This post feels more personal and reflective than most of what I have written here. Since my last post, I have been carrying a number of thoughts that I haven’t always known how to articulate, and writing them down feels like the best way to give them some shape. They are not necessarily connected by one specific event or theme, but together they reflect where I am right now: grieving, exhausted, grateful, searching, and trying to find a way to keep going.
We are moving out of our home, and I’m finding it difficult to process what that really means. This is the only home Sofia ever knew. She was born here not long after we arrived, celebrated each of her three birthdays here, became sick here, and ultimately passed away here. Every room carries some part of her story, and leaving means saying goodbye to the only place she ever knew as home.
I know why we need to leave and I'm excited about what's next. I know that a house is still just a house, but that doesn’t make the decision feel simple. I’m struggling with the idea that, once we move, this will no longer be Sofia’s home. I don’t know exactly what I expected to feel, but I think some part of me knows this place will always remain connected to her in a way that moving makes impossible to ignore.
At the same time, life outside these walls has become increasingly difficult to manage. Work has been more challenging lately, and although I’m often working more than I ever have, I feel as though I’m accomplishing very little somedays. The long hours are taking a toll on me, but they are also taking a toll on my family, and that is difficult to sit with when so much of what I’m doing is intended to support them.
Between work and grief, I feel emotionally spent most days. I find myself craving the quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep and there are no immediate demands on me. I usually don’t do anything productive during those hours. I might have a beer, listen to music, or watch something that gives my mind somewhere else to go while I prepare myself emotionally for the following day. Then the days begin to pile on top of one another until everything starts to feel like a blur.
My days off are often busy, and when they aren’t, I sometimes find that even more difficult. At least when I’m busy, there is somewhere for my thoughts to go. When things become quiet, the grief and exhaustion I’ve been holding at a distance have more room to catch up with me.
Still, there have been moments of overwhelming goodness in the midst of all this heaviness. Our second Hope in Every Spot community fundraising event was incredible, and there were times when the size of the crowd and the generosity surrounding us felt almost overwhelming. I had assumed that the second year might draw a smaller crowd because more time had passed, but it actually felt significantly busier. We exceeded all of our goals, and between our Amazon Wish List and the funds raised at our events, we are confident that we can continue providing toys, activities, and support items to children and families for another year.
Throughout the year, we make regular toy drops at the hospital, but the most significant drop happens on Sofia’s birthday, July 16. Just as we did last year, we delivered 27 gift baskets filled with gift cards, toys, stickers, books, markers, and, most importantly, a crocheted ladybug and a plush lion. Each of those items represents strength and hope, and each basket carries a small piece of Sofia’s legacy into the lives of children and families who are facing something no family should have to face.
It is difficult to put into words how meaningful it is to take what could be an unbearably painful day for our family and turn it into something positive. We are able to do that because of the community around us, and because people have given us the opportunity to turn our pain into purpose. Hope in Every Spot, and the impact it has on children fighting cancer and their families, has had a profound effect on me as I continue to navigate this seemingly endless grief. I honestly cannot imagine how I would cope with this loss without having this vehicle for purpose and impact.
My family is another source of strength. I have a wonderful wife, children I love deeply, and a six-month-old baby, Luke, who has been such a blessing in my life. He grounds me in a way that has been incredibly helpful, and I see Sofia in him so often that I occasionally can’t decide whether it is more comforting or more painful. It is a reminder of what I have lost, but I also feel a spiritual connection between the two of them. Luke is always gazing toward the sky, and I like to believe that Sofia is talking to him.
Alongside the gratitude I feel for my family, however, there is a deep sense of guilt. I don’t feel like I am the husband I aspire to be, and Samantha carries our family alone far too much of the time. When I am home, I usually prioritize the children, and by the time they are in bed, my body seems to interpret that moment as permission to shut down. I’m often so drained that I have very little left to offer Sam, even though she deserves much more of me than I am currently able to give.
Recently, I've reflected often about the people who were present when Sofia was sick and in the months after she passed away. I will always be grateful for the friends and family members who supported us, especially those who were not particularly close to us before but became central characters in our story. At the same time, I couldn’t help but notice the people I had expected to be there who faded into the shadows. I don’t blame them, because I’m sure they had reasons they weren’t able to show up in those moments; nevertheless, their absence during such crucial parts of our lives has affected how I feel about them now.
That thought sometimes leads me to wonder whether my own lack of mental capacity is preventing me from showing up for other people. I keep so much of what I’m feeling to myself, more now than I did before, partly because I don’t want my family to worry about me. I feel that I owe it to them to be my best, and admitting that I’m not always able to be that person is difficult. When I do share, I also find that people often want to fix me, but I’m not sharing because I believe I can be fixed. If I open up, what I usually need is for someone to hear me and allow what I’m feeling to exist without immediately trying to solve it.
The truth is that I’m struggling to find something that fuels me personally. I enjoy listening to music and sports, but they often function more as distractions than as genuine passions. I had started to find something in running before an injury took that away, and since then, I’ve been searching for something else that might refill my tank. I want to find something that is perhaps a little selfish, not because I want to take anything away from my family, but because I need something that gives me enough energy to continue being present for them.
The daily grind of parenting, work, and managing my grief has taken its toll, and the lack of a personal hobby or passion has left me feeling as though I don’t have much to look forward to. I sometimes imagine what it would be like to have more flexibility in my life: more time with the children who live with me, more opportunities to see my older children, and more chances to visit my oldest daughter and my grandson, who live in Alberta.
I also wonder whether having more flexibility would give me room to develop personal passions without feeling guilty for using what little free time I currently have on myself. I genuinely enjoy my work and can see myself having a long-term career where I am, so this isn’t about wanting to escape it. It is more about trying to understand how I can create a life with enough space for my family, my responsibilities, and some small part of myself that exists outside of what I owe to everyone else.
Recently, I’ve become addicted to Noah Kahan’s music. There is something about the combination of his voice, its cadence, and the melodies behind it that feels both soothing and heartbreaking. I don’t necessarily connect with his lyrics in the same way I have with other artists, but the music still reaches me. Sometimes it comforts me, while at other times it brings an intense sadness to the surface. The fact that he also seems to have an affinity for ladybugs certainly doesn’t hurt.
I know I am forever changed by losing Sofia. In some ways, I feel permanently broken, but I also know that I am okay. Those two realities seem contradictory, yet both are true. I will never be the person I was before, and I will never simply get over what happened. I’m grateful for that in a way, because getting over it would feel like losing touch with Sofia and with the memories that keep her present in my life.
What I need now is not to move beyond her, but to find purposeful ways to lift myself above the pain. I need to discover how to care for myself without feeling that I am failing the people I love, how to accept support without worrying that I am burdening anyone, and how to find something that refills me enough to keep showing up.
I may be broken, but I am still here. I am still a father, a husband, a son, a friend, and a person trying to make something meaningful out of an experience that should never have happened. I am still carrying Sofia with me, even as we leave the home that held her entire life. For now, I’m learning to accept that being okay does not mean being healed, and moving forward does not mean moving on.
It means taking things one day at a time.
From Left to Right: Kaitlynn(with her son Hayden), Carter, Me, Sam (holding Luke), Jacob. This was taken at our 2nd Hope in Every Spot Community Event
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