I’ve been having a lot of conversations about power - specifically the internal power we all possess. As I dream up future plans and ambitions for the Forced Joy Project (and subsequently ask myself why I am not doing more to chase those dreams), a wise woman recently told me that we are more afraid of our owning our power than of the possibility of failure. And let me tell you, that thought stuck with me. For days. Because the truth is, I feel like I’m on the edge of something great. And I’ve been afraid to take the next steps. And I told myself the narrative that is so common in so many of us: “I’ll take the next step when I have more time. When I have more money. When I have more experience. When I have more ideas. When I have more training.
I'll take the next step when...”
Examining this, I was able to acknowledge that it did, in fact, come down to fear. And for so long I assumed it was fear of failure. But it turns out it was fear of my own potential. Fear of my own power. Fear of success. I was afraid of putting myself out there and actually succeeding and having to own up to everything I am capable of. For so many years my comfort zone was in the middle. I felt safe in the ordinary. I was afraid to create waves, afraid to stand out, afraid to be noticed. Owning my power and owning my potential meant I had to accept that fact that I was deliberately pushing myself out of the middle and onto the edges. And living on the edge is terrifying.
Last week, I shared this story with my bff Jeremy and how much that comment about being afraid of our own power affected me. And for the first time, I admitted out loud to Jeremy that I wanted to be more than ordinary. I wanted to be this powerful, courageous, badass presence who isn’t afraid to take big risks. And Jeremy turned to me and said - in the most Jeremy BFF way - "maybe you should start by actually acknowledging that you already are a powerful, courageous, badass presence who isn’t afraid to take big risks.”
As usual, he was right. But I felt really uncomfortable saying it out loud because I am afraid of being seen as arrogant or narcissistic or egotistical. Because it’s easier to acknowledge our flaws than our strengths. And because it's easier to stay small, where I am praised for my quiet easiness, than to own my power and risk creating waves. But I don’t want to be small. I want to be - no, I am - a powerful, courageous, badass presence who isn’t afraid to take big risks. And that’s my ferocious truth.
Now tell me, what’s yours?
“You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”
For two years I’ve had this Samuel Beckett quote at the top of my notes. Each morning, as I began my writing for the day, I'd read It and feel the truth of the complexities of loving and losing and living in the aftermath. For two years it has been the quiet back-and-forth of my inner dialogue. For two years, I have had to verbally remind myself that, in spite of it all, I must go on.
Two years ago, I didn’t think I could.
Two years ago, my vocal, opinionated, extroverted husband whispered his final words. I held his hand and said, “I love you.” Brad looked me in the eyes, smiled, and replied with this one small word: “yes.” His body would hold on for another day, but that would be the final verbal exchange between the two of us.
When I think back to that day two years ago, I didn’t think I could go on. I didn’t think I could live through the pain of not having Brad in my life. I didn’t sleep. I sobbed on the floor for hours. I drank away my pain. I regularly thought to myself, “I can’t go on.”
But two years later, I have gone on.
I went on, not just because of my own strength and desire to live. But also because Brad deserved nothing less. I refused to waste my life when Brad’s was so unfairly cut short. I went on, in part, because of Brad's profound influence on me. Brad didn’t ever choose the easy path. He could have easily made more money, but chose to work in non-profits, serving his community. He could have lived in Boston or DC or Portland, but chose Detroit. He could have married any one of his many admirers who demanded less (hi ladies!), but he chose me. He could have talked his way through anything, but he chose to listen. He could have played it safe, but he chose risks. He chose courage. More than anything else, he chose a life of meaning.
Leading by example, Brad challenged me to be courageous. He emboldened me to ask the tough questions. He encouraged me to use my voice. He chased high expectations and big dreams. Witnessing someone reach for a life that substantial was infectious and it inspired me to reach further too.
Two years ago, Brad looked me in the eyes, smiled, and said, “yes.” That yes wasn’t just about loving me. It was about all the choices he had made - all the choices we had made in our life together.
And in the past two years, when I’d lay in my bed and cry and think “I can’t go on,” I inevitably think back to Brad's “yes” and I know: I will go on.
I started this blog as a way to both process my own feelings and also connect with others on a similar journey. Over the last two years, I've had countless people reach out - some who have been through their own grief and others who want to know how to handle loved ones who have experienced loss. Connecting with so many people - people who get it, people who want to get it, and people who are just curious - has been incredibly fulfilling for me. And because of those connections, I have decided to be more intentional with these posts, and create a new series where I answer any questions you all have.
Recently I asked those of you following on Instagram what topics you are curious about and what would be helpful to write about. And you guys delivered - bravely and boldly. You asked me about everything from grief (lots and lots of questions on grief), to guilt, to dating after loss, to being a caregiver, and everything in between.
So today is the first installment of the “Ask Me” series, where I’ll be answering all your questions on grief, loss, cancer, joy, and widowhood. Have a question? Shoot me an email.
Q: How do you handle the fear of growing old alone?
A: I wanted to dive into this question first because I think it's a pretty immediate fear from anyone who loses their partner at a young age.
When I was younger, I never really had a fear of growing old alone. I had this picture of myself as a strong, independent woman surrounded - not by a husband - but by a house full of dogs.
Ironic, right? Did my 17 year old self manifest this current reality? Yeah, probably not.
The truth is, I didn’t want to grow old alone, even then. My earlier “manifestation” was really just created out of fear. I feared I would never find a partner so I created this vision of my future that didn’t rely on finding love. I had no healthy examples of love or marriage at that point in my life, so I was unable to picture if for myself. I began putting up walls early to protect myself from future hurt.
And then I met Brad. And he persistently and stubbornly broke down those walls. I felt secure in both my relationship and in my future. Honestly, with Brad, I felt secure in myself. And I never imagined the possibility of him dying young and leaving me to handle the “growing old” part alone. It just wasn’t an option I had considered. If anything, I was going to die and leave him to figure out the rest. He was always better at long term planning anyway.
But here I am. Alone with regular thoughts about my future and certainly not getting any younger.
So how do I handle the fear? On my best days, I live my life as the strong, badass, warrior I am, knowing I’ll be fulfilled in my future, whether I am with a partner or not. I fill my days connecting with friends and family and writing and laughing and exploring. I fill my days creating the best version of myself so that whether or not I grow old “alone” I’ll be surrounded by those I love (including myself), doing the things I love.
But on my worst days? On those days, I give in to the crippling loneliness I feel. The intense yearning for another human. For touch. For intimacy. For companionship. I imagine living my life as that same badass warrior chick but never getting to share that with another person. Never building a lifetime of inside jokes reserved just for you and your person. Never again being looked at like a magical fucking unicorn. On my worst days, I deeply feel that loneliness and wonder if I'll still feel that way 5, 10, 20 years from now. And it’s really fucking hard. And honestly, I don’t always handle it well. I sink into the temporary depression, turn on the saddest of sad music, and feel sorry for myself. It’s not pretty. But I do think it’s valuable to allow myself to go there. Because even when I’m in my deep, dark sinkhole, I know I’m not going to stay there. Not forever. (To anyone stuck in your own sinkhole, know that this is a huge shift from the earlier days, where I felt like I’d live and die in that sinkhole of depression. It does get better.)
Most days, I'm somewhere in between.
If I'm being honest, I’m not sure I actually believe I’ll grow old alone (also a shift from the early sinkhole days). I'm aware that I am young enough that I still may get 50 or more beautiful years with another person. And the truth is, that idea is just as scary as growing old alone. Because after Brad died, a lot of those early walls went back up. I stopped depending on - or asking for - help. After depending on another person for so long, I decided I needed to protect myself and stop depending on anyone. Because what if there isn't another person? What if it is just me? Imagining a different version of the reality you thought you’d get isn’t easy. Accepting a different version of the reality you thought you'd get really isn't easy.
So really, for me, it is balancing the fear of growing old alone along with the fear of growing old with somebody who isn’t Brad. And in order to really dissect that, I’d have to dive into dating and sex and men (all of which you guys bravely asked about), so I'll reserve that for a future “Ask Me” post. In the meantime, if you fear growing old alone, just try and be the best, most interesting, most compelling, most fun version of yourself. For yourself. And I honestly believe/hope the rest will fall into place.
The fall equinox. A change in season. A change in light.
Today was supposed to be our 10 year wedding anniversary. We were supposed to renew our vows on the beach in Northern Michigan. We were supposed to rent a house for our family and friends. We were supposed to have a casual dinner party on the beach, catered by a local chef who picked the menu based on what was found at the farmer’s market that day. We were supposed to dance as the sun went down. We were supposed to swim under the moonlit sky. We were supposed to sit by a bonfire laughing and singing and telling stories until the sun came back up. I was supposed to be barefoot. Carefree. Happy.
I know what we were supposed to do because we talked about it, two years ago, on our 8th wedding anniversary. We talked about it because I suppose I used to be the kind of girl who liked to plan and talk about her future. The kind of girl who liked to plan momentous celebrations with those she loves. I was the kind of girl who created a Pinterest board, filled with inspirations of outdoor dinner parties and beach bonfires. A Pinterest board now haunting me, full of images reminding of where I’m supposed to be. A board that keeps its company next to all the other boards of future trips and dinner recipes and experiences that Brad and I will never share together.
Things change. One season ends and another begins.
Brad used to joke he’d marry me as many times as it took for our marriage to stick. He knew my family and its history of multiple divorces (and subsequently multiple marriages), and refused to follow suit. So we got married for the first time on a Saturday in front of our friends and family and for the second time, the following Monday, on the fall equinox. It only made sense that we’d eventually get married a third time too. It's what we were supposed to do.
But that changed too.
And now, instead of spending this weekend on a beach, surrounded by loved ones, recommitting to my future, I am spending the equinox in solitude. I am spending this time reflecting on both my love with Brad and also reflecting on my future with myself. Like the equinox, it feels equally divided between the darkness and the light.
I was supposed to be somewhere else today. Instead, I am here, at Glacier National Park, spending the first day of fall climbing mountains and, once again, turning over a new leaf.
Earlier this summer, I spent 5 days backcountry camping throughout the Porcupine Mountains in the Upper Peninsula. Over those 5 days, as I struggled with the weight of my pack, the pains, the moments of joy, and the elements, I realized how similar a trek in the wilderness is to the grief journey. Along the way, I wrote this post.
Grief is a lot like a backcountry trek. The weight of the pack, like grief, becomes deeply ingrained in you. Whether you are aware of it or not, it becomes a part of you.
In the beginning, the weight feels unbearable. You ask yourself how you can possibly make it past the first day. How you can possibly lift the weight by yourself. You sit and stare in disbelief. Frozen in shock, you initially refuse to carry the weight. You tell yourself you can't. But eventually you realize you have no choice. So you pick up your weight and take a single step. And then another. And another. It is heavy. You feel the pain with every inch forward. But you keep moving until you have survived your first day and are able to rest.
The next day, as you put the pack back on, you immediately notice the discomfort - the soreness and bruises from the weight - a reminder of the previous day’s struggle. You feel it in every single new step. Eventually, you settle into the pain and are able to move through it. Eventually, it becomes a part of you. You carry it and you feel its presence, but you also start to notice other things besides the pain. Eventually you start to notice the joy.
As time goes on, you still feel the pain, you still know it’s there, but it’s less acute, less piercing. If you’re lucky, you have people that can help lighten the load and carry the weight with you. But for the most part, you know you have to rely on yourself to keep moving. You know the weight is yours to carry.
The heaviness of the weight takes its toll on you physically. You are no longer as bright and shiny as when you started. You are more worn. But soon you will start to embrace this full and messy and imperfect version of yourself. Your life will become bigger as you learn to feel it all. You recognize the beauty in places you never would have been able to before. You begin to find light in the darkness.
Sometimes your path is through miles of muddy shit. You slip. You lose your balance. You fall. But you keep going. Sometimes barriers have blocked your path. You must lift your weight and climb over them. The terrain becomes rocky and you must learn how to navigate your unsteadiness. You wander off your path and get lost. You fall again. You rest. You keep going. You try and stay present through this new and foreign terrain because you begin to learn that inevitably there are respites of beauty that make the struggle bearable; that allow you to keep going, in spite of the pain. You begin to embrace the beauty.
At first the weight is a burden. You long for the familiar past and yearn for some different future, where the weight doesn’t feel so heavy. Because the weight will exhaust you - in ways you never thought you could be exhausted. You will ache, physically and emotionally, because of it. And you will thirst for lighter days. But you will learn to find different ways to cope with the pain of the weight, so as not to be crushed by it.
You will face many uphill battles and the weight will feel impossible to carry. Don’t think about the entire uphill journey. Don’t focus on the top of the mountain. Focus on the first step. Focus on putting one foot in front of the other. When necessary, slow down. Take a break. Pause. Remind yourself of what there is to look forward to, even if it feels unreachable.
Eventually the weight becomes second nature. You learn to balance with it. You learn to carry it through the ups and downs of the terrain. As time goes on, you don’t become weaker, as you first suspected. No, the extra weight makes you stronger, more capable. You become more resourceful, relying on yourself and the elements around you.
In the end, you’re not the same person who started the trek. Not better. But different. Changed. And as much as you might want to at times, you can never go back to the previous version of yourself. Embrace this new, stronger, messier, more human version of yourself. Connect with others who have walked a similar path, and who have carried their own weight. Find those who see your weary eyes and are able to recognize your bright soul.
I’ve been struggling with how to write this post for over a week now. Because eventually, when life continues to hand you unbelievable and shockingly shitty situations, you just stop finding the words. You stop finding the energy to even look for the words.
Instead you take action. One hour, one day, at a time, you do what needs to get done. You go through the process. Through the motions. Eventually the words will come.
But first actions.
The last two weeks have been full of action - hours on the phone with insurance companies and the disability office and doctor’s offices. Hours in the car driving back and forth between Michigan and Virginia. Hours trying to make a plan.
Because when someone you love is struggling, you show up. You take action.
And my dad, he’s been struggling.
Two weeks ago, he was diagnosed with Esophageal cancer.
Yet again, cancer has reemerged into our lives.
My dad hasn’t had it easy the last few years. He’s been in and out of the hospital with complications due to diabetes, congestive heart failure, and kidney failure. And now, on top of it all, a cancer diagnosis.
It’s too much to go through alone. It’s something no one should have to go through alone. And because his prior health conditions complicates an already complicated situation, we decided the best option for him would be to live with me in Northern Michigan.
So we came up with a plan of action. Get him new health insurance. Get him set up on dialysis. Find his new team of doctors. Move him up. Start treatment.
But life doesn’t always go as planned, as we’ve learned all too well. Due to a series of obstacles, we are now stuck in limbo. Stuck in Detroit, in between his old home and his new. Stuck between the past and the future. Stuck without any concrete answers or any concrete plans.
It’s hard. All of it. Cancer always is.
And another diagnosis obviously brings up a lot of triggers for me - unexpected ER trips, oncology appointments, endless research trying to gain knowledge and answers. Fear. Hope. Love. It triggers it all.
But as difficult as it will be, I know I can handle it. Because we’ve been here before. And I am grateful to be in a position to be able to help. Grateful that I have a room to share in my home on the lake. Grateful for the time with my dad, who I haven’t lived with since I was four.
So for now, we are in Detroit coming up with the next steps for the difficult journey ahead. For now, we are just trying to take it a single step at a time.
I may not have the words yet, but hopefully soon we’ll have the actions.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” -C.S. Lewis
It’s been 18 months since Brad’s death and I still feel full of fear. Grief tends to do that - bring up all kinds of fears, some more rational than others. Fear of getting sick and dying of cancer seems to be an obvious one. Fear of an unknown future ahead is another. Fear of loneliness. Fear of public perception. Fear of failure.
But so many fears within grief seem to be wrapped in an impossible duality, one where you feel stuck between two opposing forces - like being both afraid of the dark and afraid of the light. At all times the pain of the loss is also, concurrently, connected with the joy of remembrance.
Living life in this duality of grief isn’t easy. But the only way to prevent those fears from holding you back is to feel them, acknowledge them, and eventually let them go.
So in an effort to release them, here are (some of) my (many) fears.
I am afraid I will never get over the loss of Brad. That his death is so entwined in my body and in my soul, that I will be broken forever.
And I am afraid of feeling his loss less. Of continuing on with my life and not thinking about him every waking (and sometimes sleeping) second. I am afraid of the day I wake up and his absence feels normal.
I am afraid of forgetting. Forgetting all the tiny little things that made up Brad. His mannerisms. His expressions. His witty banter. His laugh.
And I am afraid of remembering. His diagnosis. His rapid decline. All the trauma that still haunts me surrounding his death.
I am afraid of being alone forever. Of never connecting with anyone the way I did with Brad. Never again being seen or understood. Never being supported. Never having a partner to go through the joys and pain that life inevitably throws at us.
And I am afraid of not being alone. Of being open and vulnerable enough to let my guard down. To let someone else in. To allow another into my grief. Into my joy. To let someone else see and understand and support me.
I am afraid of never feeling like myself again. Of old traits - that used to come so freely - now come a little slower and with an extra weight of heaviness.
And I am afraid of this person I am becoming. This person that I have grown to respect and admire, but is inescapably different. I am afraid of changing so much that I would be unrecognizable to Brad.
I am afraid of the future. Of everything yet to come. I am afraid of planning a new future built for one, instead of the old future, built for two.
And I am afraid of the past. I am afraid of feeling stuck in the past and forgetting to fully live in the present. I am afraid that every future joy will be compared to every past joy.
I am afraid of how much I feel pain. Not just my own, but in other’s who are experiencing loss too. I am afraid of how much I will feel future pains, before they even arrive.
And I am afraid of becoming numb to pain. Of losing that empathy and becoming jaded. I am afraid that because of my experience I might one day start to minimize that pain.
I am afraid of grief. The grief that sits so deep in my bones that it creates a burden to every joyful experience. That for the rest of my life, every happy moment will be coupled with the weight of grief.
And I am afraid of joy. Of every single blissful moment that Brad will never get to experience alongside me.
I am afraid of death. And I am afraid of life.
I am afraid of it all.
I am afraid.
And I don’t want to be afraid.
Next week is Brad’s birthday.
Like last year, our family will be spending the week together to honor and celebrate both Brad and his twin, Dave. For one beautiful chaotic week, we get to live in each other’s noise and space and emotions. For one week, we gather from all across the country and get to be in each other’s presence.
I love it.
And I hate it.
Because for one week, our family is together and during that one week, Brad’s absence is more noticeable than ever.
It feels like the ultimate injustice to gather with the rest of the Frost Pack - with his mom and his twin and his sister and his best friend and all his closest people - without Brad. His absence is glaring. The silence is deafening.
I hate to admit it, but somehow in my daily life I am learning how to survive in the silence of Brad’s absence. I don’t have another choice. But the silence of his absence among the noise of the family? I’m not sure I’ll ever fully adjust to that.
So I anticipate next week with both joy and sadness.
It’s a strange and conflicting emotion to simultaneously feel both eagerness and dread. To go into next week excited to celebrate with those I love. Full of gratitude about the relationships I have with Brad's people who very quickly became my people. Full of joy over the time we will get together - time that is far too limited. So full of love.
And I also go into next week with an extreme heaviness and heartache about making it to another milestone without Brad. Another year, full of changes that he didn't get to witness. Another week of memories he won’t be apart of and photographs he won’t be in. A week of watching our nieces and nephews explore together, seeing how much they’ve grown since last year. Welcoming two new little ones that Brad will never know. A week of watching sunsets on the beach without an arm around my waist and sitting by a fire without toes touching in the sand. A week of late night conversations and deep connections. A week of mischievous debauchery and endless stories, explosive laughter and lingering tears. A week of experiences that Brad won't be a part of.
We will be living it up in the present as we reflect on the past and Brad will be present only in those reflections.
And that breaks my heart.
So much of the week will bring me joy. And with that joy comes the sorrow of experiencing it alone, without Brad there to go through it with me.
I go into next week with so many emotions. Anticipation, excitement, expectations, heartbreak, loneliness.
I focus on the feelings of joy so I don’t have to focus on the feelings of pain. But I’ve been here enough times to know the pain can’t be ignored for long. I've been here enough times to know, the greater the joy, the greater the pain. And by now I know, it all demands to be felt.
So moving forward into next week, I am feeling it all. And I look forward to sitting in it - the joy and the pain and the laughter and the tears - together.
When Brad died, I had several people ask me (and many more ask around me) if I was going to stay in Detroit. At the time I was incredibly offended. How could they question my loyalty to Detroit? Did they not know that I had lived here, and built a life here with Brad, for over 10 years? Did they not know that both Brad and I were transplants and that Brad only lived here for a year before I joined him? Did they not know that down to my core, Detroit felt like home? That Detroit was my home?
But even as I stubbornly defended my decision to stay, as more time passed, I started to recognize the tiny tension in my gut and the tiny voice in my head whispering, “but you might not stay.”
I didn’t want to hear that voice.
I wanted to stay. I wanted to continue building my life and my relationships in the city I loved. I wanted to honor both Brad and my home.
Everyday I convinced myself I was making the right choice. And everyday I heard a little voice ask, “but what if you leave?”
Acknowledging a desire to leave felt like acknowledging defeat. It felt like giving up on a city that became my home. A city I loved even though not everyone could understand that love. A city that supported me through my best and worst moments.
More importantly, acknowledging a desire to leave felt like giving up on the home that Brad and I spent twelve years building together. It felt like, not just giving up on my commitment to the city, but somehow giving up on my commitment to Brad.
Making a conscious decision to change the course of the life we planned together to go off alone into the unknown is impossibly hard.
Over the years, Brad and I talked a lot about leaving Detroit. It’s tough living in a place you constantly have to defend, despite its very real issues. Tough to live in a place where basic services like street lights and education for kids are lacking. Tough to live in a place that is so racially divided, you regularly feel like the foe, in spite of the time and work you put in to be a friend.
But Detroit remained home for us - in a lot of ways - because of these complexities. Our life here was built around a community of tough people who could handle the tough conversations. Despite being outsiders, I think we felt connected to a city that wasn’t afraid of its struggles. A city that could get knocked down repeatedly and always manage to get back up again.
Looking back, I think people questioned my decision to remain in Detroit because they couldn’t understand how I could possibly stay. How do you stay in the home and the city where you lost the love of your life? How do you get through the day when every single thing reminds you of what you had? Of what you no longer have?
Those reminders have been both a blessing and a curse. Some days, I smile seeing a tiny token of my life with Brad. Other days, it puts me in a puddle on the floor for hours. Many days it’s both.
At first, I thought I just had to get over my grieving. A certain amount of time had to pass and then it would all be easier. Life would start to go back to some semblance of normalcy and I would figure it all out.
But you don’t get over the grief. Time doesn’t heal. And normal - whatever that used to be - no longer exists.
After getting through the one year mark of Brad’s death, and realizing my life wasn’t going to automatically start improving (and also realizing the following several months would prove to be harder than I ever thought possible), I knew something had to change.
I’ve been stuck in the life that we planned. Going through the motions of a life that no longer exists. Sleeping in our bed. Cooking In our kitchen. Visiting our bars. Hanging with our people. None of it felt right anymore. In the beginning, I forced myself to show up and go through the motions, with a smile plastered to my face. When that became too exhausting, I just stopped showing up.
Brad may be dead, but it was me who felt like a ghost, quietly wandering though this foreign life.
I wanted to feel alive again.
So I started to quietly acknowledge that little voice telling me I didn’t have to stay - in this city or in this current life of mine. I would daydream about living on a farm or up in the mountains or on a quiet little lake somewhere. I thought about starting over in a place so unfamiliar I had no choice but to make it my own.
But that’s all it was - a daydream. A fantasy. Distractions to temporarily remove myself from this current life I was unhappy in.
It wasn’t real.
And then tragedy happened. Again and again and again. Over the course of a couple weeks, death and sickness and cancer all reemerged in my life.
And in the obvious and cliche way that tragedy seems to stems change, I was done. Done being a ghost in my own life.
The tiny little voice in my head was no longer a tiny little voice. It was my heart and my mind and my gut roaring all at once. The daydream didn’t have to be a dream. I had a choice. Be miserable or change.
Life is too fucking short. It’s too. fucking. short.
Be miserable or change.
So with my life crumbling down around me, I made a choice. I chose potential future happiness over unfulfilled familiarity. I chose the unknown over the stagnant. I chose joy over misery.
I chose possibility.
I chose the daydream.
I don’t know where this new life will lead me. And honestly, I am scared shitless. But the rash and irrational decision of waking up on a Monday to quit my job and rent a house on the lake in the Leelanau Peninsula, felt more right than any other active decision I’ve made in a long time.
I don’t know if I will come back to my home here in Detroit. I don’t even know what home feels like anymore. But I do know that the only way to figure out what home is - my home, not our home - is to leave.
I love this city and the life I built here. I will miss so much of that past life. But that is a life that is no longer available to me.
It’s time to explore something new.
It’s not you, Detroit, it’s me.
About a month ago, my world collided. It suddenly became filled with hospital visits and cancer scares and death. In addition to the previous 15 months spent in a heavy cloud of grief, I finally reached my limit. I was done.
I needed a change.
In the course of about 24 hours and with no real plan and not much thought, I completely flipped my already lopsided world upside down. I didn't overthink it. I didn't discuss it with everyone I know. I just felt my heart and followed my gut and did it.
On the day I made the decision to change it all, I promised my friend Suneil he could announce it to the world. So without further ado, please proceed HERE to read all about what's next for me.