Three Things, One Ending

They say that in the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

Normally, I'd roll my eyes at something like that — probably scroll past it on social media while muttering something cynical under my breath about inspirational fonts. But this time, it landed differently. Maybe because I’m sitting in the aftermath of another love story that didn't end with a bang, but with the soft unraveling of two people who genuinely tried.

We did love each other. That part, at least, is still true. Somewhere along the way, we carved out a space for each other — one that felt safe and light-filled, even if the world outside was chaotic. There were real moments of joy, partnership, laughter, and a quiet sense of “we’re in this together.” And I believed in it — in her, in us.

But somewhere in the middle of making space, we forgot to keep communicating.

I let the pressure get to me. Work was wild, unpredictable — the kind of stress that shows up in your jaw and your blood pressure and your dreams. And with her between jobs, I felt like I needed to carry it all — to be strong, to figure out a way to financially support both of us without adding to her burden.

So I stayed quiet.

I thought strength meant silence. That not telling her how hard it was would somehow protect her. I see now that it didn’t protect either of us. Instead, it just widened the distance. Turned connection into assumption, love into guesswork.

And she was carrying her own weight — heavy and invisible. Her frustration built like steam behind a closed door. The more stressed she got, the more it seemed like everything set her off: the kids, the dogs, the state of the world, and sometimes me. Instead of talking to me, she started talking at me. Or past me. Or not at all.

When things were hard, she began to compare me to her ex — expecting that I would let her down in the same ways, bracing for betrayals I hadn’t committed. And I couldn’t convince her otherwise. I didn’t always know how to show up in those moments. Sometimes I got defensive. Sometimes I just shut down. Sometimes I honestly didn’t know what I’d done wrong — only that I’d disappointed her, again.

So no, we didn’t end because we stopped loving each other.

We ended because we stopped talking.

And that brings me back to that third thing: letting go.

I’m not good at it. I hold on to words said in anger and texts left unanswered. I replay conversations looking for the moment I could’ve done it differently. But I’m trying to be better. To forgive her. To forgive me.

Letting go, I’m learning, doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t matter. It means accepting that it did — and still choosing to release the version of the future I once held so tightly.

So yes, I loved her. And yes, I tried to live gently beside her. And now, I’m trying to let go — not because the love wasn’t real, but because grace demands it. Because if only three things really do matter in the end, then I want to get this one right.

Even if it takes me a little while.

Richard Fredrick Boeke, October 19, 1932 - May 23, 2020

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."

                                                    ~ Søren Kierkegaard

It’s only now, looking back, that I begin to truly understand the depth and meaning behind the moments we shared, Dad. When I was younger, they felt simple—like when you took our Cub Scout den to the 1977 BSA Jamboree at Moraine State Park. At the time, it just seemed like a fun adventure — making rope with David and our friends, learning new skills, and laughing as we discovered a few "new" words you might not have planned on teaching us that day. As we grew older, the moments became more challenging. But now, with time and distance, I see them all differently. That particular memory wasn’t just a fun outing; it was a lesson in patience, leadership, resilience, and love — the kind of lessons that you taught not through lectures, but through living example.

Kierkegaard was right. We move forward through life, not always knowing the value of each experience, not always understanding the meaning behind the choices we make or the words we speak. But when I look back now, so much becomes clearer. I see how the way you led, the way you showed up, the way you handled both joy and difficulty—all of it shaped who I am today.

I am so grateful for every lesson you tried to teach me—both the ones I took to heart and the ones I only came to understand later. I know I didn’t always recognize your wisdom in the moment, but looking back, it’s everywhere. Your presence, your guidance, your values—they’re in the way I try to raise my own children, in the way I try to treat people, in the way I live.

I hope you saw that in me. I hope you recognized that the kind of father I strive to be is, in large part, because of the kind of father you were. Our relationship wasn’t perfect—whose is? But your love was always there, steady and strong, and mine never wavered either.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For the memories, the lessons, and the love. I am so thankful I got to spend those last hours with you — to simply be near you, to say goodbye, and to let you know how deeply I care.

I promise I will keep living forwards—with the understanding I carry from looking back. I will continue to strive to be the best person I can be, because that’s what you taught me, and that’s how I will honor you.

Love you forever.

In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Unfortunately, I learned very early that every life has an end. My grandparents were killed in an automobile accident when I was still in preschool. I was too young to fully grasp what death meant, but I understood enough to know that I wouldn’t see them again for a very long time. What I remember most vividly is how profoundly sad my mother was when my dad, my brother, and I boarded a plane to Long Island, where Grandma Boeke and my aunt and uncle would care for us for a week or so while my parents stayed behind in Chicago to try to sort things out.

That was my first encounter with loss—and since then, there have been times when I’ve had the gift of preparation. But more often than not, death arrives without warning. It doesn’t knock. It just takes.

This week was one of those unexpected moments. A good friend, a colleague, a woman who would have done anything for me—and I, for her—abruptly left us. There was no warning, no final conversation to soften the blow. Just absence. She was someone whose loyalty and love never needed explanation, whose quiet presence grounded me more than I realized—until now. And as the hours pass, it’s not just grief that weighs on me, but the ache of all the things left unsaid, the moments we never circled back to, the words I didn’t take the time to say.

She was more than my office assistant; she was, aside from my parents and children, the person I was closest to. I often called her my “work mom,” and that title was never an exaggeration. It captured the deep, steady care she showed me—and the unspoken way she looked out for me every single day.

For nearly ten years, she made me better at my job. She helped me stay organized, yes—but more than that, she helped me lead with clarity and grace. She anticipated needs before they were spoken, protected my time, and managed chaos with a calm that could steady anyone. She knew when to gently push, when to hold space, and when to simply listen. She was thoughtful, steadfast, and above all, a dear friend and an extraordinary human being.

Even in the best circumstances, nothing truly prepares you for the moment someone you love is gone. You might have the chance to say goodbye, to hold their hand, to speak the words that feel most important—but the silence that follows always feels heavier than expected. I wasn’t expecting closure when I went to see her in the hospital on Saturday morning, but when her husband told me she was in a prolonged state of unconsciousness with minimal or no awareness of surroundings, the finality of it struck me like a wave. The inability to say goodbye—to really say goodbye—left me hollow.

As I made calls to share the heartbreaking news with colleagues, I found myself overwhelmed by tears and a profound sense of sadness. I know those tears weren’t just about losing someone I loved—they were about everything left unfinished, unsaid, or undone. The pain of regret is sharp—and tragically, it cannot be corrected.

In the midst of this grief, I was reminded of a trio of Calvin and Hobbes comic strips I’ve never forgotten—ones that, remarkably, tell a story of loss, love, and quiet resilience through the eyes of a child. In the first, Calvin finds a dying raccoon and is comforted by his father as he begins to understand death. “I’m crying because out there he’s gone, but he’s not gone inside me,” Calvin says—words that feel especially true right now. When Calvin and Hobbes later visit the raccoon’s grave, Calvin says something quietly profound: “In a sad, awful, terrible way, I’m happy I met him... What a stupid world.” Finally, seeking comfort, Calvin leans on Hobbes and whispers, “But don’t you go anywhere.” Hobbes, like any true friend, simply replies, “Don’t worry.”

She was my Hobbes. And now that she’s gone, I don’t know who I will lean on.

Those moments, rendered in a handful of panels and a few words, hold the same emotional truth I’m grappling with now: that loss doesn’t just take someone from you—it reshapes your memories in shades of longing. But it also illuminates the love that was there, the presence that grounded you, and the grace that comes from having known someone truly good.

So if you are lucky enough to still have the people you love within reach, say what matters. Do what matters. Let your time together be free of the silence that regret so often feeds on. Because when the time comes—and it always does—you’ll want the comfort of knowing your love was known, your words were heard, and nothing truly meaningful was left behind.

A Different Kind of Love Story

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows heartbreak—not the cinematic kind with sad piano music and rain on the windowpane. I’m talking about the awkward, echoey quiet of love that never quite landed, or maybe just wasn’t ready to stay. The kind where you find yourself in the grocery store wondering why the salad dressing aisle is making you emotional. Just me?

After my divorce, I was sure I’d done the work. I’d journaled. I’d processed. I’d read things with italicized subtitles like Falling in Love for All the Right Reasons. So when I opened my heart again—tentatively, hopefully—it was to someone who, like me, had her own battle scars. It felt like the grown-up thing to do. Mature. Evolved. And yet… turns out, being ready to be loved is not the same thing as being ready to love yourself. That was a lesson I got to learn the fun way. More than once.

And then, as it loves to do, Valentine’s Day showed up. You know, that gentle, low-key holiday that celebrates love with $9 greeting cards and heart-shaped pizza specials. It’s great if you’re part of a couple. It’s... less great when you're trying to rebuild your sense of self from the rubble of a relationship that looked promising until it didn’t.

So this year? I’m not writing a card to anyone else. I’m writing one to me.

The last person I loved, I really believed she might be “the one who proved I’d healed.” (Spoiler: she wasn’t.) It was the first serious relationship after the divorce, and for a while, it had all the ingredients—laughter, late-night talks, the occasional shared meme that actually said something meaningful. But in the end, it fell apart in the most familiar way possible: two people, both still carrying pieces they hadn’t figured out how to fit together.

What hurt most wasn’t just the breakup. It was bumping—again—into that hard little truth: you can’t fix someone else’s inability to love themselves by offering up all your best emotional tools. I tried. Believe me. I brought a metaphorical emotional toolkit and everything. But no amount of my own healing was ever going to do the work for her.

I’d like to say I came to that conclusion quickly. But no. Like most life lessons worth learning, this one dragged itself out over several months and way too many long walks. Eventually, I remembered something I once read (probably while procrastinating other life decisions): the Greeks had three words for love. Eros (passionate romance), Philia (loyal friendship), and Agape (selfless, unconditional love). Most of us start off chasing Eros with the energy of a teenager at a Taylor Swift concert, hoping it’ll mature into Philia and maybe—if the stars align—Agape.

But here’s what nobody tells you: all of those require self-love first. And self-love? Not nearly as glamorous as it sounds.

Because after every heartbreak, I’d wind up back in that familiar mental cul-de-sac. You know the one: “Maybe I was too much. Or not enough. Or maybe I said something weird during that third dinner?” (You did, but that’s not the point.)

Eventually, beneath the self-doubt and rewinding of awkward conversations, I found something else: courage. Not the superhero kind. More like the “get out of bed and face the dog-hair-covered chaos of your life” kind.

Courage is what’s left when the fantasy fades and you’re just sitting there with your own reflection—and deciding that maybe you’re still okay. It’s saying, “Alright, maybe we’re not fine-fine, but we’re at least 'functional enough to make pancakes' fine.” Which, let’s be honest, is a win.

Self-love, it turns out, is less bubble baths and more boundary-setting. It’s forgiving yourself for staying too long. For ignoring red flags. For convincing yourself that if you just loved hard enough, it would all work out like a Nicholas Sparks novel (minus the tragic boating accident).

My road back to myself didn’t involve epiphanies atop mountaintops. It looked more like solo hikes, long talks with patient friends, and dogs who showed up every single time I needed a reminder that love doesn’t have to be complicated. It came in the form of family who showed up when I didn’t ask, and in the quiet realization that maybe the version of me who believed love could fix people wasn’t naïve—just hopeful.

But here’s the part I really didn’t want to admit: I kept choosing people who didn’t know how to love themselves, because some part of me still thought I had to earn love. If I was kind enough, funny enough, forgiving enough, it would finally stick. But love—real love—isn’t a reward. It’s not a punch card that gets you a free latte after the tenth heartbreak. It’s a mirror. And until I could look into it and say, “Yeah, I like that person,” I was always going to keep choosing reflections of my own uncertainty.

Valentine’s Day wants to be about couples. But what if we took it back? What if we celebrated all the kinds of love that don’t show up on a Hallmark card? Like the steady presence of family who remind you you’re still lovable. Or the unspoken comfort of dogs who curl up beside you like they’re guarding your soul. Or the quiet joy of realizing you don’t need a relationship to feel whole—just a decent night’s sleep and a good breakfast.

I stopped chasing. I stopped over-explaining. I stopped bleeding for people who knew how to take—but not how to hold.

And I started rebuilding. Not dramatically. Not with a grand Instagram reveal. Just steadily, and honestly, and on my own terms.

And along the way, I found pieces of myself I’d shelved—old joys, old jokes, old weird quirks that were always mine to begin with. I realized I wasn’t a half waiting to be completed. I was a whole, slightly bruised, fully functioning person with a Costco-sized supply of emotional resilience.

We talk about love like it’s a destination. But maybe the best kind of love starts quietly. Maybe it starts the moment you stop auditioning for someone else’s approval and start showing up for your own.

This isn’t a traditional love story. No meet-cute. No orchestral music. No dramatic declarations in the rain.

This is the story of how I started to rescue myself. Awkwardly. Imperfectly. With snacks.

And if love finds me again someday—which I believe it will—it’ll find someone who’s not waiting to be rescued. Not performing. Not shrinking.

It’ll find someone living a life that’s honest, open-hearted, and entirely my own.

So this Valentine’s Day, I’m not mourning what I lost. I’m raising a coffee mug to what I’ve built. A life that is mine. A heart that’s still open. A spirit that’s no longer waiting for permission to feel worthy.

That, I think, is a pretty good kind of love story.

Happy Birthday!

Sometimes, I am amazed that I actually continue to learn day in and day out. You would think that as I approach another year and another birthday, in the middle of my life, I would have learned all that I need to know and would be applying and imparting that knowledge.

But I am continually surprised by the fact that there are more nuanced meanings to the things that I thought I had already learned... For instance, I remember on my 16th birthday, my Mom gave me a hand-made paperweight with Raymond Duncan's quote:

"The best substitute for experience is being sixteen."

At first, I took this as a compliment; as a sixteen-year-old, I believed I should and could do anything. The meaning of those words was clear to me as a young adult... Go forth and do, don't let anything or anyone hold you back.

Then, several years ago, my oldest daughter turned thirteen, and for the first time, I realized the extended meaning of Duncan's words. Teenagers think they know everything (at least mine do) and can do anything. I know that I felt that way. But over time, experience showed me that I clearly didn't know everything, and some things should not be done (under any circumstance).

But that kind of experience only comes through trial (and error). So how the heck can you get a teenager to understand that? The answer is you can't. So the trick for me, as a parent, is to give my children the benefit of my experience without forcing it on them. Give them the space, time, and cushion to learn things independently- this is the magical parenting trick. And if I am being quite honest, I still don't have a handle on how to do this. With my two oldest kids in high school and my youngest just entering her own pre-teen years, we have too many fights because I haven't quite learned how to get them to accept some of my hard-earned experience, nor have I learned to just let go and keep my experience to myself.

However, I'm sure it made my Mom smile when I told her I "figured out" Duncan's words. I hope my epiphany gave her some satisfaction, knowing that by age 40, I had learned a lesson she started teaching me at 16. I only hope I am as successful with my kids.

Which brings me to my thoughts today, the anniversary of my birth. I've spent some time reflecting on the first half (or so) of my life this week. In particular, thinking about what the second half will have in store for me. I don't think this is uncommon for someone to do on his or her birthday. It is like a mid-year performance review at work.

But each time I start to reflect, I remember reading and discussing the words of Walt Whitman's poem, Youth, Day, Old Age and Night, in my high school American Lit class:

Youth, large, lusty, loving--youth full of grace,
force, fascination,
Do you know that Old Age may come after you with
equal grace, force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid--day of the immense
sun, action, ambition, laughter,
The Night follows close with millions of suns, and
sleep and the restoring darkness.

I am sure that the common interpretation of every student in my class was that Whitman's poem was an admonition to us (young people). What I remember from that American Literature lecture was the admonishment that "you won't always be young and that old age and death are approaching." The takeaway was to enjoy your fleeting youth because it doesn't last.

I know that when young people act selfishly, their "fleeting youth" is part of the reason. But that doesn't make the actions any less selfish. I worry that if the selfishness goes unchecked, it will grow into a pattern that will continue throughout their lives. At the same time, I can see that I was (on occasion) selfish, and I turned out okay (at least according to most).

So, while I do want my children to enjoy their youth, I also want them to learn from the mistakes I've already made. I do understand and recognize, in the logical part of my brain, that they need to make their own mistakes. But when they make choices that seem to be selfish to me, this paradigm of learning from experience does seem like a no-win situation.

What I'd really like my kids to learn is something that I know now, twenty-five plus years from high school, I know to be true: Youth is certainly fleeting, but life isn't always a zero-sum game. Most things are not a "me or them" or a "right or wrong" exercise. When I first read Whitman's words, I got it wrong. Youth is not at the expense of Age, nor vice-versa.

Just as I realized there is more than one meaning to Duncan’s experience quote, I know that Whitman's words have a more nuanced meaning...

There is beauty, strength, and wonder yet to be found for the young and the old. Whitman was not lamenting aging; he wasn't saying that night and age are stalking us, lying in wait to steal our grace, force, and fascination. His words have a deeper meaning. As we grow older and more experienced, all of these things can be found in abundance, in ourselves, in our children, in those we love, and who surround us -- each of them a bright star in the darkness of our individual nights.

As I blow out the candles on my birthday cake this year, my wish will be two-fold. First, I will wish to find better ways to impart my newfound wisdom to my kids (in ways that they won't see as lessons). Second, and more importantly, I will wish that the individual action, ambition, and laughter of every "sun" in my night sky not only measure up but burn so brightly that they exceed the grace, force, and fascination of the brightest day.