If you've been following along, then you know our story. And you know that November is a crushing month for our family. Particularly Thanksgiving.
Four years ago, my beautiful 20-year-old daughter, Hallie, was tragically taken from us. A young woman so full of life, so full of dreams, so full of everything that made her her... suddenly gone.
The last four years have been nothing short of a slow, painful process of trying to build a new version of our family around an empty chair.
Finding ways to honor Hallie. Learning to reshape our mindset around death. Trying to fully trust God and His promises, even when we don't understand His plans. Learning to appreciate the people still sitting around our table a little more. And figuring out how to keep living when a piece of you is no longer here.
Every November, we usually pause. We step away from our weekly podcast because, quite frankly, it's just too much. I try to focus on self-care, on giving myself permission to breathe, to honor Hallie, to grieve, and sometimes to simply be.
Because no matter how much time passes, the incredible ache remains untouched.
But I am also so incredibly proud of how our blended family has navigated these last four years. We have tried to stay connected, to keep showing up for each other, and to find joy in a life that will never look the way we imagined.
This November looks different. But the pause is still happening.
In January of this year, just before Hallie's birthday, her dad shared a cancer diagnosis with her brother and sister, Chace and Sommer.
For the last ten months, he battled cancer.
And on Sunday, November 8th, at 7:17 p.m., he took his last breath.
The same month Hallie took hers.
In the same hospital.
With the same two kids, Chace and Sommer, by his side.
I don't even know how to put those words together and make sense of them.
And here we go again.
Another slow, painful process of rallying around Chace and Sommer as they begin to rebuild a life that no longer includes their dad on this side of heaven.
Another empty chair.
Another version of life none of us asked for.
Another grief that doesn't replace the first one, but somehow finds a way to sit right beside it.
I find myself imagining the reunion in heaven. One that I have imagined for myself a gazillion times. Hallie seeing her dad again. Him seeing his daughter. I wonder what that moment looked like. And while that thought brings me some comfort (and a little jealousy), it doesn't take away the reality of what has happened here.
Because what I find absolutely unfathomable is that my twins, who aren't even 18 years old yet, have now been beside both their sister and their dad as they took their last breaths.
Read that again.
Not even 18.
They have endured more pain, loss, and heartache than many people will experience in an entire lifetime.
And as their mom, I can't fix any of it. I can't protect them from the grief that comes next.
But here's what I CAN tell you about these two incredible humans.
I've witnessed strength that I don't even think they realize they possess.
I've witnessed courage in situations they never asked to be in.
I've watched them show up with hearts completely shredded, even when every part of them probably wanted to run away.
I've watched them set boundaries, make difficult decisions, and recognize what they need in moments when the world expects them to act a certain way.
I've watched them take care of themselves, physically and mentally, when the weight of the world feels impossible to carry.
And I've watched them continue to find reasons to laugh, to love, to dream, and to live.
I am so incredibly proud of the humans God gifted me.
But let me also be very clear about something.
Does that mean I'm not worried about them?
Oh, goodness. Just ask Aric.
I'm a wreck.
I worry about them constantly. I worry about what this kind of trauma does to two young hearts. I worry about the moments when the house gets quiet, when the distractions stop, when the reality of another loss settles in. I worry about the milestones ahead. Their 18th birthday. Graduation. College. Weddings. All the moments their sister and now their dad should be here to witness.
When people ask what we need, my answer has been pretty simple.
"Just pray for the twins."
Because I don't know how two young adults are supposed to navigate the hell they have been dealt.
And I find myself asking God that very question.
Why them? Why again? How much more can these kids possibly endure?
I have spent the last four years trying to understand grief, learning to surrender, learning to trust, learning that faith doesn't mean life won't hurt.
And now, here we are again.
Another rebuild. Another reshaping of our family. Another chapter of grief that my brain can barely comprehend.
And yet, I still believe in God.
Even in the unknown.
Even in the questioning.
Even when I am angry, exhausted, scared, and struggling to understand.
Even when my faith feels less like standing boldly and more like barely hanging on.
I still believe.
I don't believe God promised us a life without suffering. But I do believe He promised He would never leave us in it.
And maybe that's where I am right now.
Not trying to find the lesson. Not trying to make sense of the timing. Not trying to turn another tragedy into something beautiful.
Just trying to trust Him with the two hearts I love so fiercely, knowing I cannot carry their pain for them.
I can walk beside them. I can love them. I can listen. I can give them space. I can remind them that they are never alone.
But I cannot do the grieving for them.
And that might be one of the hardest parts of motherhood.
So this November, we will pause again.
We will honor Hallie. We will remember their dad. We will make room for tears, for laughter, for memories, for anger, for questions, and hopefully for a little peace.
We will continue learning how to be a family with two more empty spaces than we ever imagined.
And we will keep showing up for each other, even when showing up is all we have the strength to do.
I don't know what the next chapter looks like. I don't know how we navigate another loss of this magnitude. I don't have the answers, and I'm not going to pretend that I do.
But I know this.
We can be heartbroken and still have faith. We can be terrified and still choose courage. We can question God and still trust Him.
And we can be a family that has been shattered by loss and still be a family overflowing with love.
So if you are wondering what you can do for us, please pray for Chace and Sommer.
Pray for their hearts. Pray for their minds. Pray for their health. Pray for the days ahead when the reality feels heavier than they can carry.
Pray that they never lose their ability to find joy, even with all the sadness they carry.
And pray that they always know how deeply they are loved.
Because right now, I don't need to understand God's plan.
I just need to trust that He is holding my kids when I can't hold everything together.
