Lesson #5: Solitude vs. Loneliness: The Space Between Peace and Pain

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #5: Solitude vs. Loneliness: The Space Between Peace and Pain 

“Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.”

After more than a decade of living alone, I’ve come to understand something that took me years to fully grasp:
There’s a big difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

Being alone is a physical state. Sometimes even a choice.
It’s carving out space to exist on my own terms. Scheduling my days. Setting my rhythm. Deciding where and how I want to invest my time.
It’s walking through my home in silence. Not minding the quiet.
It’s savoring mornings with coffee. Writing without interruption. Peloton walks, runs,  workouts that leave me feeling alive. Or long walks outdoors that clear my mind.

I’ve come to embrace this kind of independence.
I’ve learned how to fill my time with joy. Grandchildren’s laughter. Books that stir my soul. Sweat that brings clarity. Stillness that grounds me.

And most importantly, I’ve come to appreciate rest.
Not as something to earn. But something essential.
A pause that allows me to show up fully present in the moments that matter.

But loneliness?
That’s something else. Entirely.

Loneliness isn’t about being physically alone.
It’s a feeling. A hollow ache that creeps in when you least expect it.
It’s the sound of silence that feels just a little too loud.
The absence of a familiar voice saying, “How was your day?”
The emptiness where shared moments once lived. Shoulders to lean on. Hands to hold. Someone who just knows.

Loneliness is disconnection.
Not just from people. But from the world beyond my front door.
It’s the quiet whisper that says, “Stay here. Stay safe. Don’t risk more hurt. Don’t expect too much.”

I’ve come to learn that you can be surrounded by people. Laughter. Conversation. A full room. And still feel completely alone.
Loneliness doesn’t care about proximity.
It cares about connection.

And on the flip side?
There are days when I sit alone in my home. Wrapped in silence.  And feel totally at peace.
Content.
Whole.
Solitude, when chosen, is restorative.
It’s the space where I reflect. Recharge. And reconnect with me.

Loneliness never asks permission. It shows up uninvited, without warning.
And navigating that—finding my way through the shadows it casts—is the real challenge.

So I’m learning.
Learning to stay present.
To shift my focus from what’s missing… to what’s abundant.
To pause. And appreciate the quiet blessings:
A warm text.
Laughter with a friend.
The sweet sound of my grandchildren’s footsteps.
The comfort of knowing that while loneliness visits, it doesn’t define me.

Because yes. Loneliness may come and go.
But I am not alone.
Not really.

Lesson #4: When Life Isn’t Fair: Choosing Forward Anyway

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #4: When Life Isn’t Fair: Choosing Forward Anyway

“Life is not always fair. Sometimes you get a splinter even sliding down a rainbow.”

Life isn’t fair.
That’s not just a cliché. It’s a hard, gut-punching truth.

No matter how much we plan, how hard we work, or how deeply we hope, challenges will come. Some arrive as mere inconveniences, the kind we shake off and move past without a second thought. Others? They hit like a freight train. They crack open our world and leave us reeling. Grief. Heartbreak. Failure. Loss.

These moments—the ones we never saw coming—are inevitable.
But how we respond? That’s where our power lies.

Do we rise above?
Adapt? Learn? Push forward?
Or do we allow pain and bitterness to anchor us, holding us back with the weight of resentment and self-pity?

Losing Greg—my partner, my person—in the prime of our life together, made me want to scream at the sky:
LIFE IS NOT FAIR.
Why him? Why now? Why take one of the good ones?

It felt so cruel. So senseless.

But grief has a way of making you look around and realize something else. My loss, as personal and devastating as it was, isn’t the only unfairness in the world. Others are grieving too. Wildfires destroy homes. Accidents take lives. Tornadoes. Floods. Infertility. Rejection. Job loss. The list of heartbreak is endless.

That truth doesn’t ease the pain.
But it shifts something inside.
It reminds me I’m not alone in this.

From a young age, we all face the same difficult lesson: Life is not fair. And yet. We keep going.
The difference between people who stay stuck and those who find a way forward? It’s not what they’ve been through. It’s how they choose to move through it.

I know what it feels like to stay stuck.
I lived in that space for a long time.
It felt safe to expect the worst. Predictable. If I didn’t allow myself to feel hope, then disappointment couldn’t gut me. I thought I was protecting myself. But really, I was just surviving. And slowly, that survival mode became a trap.

It’s easy to play the blame game. To point fingers at the unfairness of it all. To dwell on the injustice. But here’s the thing: staying bitter doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t give us back what we lost. It just keeps us tethered to pain.

So what’s the alternative?

Acceptance. Not in a passive way. But as a way to take back our power.

Accept that life is unfair. That we won’t always understand the why. That some days will feel impossibly hard. That we can hate what’s happened and still choose to keep moving.

This isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about giving ourselves permission to move forward, even when nothing makes sense. It’s about choosing growth. Healing. And the possibility of joy. Again.

Because sometimes, the worst moments eventually open the door to something we never expected.
Perspective. Purpose. New beginnings.

When life knocks us down and leaves us breathless, there may be no perfect words to fix it. No reason that makes it all make sense.

But in the mess. In the unfairness. We still have a choice:

Let it consume us.
Or choose. Inch by inch, to rise.

This isn’t about toxic positivity. This is about resilience.
It’s about saying: “I don’t like this. I hate this. But I’m still here.”
And that? That is strength.

At the end of the day, life will keep being unpredictable.
It will bring both joy. And heartbreak.
And we may never fully understand why some things happen the way they do.

But we can still choose to keep going.
We can still choose to live.
Even when life isn’t fair.

Because it’s not about what happens.
It’s about who we become in the process.

It’s Not Happening To You – It’s Happening For You

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #3: When Life Changes in an Instant: Finding Purpose in the Pain

“Life is always happening for you, not to you.  Appreciate that gift and you are wealthy. Now and forever.”

Life has a funny way of throwing us into the deep end without warning.

One minute, everything feels steady.
The plans we’ve made. The dreams we’ve nurtured.
Everything is unfolding the way it’s supposed to.

And then.
In an instant. It’s gone.
The life we built.
The certainty we held onto.
The future we imagined.
Vanished. Just like that.
Leaving behind a trail of questions.  Heartache. And confusion.

I thought I knew my path.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.
The years of hard work. The sacrifices. They were finally paying off.
The kids were grown. Our nest was empty.
We were stepping into what we called “our time.”
Freedom. Adventure. Ease.

But then… WHAM.
Without warning. Life changed.
There was no time to prepare. No gentle transition.
Just a crash.
And suddenly, I was standing in the wreckage of what once was. No map. No direction. No idea how to move forward.

I spiraled through the familiar questions:
Why me?
Why now?
What am I supposed to do with this?

The pain was suffocating.
The fear. Overwhelming.
Some days, all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and disappear.
But somehow—within the mess. The chaos. The heartbreak. A quiet truth began to rise:

This wasn’t happening to me. It was happening for me.

At first, that idea felt impossible. Even offensive.
How could something so painful be for me?

But over time, I realized something:
I couldn’t control what had happened.
But I could control how I responded.

I had a choice.
Let it break me.
Or let it build me.
Sink. Or rise.

The road ahead wasn’t smooth.
It was full of twists and turns that left me breathless.
There were days that tested every ounce of strength I had.
Moments when I wanted to quit.
But with each challenge, a new lesson revealed itself.
And with each lesson, a deeper desire to keep going.

To grow.
To evolve.
To live. Not just exist. But truly live.

Here’s the truth no one really prepares us for.
Life is unpredictable.
We don’t always get a say in what happens to us.
But we always get a say in how we respond.

When life throws a hurdle in your path, you can freeze.
Or you can jump.
And if you fall?
You learn to get back up again.

Because on the other side of pain, beyond the fear and the loss and the uncertainty, something greater is waiting.
A stronger version of you.
A deeper understanding of your purpose.
A life you never imagined. But one that was meant for you all along.

I’m not here to pretend it’s easy.
It’s not.
The road is hard. And messy. And unpredictable.
But it’s also filled with meaning—if we’re willing to look for it.

What I know now is this:

It’s not happening to you.
It’s happening for you.
And what you choose to do with it?
That’s where your power lies.

 

 

When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 2

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #2: When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 2

“I will not apologize for choosing myself this time: self-love is the chapter I’ve always wanted to write.”

As I’ve grown older, my perspective on life—and my place in it—has shifted in ways I never saw coming.

Being the oldest of five, I naturally stepped into the role of the “perfect” eldest child. Responsible. Empathetic. A caretaker. A perfectionist. And perhaps most defining of all… a people pleaser.

For most of my life, I truly believed that putting others first was the right thing to do. That being selfless somehow equaled being lovable. That if I could make everyone else happy, I’d feel fulfilled too.

But after spending the last decade on my own, I’ve come to understand a much harder truth: people pleasing might leave others satisfied, but it often leaves me feeling empty. Unheard. Disappointed in myself. Like I betrayed the very person I’m supposed to be loyal to. Me.

That’s not the life I want anymore.

Some might ask, “WTF took you so long? Seventy years? And you’re just now figuring this out?” And as wild as it may sound, my answer is a resounding YES.

Yes. It took me this long.
Yes. I stayed stuck in old cycles far longer than I should have.
Yes. I kept running on a hamster wheel of approval and expectation.

But here’s what I know now:
It’s. Never. Too. Late.

It’s never too late to rewrite your story.
To choose yourself.
To find joy that doesn’t rely on applause or permission.

So I’m starting now.

At 70, I am choosing happiness—not the kind that depends on validation or fitting into someone else’s mold, but the kind that comes from making choices that align with who I am. From honoring what feels right in my soul. From trusting that I deserve a life rooted in peace and self-respect.

This isn’t about being selfish.
It’s about finally, finally recognizing that my needs. My voice. And my well-being matter just as much as anyone else’s.

For most of my life, I followed the rules. I was the “good girl.” The peacekeeper. The one who didn’t rock the boat. I carried the weight of not wanting to disappoint others—believing that if I did, I’d somehow be unworthy of love.

That belief shaped everything.
My relationships.
My marriage.
My role in the family.

I convinced myself that if everyone else was happy, I’d find happiness too. But instead, I ended up drained. Unseen. And honestly? A little broken.

Eventually, life forced me to ask the harder questions. And the answers weren’t easy. But they were clear.

Following the rules to keep the peace? It wasn’t working anymore.
Choosing myself came with consequences, yes. But I was finally ready to face them.

The details don’t really matter. What matters is this: to me, family means showing up. Through the highs. And the lows. Through love. And hardship. Supporting each other, even when life doesn’t fit neatly into a box.

I will no longer punish myself for being true to who I am. I will no longer shrink to make others comfortable. If someone can’t offer love, respect, and support without strings attached, then I’m stepping away.

Because here’s the hard truth:
You don’t abandon the people you love when things don’t go your way.
You don’t exile them for choosing themselves.
That’s not love. That’s control.

The reality is—we just see the world differently.
To me, LOVE is LOVE. Without conditions. Without judgment. Without expectations.

And I will no longer stay in spaces where love is transactional.

Not with family.
Not with friends.
Not with anyone.

Life is too short to keep living a version of it that doesn’t feel like mine.

So I’m choosing me.
And for the first time in my life…
That choice feels like freedom.

When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 1

Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter 

A journey of discovery. A discovery of self. Pieces of old. Paired with pieces of new.

Lesson #1: When I Became Enough…Choosing Me Part 1

“Choose to put yourself first and make you a priority. It’s not selfish. It’s necessary.”

Turning 70 this year was a wake-up call. Ten years without Greg. Ten years navigating life on my own. A whole decade. Passed in a flash. And what did I have to show for it? Did I want to live the rest of my life this way? The hard, resounding truth was NO.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t want to stay stuck. But, I also knew no one was going to pull me out of it. If I wanted change, it had to start with me. So, I began the uncomfortable process of self-reflection. A deep, honest look at my life. And how I was living it. That’s when I realized: I had been pouring so much of myself into others that I had nothing left for me. And after 70 years, it was time to rewrite the story. Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter. The first of which started with me: My self-care. My self-worth. My self-love.

A toughie for sure. A real challenge.

For so long I lived by the rules: This is what I should be doing as a“ good” daughter…wife…mom. But where was the rule that said, “This is what I should be doing for me?”

Selfish? Self-centered? No. If I didn’t take care of myself first, I was no good to anyone else. I was stressed. Anxious. Even a bit angry. Why? Because I was living for them. Not for me. And the “me” showing up, was a version I didn’t like.

In no way did these choices mean abandoning my family or making decisions that didn’t include them. It meant the choices I made were fully mine. No influence or pressure from outside sources. No one telling me what my priorities should be. Those choices were mine. I owned them. No longer would others dictate how I should choose. Or how I should live. Those voices? Muted. Today. And forever. The only voice I needed was my own.

Self-care is one damn hard lesson. Not just to learn, but to actually practice. After years of taking care of others, I asked myself: What does it even mean? Life doesn’t hand you a “choose me” button. After years of constantly giving. Overachieving. And striving to please everyone around me, the challenge felt overwhelming, like a mountain too steep to climb. But it was time. Choose me. Fight for myself. Be brave enough to accept disappointment. Face rejection. From family. Friends. Whoever. Open the door to my true self. Embrace who I am. No matter the consequences. It was more than survival. It was my way to thrive.

Choosing me meant understanding my actions. Reactions. Even when they were driven by fear. I couldn’t keep living my life constantly trying to figure out what others needed, knowing I’d never please everyone 100% of the time. That path only led to burnout.

What did I need? Time. Patience. Practice. The courage to step into the unknown. Tiptoeing into this new reality, I felt all the “scaries.” The fear of getting it wrong. The pressure of accountability. But that was okay. Because. When I showed up as my true, authentic self, I knew I could handle whatever came my way. The Shame. The Blame. The Judgment. The Backlash. The days of winging it.

Choosing me meant understanding my actions. Reactions. Even when they were driven by fear. I couldn’t keep living my life constantly trying to figure out what others needed, knowing I’d never please everyone 100% of the time. That path only led to burnout.

I was learning. About myself. About life. About what truly mattered. To be real. Honest. To separate who the world expected me to be from who I chose to be. To say “no” without guilt. No more saying “yes” just to keep the peace. No more carrying the weight of others’ expectations. No more pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. No more explaining myself to those unwilling to understand. 

Mistakes are never failures. They are lessons. Opportunities to grow. To evolve. To step into the best version of myself. I was finally getting to know me. Choosing me. Because. At the end of the day, the only person who truly knew what was best for me…was me.

It’s taken me 70 years to get here. But. Now, with whatever time I have left on this earth, I choose to live a life filled with Love. Joy. And Peace.

Because. I am finally choosing me.

I’m BAAAACK!!!

“And suddenly you know…It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”

I’m BAAAAACK! But this time, it’s different.

It all started with The Fairytale—stories about my life with Greg, keeping our memories alive. Writing became my therapy, a way to release my pain, to navigate my grief. It was raw. Real. A lifeline during the darkest days, connecting me with others who knew the ache of loss.

Then came The Gregger. A tribute. A way to hold onto him, to honor the selfless, generous, kind, and compassionate man he was.

Moving On. The tough times. The days I didn’t think I’d get through. Holidays. Birthdays. Anniversaries. The weight of absence. The attempt at healing—if you can even call it that. The beginning of the rollercoaster, riding the unpredictable waves of grief.

The Third Year. A step toward the light. A flicker of hope. Learning to find solace in small blessings. To be grateful for the now.

Year 5. The woulda, coulda, shouldas that haunted me as the journey continued. It became harder to write. Harder to find the words. The ups. The downs. The space in between.

Embracing the Unforeseen Journey. More reflection. More self-discovery. Trying to find my place in a world that felt unfamiliar. Struggling. Searching. Hoping.

And now? Now, it’s about ME.

A journey of self-discovery. Reclaiming the pieces of who I was, blending them with who I’m becoming. After years of taking care of everyone else, I’m finally turning inward. Picking up the broken pieces. Piecing them back together—so I can be whole again.

It’s time.

Seventy years in, and still… it’s never too late to discover.

Coming soon…Late Blooming Lessons From Life’s Second Chapter

10 Years…120 Months…43,800 Days…2,628,000 Minutes…157,680,000 Seconds…Forever and Yesterday, All in One Breath

My life has been split in two. There is life “before.” The time when you were here on earth, and we were together. And then there is life “after.” A life where I am here, and you are “there.”

Ten years have passed since that life-changing day. August 30th, 2014. Ten years since I last heard your voice.  Felt your touch. Saw your smile. Time has marched on relentlessly. But, for me, it sometimes feels like it all happened just yesterday. The memories keep you alive. The pictures keep you here with me. In them, you stay the same. Frozen in time. Forever youthful. Forever vibrant. Meanwhile, I age, growing older and wiser, with each passing year testing my strength, courage, and resilience in ways I never could have imagined.

It’s never easy. It’s just different. I have learned to navigate this world without you, but the ache of your absence remains a constant companion. I find myself often thinking about the moments you’ve missed. The milestones. The celebrations. The quiet, everyday joys. These moments were meant to be shared. They should have been ours.

Yet, amid the sadness and longing, I recognize the blessings that continue to flourish in my life. There are so many beautiful things. So much love and growth. But even these are tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that you should be here, too, sharing in these moments, creating new memories with me.

I remember every detail of that day as if it were etched into my soul. The day that changed our lives forever. We never parted ways without a hug and an “I love you.” Little did I know those would be the last words I’d ever hear from you. I am grateful that they were the best words. The last words. The words that I have carried with me every day since.

Ten years. 120 months. 43,800 days. 2,628,000 minutes. 157,680,000 seconds. A lifetime and an instant.  Forever and yesterday. All in one breath.

Your presence is still felt in every corner of my life. In every beat of my heart. Time moves forward, but some moments are eternal. Your memory is one of them. I continue to live. To love. To grow.  All the while holding you close, knowing that while you may not be here in the way I wish, you are never truly gone.

Here’s to another year of remembering you. Of living fully. Of cherishing every moment.  And of holding on to the love that will never fade.

 

The Day Before: A Decade Later

Today marks ten years since the “day before.” The day before my life changed forever. I remember that evening with crystal clarity, as if it happened just yesterday. We were on the lanai, the soft Hawaiian breeze brushing against our skin, a perfect setting for a perfect night. We were together, enjoying family time. Laughing.  Playing cards. Sharing stories. Downing a few cocktails. It was a perfect evening, filled with love and joy. I felt blessed.

Greg got tired early that night. He was always the life of the party, so his desire to turn in seemed a bit out of character. But I thought nothing of it at the time. People get tired.  Plans change. Meanwhile, I decided to stay up with the kids, soaking in every moment of laughter and connection. It was unusual for me to stay up late. I was typically the one who turned in early, more concerned with getting eight hours of sleep than trying to keep up with the youngsters. But not that night. For some reason, I chose to stay.

Looking back now, I wonder why I didn’t just go to bed with Greg. Why didn’t I fold my hand and call it a night? Why didn’t I choose to cherish one more evening snuggled up in his arms? It was the one night I should have been with him.  Our last chance for a “goodnight” kiss. But, how could I have known? How could anyone know that a seemingly ordinary night would be our last together?

I wanted to cherish those moments with the kids. They were rare, and as they grew older, those moments became even more precious. Time with Greg felt abundant, a well that would never run dry. We had years ahead of us—or so I thought. I never imagined that “forever” could be cut short in a heartbeat.

And so, I stayed up that night, thinking there would always be more time. More days. More nights. More “goodnights.” It was one of those “woulda, coulda, shoulda” moments that haunts me still. I think of it often and wonder… if only I had known. If only I had understood how fleeting time can be, how fragile life truly is.

The “day before” feels like a distant memory. A fresh wound, all at once. Ten years have passed, and yet, the memories of that evening, of the laughter and the love, remain vivid. I hold onto them tightly, even as I wish I could rewrite the past. But life doesn’t grant us that luxury.

If I’ve learned anything from that day, it’s to cherish every moment.  Hold the people I love a little closer, and never take a single second for granted. Because we never know when our “day before” will come, when our lives might change in ways we can’t imagine.

So tonight, I’ll whisper a “goodnight” to the sky, to the memory of Greg, to the moments we shared and the ones we lost. I’ll remind myself that while I can’t change the past. I can honor it by living fully in the present.  With love.  Gratitude. And the knowledge that every moment counts.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Happy 70th Birthday in Heaven

Dear Greg,

As I sit down to write this, my heart is filled with a mixture of joy and longing. Today marks your 70th birthday—a milestone that should have been celebrated together, just like we did a decade ago on your 60th. I remember that unforgettable night so vividly, the only surprise I ever managed to pull off for you. What a night it was – a celebration solely dedicated to you, a rarity in your 60 years. The laughter, love and warmth of friends and family filled the room. I can still  recall every detail, every surprise, but most importantly, our last dance. How I dream about the chance to dance with you again. To simply celebrate together, side by side. 

Today, on this celebration of your 70th year, we should have been recreating those beautiful moments, celebrating your life that was meant to continue for many more years. Unfortunately fate had other plans for you, cutting your life short way too soon. Now, I find myself here, and you’re “there,” wherever that may be.

I often imagine that “there” is somewhere over the rainbow, a place where skies are forever blue, and dreams really do come true. Yet, deep down, I grapple with the reality that the dream of celebrating your 70th birthday together didn’t materialize. If dreams had the power to come true, you’d be here with me.

Today, I want to focus on celebrating you—the you who brought immeasurable joy to everyone you touched. Your smile, kindness, generosity, and compassion defined you, making you a beacon of light in our lives. As I reflect on the 70 years that should have been, I choose to honor the blessings you brought, even though we were robbed of more time together.

It’s challenging to face the absence, but today is about cherishing the beautiful memories we created. Each shared moment, each laugh, and every bit of warmth you emanated remain alive in my heart. Your legacy lives on in the impact you had on those fortunate enough to know you. You touched countless lives, leaving a mark on this earth and a legacy that will be with us forever.

Greg…I wish you a heavenly birthday. Though you’re not physically here, your spirit lingers in the love and memories you left behind. As I raise a glass to toast to 70 years of your remarkable journey, I am filled with gratitude for the gift of having loved you. Despite being “there,” you are forever present not only in my heart, but in all of our hearts. Happy 70th!

I love you forever

Gregger Pitti-Uomo-June-14-606

Happy 48th “Should Have Been” Anniversary

Dear Greg,

Today would have been our 48th anniversary, a day we always celebrated as our own. Each passing year stood as a testament, not just to our love, but to the life we created together. While I will forever remember this day with love, it has become bittersweet, overshadowed by your absence and the emptiness in my heart. For nine years, I’ve continued to commemorate these moments as if you were still here. I whisper “Happy Anniversary” as if you can hear me. I hang onto impossible dreams that you might walk into the room, that we could celebrate in the joy of each passing year together. But reality dictates otherwise. Our day arrives. There are no exchanged cards. Surprise gifts. Or toasts to the years conquered together. 

Why do I hold on so tightly? Why does this day mean so much to me? Because it was ours, a day we chose together to celebrate our love every single year. 10 years ago we vowed to be together for 75 years. We made plans. But fate took over. Fate won.Those dreams will forever remain unfulfilled. In this “would have been” moment there are countless things I wish I could say to you.

Reflecting on what could have been, it’s the small moments I miss the most. I would trade anything for the warmth of your touch, the sparkle in your eyes, and the contagious laughter that once filled our days with  both joy and tears.

Our journey began at 21, young and innocent, in love but knowing little about life and marriage. We learned and never gave up, navigating moments of pause and rediscovering our way back to the beginning. It was in this space that our love, foundation, strength, and bond grew and strengthened even more.

Together, we faced challenges – raising our family, building a business, navigating highs and lows, and dealing with loss. Through it all, we knew it was always the two of us in the end. 

Being a widow on this day is painful, yet I count my blessings for the 39 years we shared. You were my soulmate. Best friend. Partner. Our journey, imperfect but perfect for us, is forever etched in my heart. I raise a toast to our “would have been” 48th anniversary. Loving you was the best thing I ever did. I only wish our fairytale had a little more time.

As I write my 48th anniversary love letter to you, I reflect on our life. We experienced the best and the worst. I cherish both because they shaped us into the great team we were. Our struggles taught us gratitude, communication and compassion, qualities that defined our relationship. Even after 38 years together, we wanted more – more time, more love, more us. 

You will always be the best thing that ever happened in my life. Others may question that statement. Why not my children? My grandchildren? But, without you, they wouldn’t be. You will always be the best. Guiding me. Teaching me. Helping me become a better and stronger me. The void you left is indescribable, but I find strength in your lessons. I miss you beyond words, but I continue on, knowing that life is too short to merely exist. 

Cheers to 48 years of “what should have been.” I will forever celebrate the love, happiness, laughter, and tears. I was blessed to share my life with you and the beautiful family we created. I love you always.