Connections in Unexpected Places

Today I met the family who were at the cemetery on the day I wrote my next picture book.

Connecting with people at the cemetery is always a unique experience, but today felt especially meaningful. I read them the manuscript for the very first time.

The whole family sat together around their loved one’s headstone — camping chairs spread out, children sitting comfortably on the grass, two new puppies weaving even more love and warmth through the space.

What struck me most was how natural it all felt.

The children, aged between four and twelve, were completely relaxed in this familiar place. They listened so intently as I read. Their reflections afterwards were some of the most honest and expressive I have ever received.

They told me the story made them feel safe, comfortable, and happy. That it felt heartfelt. That it felt exactly right.

I don’t think they will ever truly know what a gift those words were to me.

To sit in a place so often misunderstood by others, and witness children feeling connected, calm, and free to talk openly about love and remembrance, felt incredibly special.

Connections now happen in places I never would have imagined possible before grief changed my world.

Inside the four walls

I wonder what it is like to think about writing something other than grief, loss, and the pain I now suffer each day.

Today I struggled to get out of bed. Some mornings I lie there thinking my heart is going to give way. I don’t know if that is the weight of the sadness, or the actual physical struggle it now has to survive.

But eventually I got up.

Today was one of those days where I didn’t want to face anything — not the world, not my list of jobs, not even the people I love.

I sat on the couch feeling numb, but also feeling safe within the four walls of my house. Here I can sit with my grief. Here is where no one can see me. There is no pretending, no showing up, just breathing — watching the birds, watching the fire, watching life pass me by.

Some days surviving grief doesn’t look brave or inspiring. Sometimes it just looks like getting out of bed and making it to the couch.

Grief Comes in Layers

It’s been a while since I’ve written here.

Why?

I think the answer is layered.

For so long, my focus has been on the books. On getting the words out. On making something tangible from the grief that now lives inside me.

Maybe it’s because your heart can only hold so much pain at once. And when so much of that space is already filled with grief — grief etched into ink, into pages, into stories — there doesn’t always feel like there’s room left to create.

Although, as I write that, I wonder if creating and grieving are really separate things at all. Maybe I still need to think about that a little more.

I’d like to say I disappeared because I was busy celebrating success. But publishing a book doesn’t feel like success to me. Not in the way people imagine.

The books were never about achievement. They were about love. About grief. About making sure Cooper’s presence still exists in this world in some way. They are part of my legacy to him — proof that he was here, that he mattered, that he is still deeply woven into our lives.

What I didn’t expect was how exposed it would make me feel.

It is hard to be present — and even harder to become visible — when all you really want is to disappear