Day: 🌸 👹 I've decided this day is like an eight-headed monster. It's odd and unpredictable, with elements of both good and bad.

I can’t think about this day without thinking how fortunate I am to have had a good mom. She supported me growing up, we had fun, we had adventures, and she inspired me often with the way she cared for our whole family and her friends too. [Photo caption in case you don’t make it to the end of this long post: this was me and my mom probably around my senior year of high school.]

Along with the good side of monsters, I also am thankful for bonus moms - including my stepmom, Morgan, who stepped into care for our family - and especially my dad - for many years now. She is a thoughtful, creative, and caring lady.

Then there's my mother-in-law, Kim, who loves everyone with such grandeur. I know her heart is still broken with the loss of her son but because of that we connect in a whole new way in life now- but she has always been my cheerleader and she’s a treasure!

The final piece includes bonus moms, my aunts, friends, and ladies who fill (and filled)  the role my mom might have if she was here. They also provide support in their own way. This includes the moms that I am so proud of who surround me from my sister-in-laws Julie and Erin - to dear friends who are giving their all to raise amazing kids in not always the easiest of times.

Now for the other side of the monster - the less pretty side. This is the fact that my mom is no longer on this earth and hasn't been for over two-plus decades now. I still miss her. Someone recently stopped by the grief center where I work, and in the first couple moments with tears in her eyes she said, "It’s been four years since my mom died, and I just can’t get over it." I responded with, "I get it." 

What I didn’t say was, “It's been 28 and I am not really ‘over it.’”

The next monster sits adjacent to this one and is the fact that Josh isn't here. He knew my mom too and knew the effect my mom’s loss had on me. He was one of the first people at the hospital when she died, and sat beside me for many tearful moments - this included the times we sat in many, many doctors offices trying to figure out kids, which is the seventh monster.

The fact that despite all efforts - numerous medical procedures and failed adoption processes - our dream of kids didn't happen. This is a hard journey for anyone trying. It's hard even when kids are the outcome. It's a process of resilience and trust. For me, I am not sad we tried. I am sad about the results.

The final monster is just the ambiguous one that is kind-of all the thoughts about the world. The what ifs, questions, and more. I'm not sure what this piece is but it's there. Maybe it's the one that is the true author of this post. The one questioning, "Why even write about this, but then again, why not?" It's the monster giving voice to the complexities that come with these special holidays in life - including a grandma with Alzheimer’s and the times when we celebrate, even if we doesn't always feel like it for any number of reasons. It is a way to process and to place a little complicated candor into the world as we know it.

So ... “Happy Mother's Day!” I say while looking at a new favorite photo my cousin recently found of my mom and I from years ago. I love the smile on both of our faces. This photo is a treasure as it brings back memories of the times we laughed, shopped, adventured, and shared life together.