Chapters

 

Every time one chapter of grief lifts and eases, another one is standing behind it.

This is why I ask you to be patient with those who are many years into their loss; those who mark the passage of time as “before” and “after”.

Before the death and after it.

We are the wistful ones who go about life in the usual way, getting groceries and attending Dr. appointments; picnicking with family and buying ice cream for the grandkids; getting the oil changed and planning a road trip.

We blend in, we often look brave and many times we are overtaken with joy.

All the while there’s this giant absence in the form of an empty chair, a remembered birthday, a wedding where someone else walked her down the aisle.

It’s strange yet familiar, when I mention my loss that happened 18 years ago. In my own mind it feels like I’m hanging onto something others may dismiss as “healed”, “neatly categorized”, even forgotten.

To the grieving, the story doesn’t end. There’s another chapter looming, and we turn the pages to keep the story alive. We buy the sequel. We return to the early chapters, searching for warnings, for clues.

We try to fathom the loss.

We cannot.

Because of our muted journey, people think we’ve moved on.

We haven’t, not really.

The thing I’ve slowly come to realize all these years since my husband’s sudden death, is this: he was consumed with grief when he died. Grief didn’t take him, but Despair had driven a hollow place inside his very being.

We had made a life-altering decision to move from Colorado, our home together for 22 years, back to Pennsylvania. It was not an easy decision, and I was personally struggling as we packed boxes and imagined our future. I could sense a shifting, a remaking of our family dynamics; no longer would we be a unit unto ourselves, but rather a part of a large family network. Pennsylvania is the seat of our childhood homes, the place of kinfolk, the shape of our beginnings.

I knew, intuitively, we would no longer problem-solve as a couple – we would now have input, most of it uninvited.

We would no longer observe birthdays and holidays as a family of 4, plus a dog – we would now carry casseroles and ambiguous feelings into picnic pavilions with yawning gaps of life between us and our loved ones.

We would no longer measure time by toothless grins, piano lessons and silhouetted foothills in view. Time would now be distilled into a blender of new anniversary dates, unfamiliar faces and cultural nuances.

Our daughters adapted.

I yielded to the remolding of our family.

Roger, he took it the hardest, I think. Although he had told me we could always move back to our out-West-life in Colorado, it just kept growing further out of reach. Financially impossible.

As a couple, we didn’t talk much about it, which I regret. I’m sure he took my quiet demeanor for agreeable settling in, making a new life inside an old life we no longer recognized.

When they say “you can’t come home” … it’s true.

Silently, stoically, Roger endured hardships and disappointments.

A thundering Echo of Indifference bounced back from surprising people and places, and it just wore him out, trying to grasp the detachment. People he was sure he'd be hanging out with, were oddly unavailable. 

At his job as a consultant for public safety, political maneuverings resulted in misunderstandings and hard feelings. It cost him dearly, as it was a position he loved -- using his years of police work to keep the community safe.

That day, the day he resigned, I watched the air go out of him; his resolve collapsing.

Disappointment finally ran out of storage space in his great big heart, and it just stopped beating.

A new chapter is emerging as I read my own Grief Book. This year – the 18^th since his sudden leave-taking – I am seeing more truth. I am seeing it because my heart is ready to see it, to recognize it, to name it, and maybe – to accept it: Roger was grieving when he died.

This I know with as much certainty as I know my own heartsickness.

All these years, the truth has been visiting me in soft, elusive waves.

This year, this Chapter, this season … I have turned a Page on Truth, the raw reality of it.

Sometimes a death doesn't leave an explanation -- it only leaves an after.

Grief is a patient teacher; I have learned you can’t just rush to the scene and rescue someone in the grip of Despair. It creeps into a person with artful, crooked maneuvers. It whispers inside a person’s head so faintly, we hardly notice.

Just days before that night in August, we had talked, long and deep, about our family, our dreams. We leaned in.

Both he and I had just gotten new jobs, and there was a flutter of optimism there.

Inside of a summer twilight on the farm, the two of us had heaved hay bales onto a wagon, rushing under the fading daylight. We lingered in the orange-pink glow of a hilltop sunset. We were in a good place as a couple. Optimistic. Ready to move forward, to embrace our blessings and live with the niggling uncertainty of unresolved situations. 

These precious, collected moments have become old chapters emerging inside a now-familiar story: our story. It did not end with his death. It simply became a plot twist.

I couldn’t save him.

He didn’t want to leave us.

I was the one who found him, awkwardly slumped over on the sofa, the TV remote still in his hand; he’d been watching Gunsmoke.

It seems fitting that Roger, a career Peace Officer, should be watching Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall, preserving law and order on the western frontier.

Sergeant Hoffner and Marshall Dillon were cut from the same cloth: decent men, larger-than-life, lovers of justice, loyal to the very end.

Every time one chapter of grief lifts and eases, another one is standing behind it.

Someone in your life is still turning the pages, cautiously, hopefully, carefully.

Go easy on them.

This essay also appears in the August 2026 edition of Silver Magazine, a monthly insert in the Jamestown Post-Journal, Dunkirk News, and Warren Times Observer.

Don't Silence the Name

 

The Problem of Being Misunderstood

 “Never waste your time trying to explain who you are to people who are committed to misunderstanding you.”

I ran across this pithy passage years ago and it absolutely bounced right into my aching, misunderstood heart.

I’m a recovering people pleaser. Since Day One of my arrival on the planet, I have been contorting myself into the approval of other people.

It’s  a terrible way to live.

Trying to fit into others’ expectations is basically the same as wearing an itchy, ill-fitting sweater  – it’s miserable and the buttons are not aligned. It’s certainly not the color I’d choose.

WHY do I go sweater shopping with the wrong people?

It’s a fair question.

What’s even more aggravating is, once I rearrange myself into their standard of being, they’re still not happy. I continue to fall short, which then plunges me into a dark, scary place known as Rejection. Despite all my efforts to please, to win approval, to be acceptable, I miss the mark.

It’s never quite enough, somehow.

The thing about aging? It ripens you into a softer, wiser version of yourself. And so I have slowly come to terms with being soundly misunderstood by some and lovingly embraced by others.

I have learned to run fast toward the things I love, and if someone keeps up, I introduce myself. These are my people; this is my tribe.

Rather than fixating on the ones I have disappointed, I focus on the ones who welcome me, laugh with me, dry my tears and tolerate my quirks.

The other thing aging does, is it makes room for mercy. I no longer feel anguish toward people whose self-assigned mission is to misunderstand my intentions, my heart. Instead, I throw an imaginary bubble of Light around them, a warm space for Grace to abide, along with Patience and Kindness. There’s also room in the bubble for Forgiveness, even if the person hasn’t apologized.

Because they are very likely trying on the wrong sweaters, too. They feel scratchy and mismatched and very much alone. They, too, are fighting to be understood.

Let’s not pull at their loose threads or try to patch up the elbow holes. Instead, why don’t we simply step out into the world in our own comfy cardigans? No longer laboring under the cloud of scrutiny, but shining in the vibrancy of recognizing ourselves: our imperfect, impulsive, exotic versions of being human?

Run fast toward the things you love, and if someone keeps up, introduce yourself. These are the ones you can take sweater-shopping with you. These are the people who will applaud your choices and travel with you in a joyful jumble of soft, well-worn threads.

Kathy Joy, Recovering People Pleaser 

 

 

Those Pesky Unknowns

Walking Toward Uncertainty

We carry the weight of Not-Knowing, all of us. We groan under the burden of all that is hidden, unexplained, puzzling or vague. The Unknowns are looming in the future, and they are pesky things.

They are distant and cloaked in mystery, clouded by our human tendency to fix and predict. We often get so obsessed with the outcomes; we totally miss what’s happening in the present moment.

We are straining to see that which is unseeable, tripping over the shiny blessings at our feet.

Example? Sure, I’ve got one: Let’s say a woman is languishing over an unresolved family relationship, anxious to see it healed. While desperate to mend, she is missing out on the loved ones who do surround and support and love her without measure.

That woman is me.

Over and over, by default and by heartbreak, I reach across the abyss and freefall into the same hazy shadows of Not Quite Yet.

The simple truth is, we don’t know the outcome until we finally arrive at its doorstep. Until then, the best you and I can do is to keep moving forward. To make the best decisions we can and let go of the result.

To live with a problem, it might be a good idea to sit with the problem and make peace with the uncertainty. In the brisk cool breeze of letting go, you are infused with a kind of hope – an expectation with no expiration date.

You get up and you hope.

You do it again the next day. You hope and you dance and you laugh.

You embrace those who already surround you.

The problem is still there – the ambiguity of it all, the wondering. The waiting.

Take heart. There are, beneath the surface, unseen weavings and healing threads reaching for raggedy seams. Let that process happen without your assistance, your persistence, your gnawing hunger for an answer.

Let the answer tiptoe in. One day when you’re not looking.

By letting go of outcomes, we stay present with Joy and Wonder.

Your dilemma may not be estrangement. There are so many pesky unknowns, and they are as unique and valid as the person experiencing them.

Maybe a dream came unraveled and you had to loosen your grip.

Or maybe you’ve had to relinquish your dream so somebody else can live theirs. Try not to control the outcome; instead, show up as the best coach on the sidelines. That’s living with the Unknowns: moving onward with purpose and joy.

I invite you to look around for glimpses of goodness in the struggle. You might not find closure, but you will discover tenacity. Your steadfast grit will come alongside others who are walking toward their own unknowns.

Above all, tend to your heart. Keep it safe and pliable and available. Guard against grudges; they are crippling.

We won’t always walk toward the happy ending we imagined. It’s risky, yes – but leaning into the possibilities, staying grounded while opening our arms – that’s making peace with what’s unsolved, unsettled, unknowable.

The aches and anguish of life are in lockstep with the boons and blessings.

I leave you with a favorite quote from author, Mary Cholmondeley.

This essay also appears in Silver Magazine, a monthly insert in the Jamestown Post Journal and Warren Times Observer.

The Trouble with Dogs II

In 2020, I wrote a farewell blog to my Corgi Mix, "Reina". The name means "queen" in Spanish, and she certainly held sway over my heart. What follows is an updated blog to include the entrance of a little spitfire named "Gracie".

The gift of connection is fraught with the grief of separation.

Simply put, we outlive our dogs, and it’s just not fair.

When I met my dog Reina for the first time, there was an element of loss in the joyful mix; I did not feel it, could not have identified it at the time. But there was a wiggly layer of sadness inside our first meeting, and that niggling thread would follow us through the five years we had together.

The grief would grow more insistent the day the vet told me my girl had Canine Degenerative Myelopathy, a condition which would cause some pain and possible paralysis in her hindquarters.

The sting of losing her this way, in slow dribbles, tracked us like a cold shadow. Our walks became shorter. She accepted my help getting into the car, out of the car, up the steps, into the apartment.

Many things were the same, but even the familiar rituals felt short-lived, more precious.

Brief walks along the lakeshore, lurching along like a couple of mellowed oldsters, just sniffing the breeze and hoping for polished beach glass along the way.

Lots of treats. More than necessary; lavish gifts to hold onto our good moments.

Head pats, ear scratches, belly rubs. Little luxuries to ease the pain.

Small affirmations whispered into a world of

    gifts and goodbyes,

                             homecomings and heartaches,

    rescuing and relinquishing,

    mending and mourning.

I lost her in February of 2020.

In March of that year, the world shut down.

The emptiness in my apartment became a thundering silence; a constant reminder of she’s-not-here-anymore.

The sequester was deeply solitary for me. More profound, really, than lockdown in the world of uncertainty we were dwelling in that dark year.

It’s a strange yet familiar journey, this pilgrimage with dogs. These days I have Gracie as my little sidekick, the heartbeat-at-my-feet. Like Dear Reina, I know Gracie, too, will succumb to her passage over the rainbow bridge.

And I will mourn. Once again, I will know the anguish of losing a pet. The empty food bowl, the resting leash – still hanging on the hook beside the door. Echoes of clickety-clack paws on the floor tile; recalling her unique bark so keenly, you think for a moment she has returned.

So, the question follows me like some kind of no-nonsense coach: Why would you do this over again? Why do you keep tolerating these goodbyes, only to turn around and welcome another dog into your life?

There is no logical answer.

There is only a wagging tail, an upturned face, a slobbery wet kiss on the nose. This is all we need to begin a new story.

The retelling of that story, later on, will far outweigh the pain of goodbye.

Sidebar:

Kathy is passionate about rescuing dogs. Gracie is a rescue from Northern Chautauqua Canine Rescue in Westfield, NY. In November 2021, Gracie ran off and went missing for 5 days. Kathy and friends launched a search along the Bayfront Connector in Erie, where a Good Samaritan found Gracie – she was hungry and weary and happy to be returned home. Kathy enrolled Gracie in a wonderful dog training program, Dependable Companions Dog Training, LLC , located in East Liberty, OH. 

Due to her excellent training and confidence-building, Gracie is a thriving Corgi, living her best life. She enjoys car rides and rambling walks in the woods. She knows “sit”, “stay”, “treats”, “car ride”, and “suppertime” and is fluent in the unspoken language of steadfast devotion.

 

Laughter Spills Out

I hope today you laugh.

Not because you forced it, but because levity assembled itself around you, surprising your weary self and pulling out joy where the sun couldn’t get in.  Laughter is a stealth ally, showing up when you least expect it and most need it.

I hope you laugh because something strikes you funny and mostly because laughter releases light and hope into the world. You may experience a superb, surprising belly laugh interrupting the quietness of your own home -- but still, you've changed the quality of the air and charged it with happiness particles.

I hope today you laugh.

Maybe, if you're especially blessed, you'll witness a baby giggle and just watching that pure bubbling delight will pull out the giggle in your own gut. Humor sends out a message: Life is hard but I have this moment, and right now it's joy that occupies this space.

Pure, unapologetic joy.

I hope today you laugh.

May the ironic, the ridiculous, the just-plain-silly -- grab you by the shoulder and invite you in. I hope you'll laugh out loud in the grocery line. In traffic with your window down. With a friend at lunch. Next to a stranger in the waiting room. Waiting rooms, especially, need the infusion of laughter.

I hope today you'll laugh.

Have you noticed? When you pass by a room full of mirth, it pours out of the walls and windows like so much sunshine, spreading warmth over everyone in its path. Smiles will curl up on worried faces and laughter will escape, even from unpracticed throats; it's just contagious. Even the slightest murmur reaches heaven.

I hope today you laugh.

Not the manufactured stuff of sit-com tracks, but the genuine, belly-jiggling, side-splitting, absolutely irresistible music of your own voice letting out joy. Laughter around the dinner table is a particularly welcome gift. It bursts into the room like a beloved guest. You want it to stay all evening.

Laughter is medicine for the soul, affirmation for the doubter, a pocket of peace for the worry-worn, an embrace for the desolate.
Release it into the waiting world, a world that offers up countless wonders and comedic creatures; a world that softens the raggedy edges with a sense of the outrageous, the frivolous, the offbeat wackiness. A world that needs more goofy and less grumpy. More lightheartedness and less weightiness.
The universe grows smaller and more inviting when two souls share a joke, a smile, a rare splendid moment.

I hope today you laugh.

Distractions will tug on your sleeve, bills will cry out to be paid, deadlines will shadow you, appliances will quit, people will drive like idiots. Still, there will be moments. Show up for them. You won't be sorry; neither will the people who need to hear your voice chortling out the music -- the off-key, blessed, bursting and brave music -- of laughter.

As seen in the April 2024 edition of Silver Magazine

The Post-Journal & Warren Times Observer

Stuck in the Not Yet

STUCK in the NOT YET

So here we are:  A familiar wedging in that middle-season that follows Winter and precedes the eruption of Spring – we are stuck in the Not Yet. It’s a big improvement over snow, ice and plunging temperatures, but it’s not quite where we’d like to be.

It’s the Season of the Not Yet.
We are slogging about in this interlude of mud, still-bare trees, jacket weather and grit.

If you think of it as a canvas, though, the world is a muted landscape just waiting for some splashes of color. A hint of early green, a blush of Possibility.

Our view right now is a landscape of muddy edges, watery sleeping fields, unadorned woods and windswept, unruly lawns.

Hiding underneath all that is a dramatic spectacle. It will emerge in bits and breaths until one day the curtain rises on a grand production of color and light and birdsong.

Spring has arrived on the calendar but it’s barely visible in our view. Even so, it's busy maneuvering behind the scenes. While we bustle about and switch ice scrapers for umbrellas, a mighty army of bulbs and seedlings are nudging the waiting earth.

While we complain about the rain and how badly our car needs a good washing, the quietest velvet of early-green arrives on silent knowing branches.

While we dig out mud boots and walk the dog and pay the bills and whine about the cavernous potholes, the soil is quivering and maybe the earth is laughing as it gathers momentum for the Bursting Forth of Glory.

Soon enough, we will look up and notice an unfurled leaf, an affirmation that warmer days are really starting to settle in. We'll step out into the day and feel, instead of a slap of cold wind, the beguiling whisper of a Southern Zephyr on our upturned faces.  

On cue and when we are bone-weary, we will become the hushed audience before the downbeat.

Let the Overture begin.

Mesmerized, we will finally look around.

"Hey! Did you see my tulips this year? They're amazing!" you will say to anyone, everyone.

"Wow! You should take a drive up the hill - the forsythia are the yellowist yellow I've EVER seen!" "My neighbor's daffodils are having a national convention! Man! They're all the way past the driveway into the back field! Come and see!"

And so it goes.

We, you and I, make this oh-so-subtle shift from the whine to the wow.

From the blasé to the blown-away.

From glum to giddy.

The canvas has become a spectacle of light and warmth and every hue of vivid color. The Not Yet is crossing the fence and scampering headlong into Spring and there is no turning back.

The music of peepers and birds and neighborly greetings merge into one boisterous Symphony.

Pretty soon we'll be complaining about the grass growing too fast and the pesky dandelions taking over. Oh, we are a silly unbridled bunch, blithely unaware sometimes, of our own leafy newness.

In spite of our limited vision, we have managed to find an underground, wiggly strength.

Our canvas too, which was briefly mired in the Not Yet, is now warm and radiant and painted with Possibility and Life.

Settle in, take a breath, and don't miss the Overture.