Brick By Brick

Hey, Y’all! Allow me to introduce my friend Stephanie. Our friendship spans decades, and it is hard to imagine my high school years without her. Even though she came in the latter part of high school, she is in every memory and in every moment. The friendship felt organic from the beginning. She fell in the arms of our tight and established crew and blended immediately. Our lingo, our inside jokes, our secrets quickly became hers. I am convinced people flow in and out of our lives for a reason. No doubt, Stephanie and the rest of the crew helped me survive the messy, confusing, and complicated coming of age.  

Thirty-plus years later, we have remained friends. Our friendship has evolved into a deeply rooted love, respect, and sisterhood. After all these years, we consciously choose to be family. 

I saw my beautiful friend recently, and something seemed different. She appeared to be relaxing her grip. She has held on so tight, for so long; once you hear her story, you will understand why. But something is happening, she is a little lighter, her breathing is less constricted, her shoulders have dropped. There is a quiet confidence as she walks with purpose and determination.

Her life is a sum of a million little pieces, a life built one brick at a time, one day at the time. Some bricks are heavy, yet she always finds the strength to lift and build. Some bricks have crumbled so swiftly, smashing the foundation with such force knocking her to her knees. Still, she gets up, dusts off, and perseveres—she embodies everything ToGETher JOY represents. Listen, Learn, Grow, Share & Illuminate. 

ToGETher JOY was created to share experiences to encourage the discovery of joy. Stephanie’s journey has led to uncovering the beauty in pain. There are many chapters to share. It starts with one day, one yesterday of her life. As my mama always reminds me, if it were not for our yesterday’s, we would not be here today, and today is a good day. 

I hope she inspires you to accept vulnerability, reconnect with your inner strength, and be open to transforming. To turn impossible moments into I’m possible.

Thank you, Stephanie, for being you, for sharing and illuminating. You inspire me every day.

XXOO,

One Year In ~ By Stephanie

Yesterday was one year since Dave passed away, and I had no idea that it would SUCK so much. I did not expect to feel the weight of all this so intensely again. It feels like the early days. Yesterday I found myself reliving every detail of that day. I repeatedly looked at the clock to remember exactly what may have been happening at that moment one year prior.

Around 8am, I thought how lucky we were one year ago to still have our old life… to be “normal.” A year ago, at that same time, Jenna asked that I text a picture of the new empty space where she had lost a tooth so her Daddy could see before he got home the next day.

Around 9am, I thought a year ago, we were probably saying hello to our friends at the track meet, looking forward (not really) to a long day while the kids participated in all the events the day offered.

Around 9:30am yesterday, I started looking through the old text messages on my phone from a year ago. Those texts were the first inklings that something was wrong. The fact that Dave was almost an hour late meeting a friend (Dave was never late). I remembered that I then blindly turned my attention back to supervising a group of girls at the track meet, sliding my cell phone into my jacket pocket. I literally remember sliding my cell phone into my pocket.

I could not find the time of the phone call that changed everything, but I believe it was somewhere around 10, the moment when everything fell apart. Everything started turning upside down, and there was no air left for me to breathe. Since that moment, nothing has, nor will ever be the same.

The memories flooded back to me yesterday…

The look on Jenna’s face when she saw my eyes when I got the phone call, and she instinctively knew that something was wrong.

Hearing my own voice repeat frantically to the caller, “I can’t tell my kids this… I can’t tell my kids this…”

A friend was physically holding onto me as I collapsed and then dry-heaved…my body trying to reject this news that was attacking me.

My girlfriend told me all I had to do was get through these 15 minutes… and then we would face the next 15 minutes. That was all… just 15 minutes.

The sounds that came out of my babies when I broke their hearts with this news. I will never get those sounds out of my head. The helplessness I felt because my arms were not enough to hold them both. I was helpless to shield them from this agony, all while knowing this might be the thing that breaks them.

I cannot get these out of my head, and yet I do not want to forget one second of it. Because they are my last living anchor to Dave. We had texted and Skyped the evening before. We had even flirted via text that evening like the old Dave and Steph used to do. These are the details that flooded me – the ones that changed our kids and me forever. I do not know if I will ever feel whole again. I do not know how to do that. All I can do is try to grow into this new mold cast for me.

The idea of blogging has been circling around my head for about 10 months now. I journal occasionally, but journaling is private. It is a big deal for me to have people knowing my business. I am very intentional about what I share and what I keep for myself. My reluctance to share is not about fearing vulnerability. I gave up that fear a long time ago. For me, it is more about people presuming to know where I am emotionally. Half the time, I do not even know where I am emotionally, so how could anyone else possibly know? We have many people that keep us in their prayers, and I feel those prayers. We have friends and family that circle around us as much as we want, and those people have been an anchor for me.  A touchstone to keep me here when I feel like I will float away into nothingness. I will forever be thankful, and yet I will never adequately convey my gratitude. People also allow us space to be alone… to be Team Kotch when we need it. Above all else, that grace they extend to my kids and me is probably the greatest gift I receive, and I continue to count on.

Today, the day after the one-year anniversary feels like the beginning of what feels like it should be another year of firsts. We will not have our first birthdays without him, our first Christmas, or even our first family vacation. We have done all those firsts. This year will be the first year of what “normal” looks like for us now. We have stumbled into newly uncharted territory.

I am sure there will be a few rantings from me… how the heck am I supposed to raise a pre-adolescent boy on my own? Am I really going to have to teach him to shave via YouTube?

There will be tears. I dream about those warm, huge Dave hugs. I wake up aching to go back to sleep so I can feel them again. I can, for a second or two, trick my mind into thinking Dave is next to me when I stack the extra pillows next to me exactly right, and I lean against them while I sleep.

I know there will be laughter, “Mom, Dad told me sex is a beautiful thing!” Really, Dave? No more context for me than THAT? I get THAT little nugget to respond to almost a year after you die? What other little morsels have you left for me?

Either way, there will be heart, and there will be honesty. Even when it is raw. It will not hurt my feelings if you find another blog that keeps things lighter. In fact, please do just that. Because if I am honest with myself, you may read some of these and feel helpless because there will be nothing you can do to help. As much as we are covered in love and surrounded by support, my kids and I are the only ones that can walk through this journey. No one can take steps forward for us, but you are welcome to cheer us on from the sidelines.