Saying Goodbye...

I hope you’ll forgive a detour from my usual posts. Today, I need to write about someone who was my faithful hiking companion, who loved to chase a tennis ball with unrelenting enthusiasm, who was always by my side during quiet nights, who greeted me at the door with joy, and who taught the kids, and me, more about unconditional love than most people ever will. This is a memorial for Madison—Maddie to us—our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever.

The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish—especially around men—which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.

She warmed up to us quickly—especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.

A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home—a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now—he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.

This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.

Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.

That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together—quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.

When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.

The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.

It was time.

In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was—what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.

Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home—and in our lives—feels enormous now that she’s gone.

I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie—run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.

One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.

Rest well, girl. You were so deeply loved.

Maddie and the kids, Christmas 2011

The Swing That Sealed It

Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.

May 2013 is a month I will never forget—for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.

Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant—she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve—only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.

And then came the game...

It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.

I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day—a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat, that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.

It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball—he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.

When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure—but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player—he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.

And there he was—on the biggest stage of his high school career.

He took the first pitch. Then came the second.

Crack.

The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence—a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.

I stood there, still, trying to take it in—so proud I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that—something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”

It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.

Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him—always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”

And she was right.

Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High—striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University—his dream to play Division I college baseball, so LMU was a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.

It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia—not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.

The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes—grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.

If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:

And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

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.

Peeps, Patience, and the Problem with Preferences

Every Easter, like clockwork, I buy Peeps.

These neon-colored marshmallow bunnies and chicks go into the baskets—cheerfully nestled between chocolate bunnies, Cadbury eggs, and Brach's "All Reds" Easter jellybeans—not because my kids like them (they don’t), but because I do. I’ve long since accepted that, come this afternoon, I’ll be the only one finishing off the sugar-dusted leftovers while everyone else picks around them like they’re radioactive.

But I still include them. Every year. Why?

Because Easter, like parenting, is not always about efficiency. It’s about intention. It’s about tradition. And sometimes, it’s about small, ridiculous acts of hope—like believing that maybe this year one of the kids will discover the joy of stale Peeps the way I did back in the 1970s.

The Peeps Paradox

The whole Peep situation got me thinking about preferences—how strongly kids develop them, how wildly they differ, and how we as parents sometimes wrestle with honoring those preferences while still keeping a little space for our own.

Take dinner, for example. One kid wants tacos, another votes spaghetti, and the third insists cereal counts as a balanced meal. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to cook one thing that everyone will eat without negotiating like I’m at a G7 summit.

It’s the same with movies, music, road trip snacks—even the car temperature. Parenting often means navigating a minefield of opinions, all while keeping the van moving forward and your own sanity intact.

Putting the Peeps in Anyway

Sometimes, putting the Peeps in the basket is my quiet rebellion against the tyranny of consensus. A reminder to myself that my preferences don’t have to disappear completely just because I’m the parent.

It’s also a reminder to my kids: you won’t always love everything that shows up in life—or in your Easter basket. And that’s okay. You don’t have to eat the Peeps. But you can appreciate the thought behind them. The effort. The love. Even if it comes in the form of fluorescent marshmallow poultry.

The Bigger Picture

Faith and Kailey decorating eggs, circa 2005

Parenting isn’t always about creating a curated experience that hits everyone’s sweet spot. It’s about showing up. Consistently. Lovingly. Sometimes goofily. With jellybeans, chocolate eggs, and yes—even with Peeps.

This year's Easter baskets will be full. Maybe not perfectly tailored. Maybe a little sticky. But filled with good intentions, and just enough sugar to remind us all that life—and family—is messy, colorful, and best approached with a sense of humor.

And if no one eats the Peeps again this year? That’s fine. More for me.

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.