It's taken me so long to write this. In fact, it's been over two months since I last wrote anything. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, and I certainly have a lot to say. However, I've come to realize that writing about what's on my mind is often the final step in my process of moving forward. I can't seem to put my thoughts into words until I'm relatively certain I'm ready to release whatever has been lingering in my mind.
While my time away with Samantha and Carter brought us so much good, it also challenged me in unexpected ways. Recently, I’ve struggled to find my way out of a valley of grief and depression, which explains the long delay in writing. Even though I still have work to do, I feel like I’m starting to show signs of improvement. I'm hopeful that putting some of this into words will help push me further toward optimism and healing.
Samantha, Carter, and I left for Mexico on November 5th and returned to Canada on January 18th—75 days in total. As I wrote in a previous blog post, this was an adventure I had been longing for. I felt strongly that a change of scenery could be beneficial for our family as we grieve our loss. Now, looking back, I am certain this escape was an important and pivotal part of my process, though the benefits weren’t always obvious in the moment. In fact, some of the most difficult days of my grief have occurred since we left for Mexico in November—both while we were there and since we’ve returned.
Occasionally, while we were away, I received messages from people saying things like, "I hope you're having a great vacation!" I know these messages were well-intentioned—most people in Canada associate any time in Mexico with a vacation, especially in the winter. But for me, this was not a vacation. I struggled to find the right word, but I think I’ve settled on retreat. Many people use that term when referring to healing, and that was the primary purpose of our trip. We spent 75 days in a beautiful city with incredible weather, great friends, and many fun, memorable moments. In that sense, I understand why some might view it as a vacation. But I also had moments where I felt alone, hopeless, and profoundly sad. Those emotions make me lean more toward calling it a retreat rather than a vacation.
We lived in a two-bedroom condo in a small, four-story building with only seven units. There were four identical buildings next to one another, and we were in the easternmost one, on the third floor, overlooking the fairway and green of hole three of El Cid's golf course. The condo itself was fairly basic, but the location was excellent. El Cid is a massive gated neighborhood in the heart of Mazatlán. If you’ve been to Mazatlan, you might recognize the hotel bearing the same name. The entrance to our neighborhood was directly across from that hotel. To give some perspective on the neighborhood’s size, it was well over a one-kilometer walk from our condo to that main entrance, and visiting a friend within the same El Cid neighborhood once required an 11-minute drive! It was wonderful living on a golf course, and the safety and relative quiet of the El Cid community were big advantages. I enjoyed running most mornings around the course before the golfers teed off for the day. And when they finished, we'd often use the course as our backyard; playing catch or kicking the soccer ball. Carter loved driving the golf cart (with my help) to the driving range for his lessons. Sam had a lot of friends within the community too allowing her to easily connect with them day and night.
The first few weeks of our retreat were filled with activities and a ton of fun. Carter took golf and padel lessons while we were there. Padel is a popular racquet sport in Mexico, and he really excelled at it. We had a friend take us by boat to a nearby island, we spent a weekend at a resort with some of Sam's closest friends and their kids, visited the aquarium, visiting the local fair, hiked El Faro, went to many Venados games, and explored the city. But as we settled in more and the excitement wore off, something shifted in me.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when or why my mood started to decline, but I believe it was around early to mid-December. Perhaps it was the impending holiday season and my anxiety about facing it without Sofia. My symptoms started subtly—low energy, reluctance to engage in lengthy social settings, a craving for solitude, impatience, and, of course, sadness. While I was struggling, so was Sam. She loved reconnecting with friends, but we both missed home, and more than anything, we both missed Sofia.
One of the things I’ve learned on this grief journey is just how different the process is for everyone. Even though Sam and I share the same loss, our ways of coping are vastly different. I find comfort in surrounding myself with visual reminders of Sofia—photos on my phone wallpaper, my Apple Watch, physical pictures throughout the house, and a slideshow on my Google Nest Hub. But for Sam, seeing Sofia’s pictures too often can be overwhelming. She loves seeing them, but only when she chooses. I had packed the Nest Hub with me knowing I'd want the comfort of those pictures nearby but shortly after arriving in Mexico, she asked me to turn off the slideshow. I completely understood, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss those images playing on repeat.
This dynamic is an example of how grief can be isolating even within the same household. We are both hurting and searching for comfort, yet we don't always find solace in the same ways. Sometimes, accommodating one another's needs for healing can unintentionally create discomfort for the other. It’s a challenge we continue to navigate together, striving to do it with love and understanding.
Oddly enough, the holiday I was most anxious about had passed with relative ease. Christmas was quiet but enjoyable. We celebrated Christmas Eve with great friends and their kids. And we celebrated Christmas Day, as a family, at a Venados baseball game. The big one was behind us I thought. But by the time New Year's Eve arrived, I would hit my lowest emotional point. I’ve never been one to celebrate the holiday so I didn’t anticipate how much it would affect me. The day felt unbearably heavy. Almost from the moment I woke up, I was overcome with sadness; a constant and persistent ache. By evening, I was completely incapacitated—sitting alone on our patio, tears flowing, lost in my grief. When I later spoke to my counselor about it, she told me it’s common for grieving parents to struggle more on New Year’s Eve than Christmas. In hindsight, it makes sense. Sofia’s last year of life was 2024. Entering 2025 meant stepping into a year she would never be a part of.
As the new year began, we had a few things to look forward to that brought some much-needed relief. Some great friends and their kids were coming to visit us in Mazatlán, and Sam was beyond excited to host them. It was the first time she’d ever had friends from Canada join her there, and since we all (Sam, Carter, and I) missed them dearly, the thought of reconnecting felt like a little taste of home at just the right time. Right after their visit, my dad and Ginny would be joining us for a week too, and then we’d be heading home! While we cherished so much about our time away, the thought of returning home soon was something we were all eagerly anticipating.
Those visits were great and we enjoyed our last few weeks in Mazatlan. Mazatlan is one of my favorite places in the world. But, for me, home is Maple Ridge, BC. And I couldn't have been happier to be going home.
Returning home felt like a relief. The comfort of familiar surroundings, seeing our dogs, reconnecting with friends, and returning to routines was grounding. Yet, after a week or so, I started to regress again. Turns out grief will follow you wherever you go. On top of that, Sam and I both returned without jobs, adding an extra layer of uncertainty. Sam hasn't worked full time since Sofia was sick and I was laid off from my company while I was away in Mexico. The layoff news sounds worse than it is. I had suspected my company would be needing to make some cuts and had asked that I be sacrificed rather than someone else. I was pretty sure I wouldn't want to return to that job when I got back so the layoff was more blessing than curse. While I'm not particularly anxious yet about my career future, I know financial pressures could eventually become overwhelming if Sam and/or I don't find some clarity soon.
Through all of this, I’ve realized how essential purpose is to my well-being. When Sofia was sick, our purpose was clear: take care of her. After she passed, our focus shifted to taking care of each other and our family. Work, too, provided some purpose when I returned last April, but now, I feel the need for something deeper—something fulfilling, rewarding, and healing. Although the source of purpose could come from my work, it doesn't need to.
I define purpose simply as impacting others, but before I can truly do that, I need to focus on myself. Hitting rock bottom in Mexico forced me to reflect on my habits and actions. Were they helping or hurting me? What could I change? I've made some adjustments already—switching from my Apple Watch to a Garmin to reduce distractions, incorporating daily meditation, taking some time away from Instagram, committing to daily gym workouts, and monitoring my nutrition more intentionally. These changes are been small but meaningful steps.
In the past few months, I’ve also been quietly working on an event to honor Sofia and raise money for children with cancer. I recently shared some details with Samantha, and we are excited to move forward. If you're interested in participating locally, please save the date: May 24th. This day holds significance for us, as it marks the anniversary of Sofia’s Celebration of Life. Creating this event is exactly the kind of purpose I need right now, and I’m eager to share more soon.
Thank you for reading. It’s been a while since I’ve written, and my thoughts are still a bit scattered, but I appreciate you being here.
Carter driving the golf cart to his lessons and him with his golf bag
This is amazing. And I’m sure
ReplyDeleteCarter and sofia are so lucky to have you as parents. Los abrazo desde Langley y espero verlos pronto. Fer
ReplyDelete❤️
ReplyDelete