Skylar Berget

Wife. Mom. Teacher.

The Weeks We Fought For

by Skylar on category

Earlier this week, we said goodbye to my Grandma Verna.
And if you asked any of her grandkids, we would all tell you the same thing: she was our favorite person.

We used to argue over who got which week of summer at the Ranch with her. Those weeks felt like winning the lottery. The Ranch wasn’t just a place — it was a whole world that only really existed when you were there with Grandma.

I am a homebody. When I was little, I got homesick being away from my mom and dad. Truthfully, I still get homesick — only now it’s when I’m away from my husband. But I loved my time with Grandma, too. When I was young, I would sometimes start missing home after a couple of days at the Ranch. Funny enough, that was usually right when Grandma would suddenly start feeling “sick” and decide it might be time for me to head home so she could rest.

It took me years to realize what she was doing.

She was protecting my pride — letting me go home without ever making me feel like a baby for missing my mom and dad.

Eventually, she started letting us grandkids come visit in pairs, under one condition: we weren’t allowed to fight. Naturally, Syd and I ended up going together. We were already neighbors growing up, but I truly believe those weeks at the Ranch built the foundation for our lifelong friendship. There’s something about shared summers, barn basketball, horses, and Grandma’s table that ties people together forever.

Grandma loved a good deal — and most of her deals involved money.

She absolutely hated water snakes. Unfortunately for her, the yard had a creek running through it. Her standing offer was five dollars for every water snake we killed. Looking back, it could’ve been a gold mine… except I hate snakes just as much as she did, so I never really capitalized on that one.

The deal I did capitalize on was Grandma’s mouth.

Every time she swore, she owed us a dollar. But there was a catch: if we ran into the house screaming “Grandma!” at the top of our lungs, we owed her a dollar.

Syd loved yelling Grandma’s name.
I loved collecting Grandma’s dollar bills.

Syd usually went home in the negative. I usually went home with pockets full of ones.

Some of my favorite memories weren’t really about the Ranch itself — they were about the quiet moments with her. I am not a horse person. Honestly, you couldn’t bribe me to get on a horse. But up at the Ranch with Grandma, I rode every day. Not because I loved riding, but because I loved riding with her.

Every morning and evening we’d go out together. She would tell stories as we rode through the coulees, along the trees, and across the hills.

My favorite ride was the mid-morning trip over to Aunt Barbara’s house. Grandma would sit, and gossip, and Syd and I would sip iced tea like we were part of the conversation.

Evenings were slower. After dinner, Grandma would teach Syd and me card games at the table. And before bed, we’d sit by the fireplace while she read Hank the Cowdog out loud to us.

At the end of Grandma’s life, she lost much of her memory — but she never lost her sass.

When I was pregnant with Tein, she looked at me with complete honesty and informed me that I had gained some weight. She might be the only person in the world who could tell me I was getting fat and not get punched in the arm.

That was Grandma — direct, funny, sharp, and completely herself.

Losing someone like her leaves a quiet space behind. When I think about Grandma Verna, I don’t picture the nursing home or the hard parts at the end. I picture early mornings on horseback, the crisp morning air, a deck of cards on the kitchen table, and her voice reading stories by the fire.

And somewhere in my mind, that’s exactly where she still is — riding across the hills, telling stories with my Dad, making deals, and keeping everyone on their toes.

And if there happen to be water snakes in heaven, I have no doubt she’s still paying five dollars for every one of them.

Writing Into the Silence – Happy Birthday, Dad

by Skylar on category

What would you say if I could have you back for just one day?

Just one.

I’d do anything to see that smile again. To hear your voice say my name. To hear you laugh. To hear you tell me you’re heading out to go feed.

A very experienced—and very expensive—counselor once told me I should talk to you. I remember sitting there thinking, what a stupid idea. I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk with you. I want to hear you answer.

But I tried.

All that came out was, “I miss you, Dad.”

Then it turned into anger.
Then cursing you for leaving.
Then silence.

Then tears that wouldn’t stop.

Dad, you visit me in my dreams a lot. Sometimes they feel like nightmares. Sometimes they feel like you’re just stopping by, checking in, making sure we’re still standing.

So I’ll give you the update you would have gotten today.

Because today, my morning would’ve started with a phone call to tell you Happy Birthday.

Miles.

Dad, you would be so proud of him.

He’s carrying a weight most people will never understand. He was handed responsibilities he never asked for, but he shows up every single day and does what needs to be done. Quietly. Humbly. With dignity.

He’s picking up broken pieces that none of us know how to put back together.

And somehow… he’s doing it.

Vivianne isn’t a little kid anymore. She’s turning into a young woman. But she still has that same light in her. That same energy that makes people feel loved just by being around her.

And she still runs full speed into hugs.

Ryggs… that kid has a mind of his own. You can almost see the gears turning in his little brain. One minute he’s thinking, the next minute he’s off making something happen.

He’s a doer. A leader.

I’m convinced he’ll be driving tractors and running the place by the time he’s eight.

Rahlee is the one you’d want to scoop up and snuggle. His laugh spreads through the room, and you can’t help but laugh too. He watches his big brother carefully. He’ll be following big brother around before we know it!

Becky has been Miles’ true partner through all of this.

She stepped into spaces that weren’t hers to fill—but she filled them anyway. She keeps things moving when the rest of us feel stuck. She makes the phone calls, fills in the gaps, handles paperwork, communicates when Miles is too busy, and helps feed the ranch cattle.

Some days, she’s the glue holding this whole family together.

Marlow is exactly what you would expect from a toddler.

Wild.

She still occasionally gets dismissed from daycare for her behavior—honestly, sometimes she’s earned it. She runs hard, plays hard, and loves even harder.

Kody has been the steady piece holding our little world together while my head has been somewhere else entirely. There have been days when my mind feels like it’s in another universe, stuck somewhere between memories and grief, and he’s the one quietly keeping things moving. He carries more than I think anyone realizes—picking up the slack, holding space for my sadness, and still loving me through it.

Mom

She’s trying to carry both her role and yours. And that’s not something anyone can just step into. You two were always the best team when it came to making sure Miles and I were taken care of.

Now she’s doing it alone.

I can see the exhaustion in her sometimes. I think sometimes she’s angry at you for leaving her as the only grandparent.

But she loves all the little ones fiercely. And she’s doing the best she can with what she has left to give.

Tein.
(Or T-man, as he’ll probably grow up hearing.)

He was the blessing I didn’t know I needed in 2025.

When he smiles, it reaches his eyes. Exactly the way yours did, and my heart feels like it might explode inside my chest.

And the only thing that comes out are quiet tears.

You’d probably be disappointed in me.

I cry now.

A lot.

I never used to cry. But these days I feel like if someone holds me too long, I might fall apart in their arms.

Sometimes I think if I cried hard enough… maybe I could cry you back to life.

I can hear you telling me that loss is something you can’t control. That I need to keep living my life.

And I am living.

But living doesn’t mean the ache goes away.

Some days I’m strong.
Some days I feel like I’m breaking open.

Some days I just want to hear your voice again.

Today is your birthday.

Your first one in heaven.

And the world kept moving like it was just another day.

But for me, it isn’t.

Today I would’ve called you.
Today we would’ve laughed.
Today I would’ve heard your voice.

Instead, I’m writing into the silence.

So wherever you are—
I hope you know we’re still here.
Still loving you.
Still missing you.
Still trying to carry forward the things you built.

I hope wherever you are, you are with Tom and Uncle Tell.
I hope you know how much of you is still alive in all of us.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I love you.
And I will miss you for the rest of my life ❤️

The Year That Broke Me Open

by Skylar on category

2025 was the year that changed everything.

I lost my dad. Losing him to suicide left a silence so loud it echoes through my everyday life. Demons don’t knock; they live in plain sight. They sit quietly in memories, in what-ifs, in the empty space across the room, while the kids open Christmas presents. The world doesn’t stop for someone who is hurting. I’ve laughed less. I feel more. I keep moving, not because I am okay, but because he would want me to.

And yet, in the middle of the darkest year of my life, light arrived.

I welcomed a baby boy, Tein Scott.

Holding him for the first time rewrote something inside me. His breath reminded me to breathe. His tiny heartbeat reminded me why I have to keep going. There’s a deep ache knowing my dad never got to meet him, never got to hold him, but there’s also a promise in my son that love doesn’t end; it continues.

Through it all, I didn’t walk alone.

Grief has a way of shrinking the world until only what truly matters remains. In that small, sacred space, a tight circle of loved ones becomes everything. In the midst of loss, their love grew clearer, uncomplicated, and steady.

My husband is my anchor, sturdy and unwavering in his vow to be our family’s protector and safe place. He carried more than his share. He woke me from nightmares, held me through quiet breakdowns, and gently pulled me back to the present when my mind tried to disappear into the pain. When I couldn’t see a way forward, he became it. His love wasn’t loud or showy; it was patient and relentless.

My brother is the one person who understands my pain in a way no one else ever will because we lost the same father. When the world feels impossible to explain, he just knows. He’s always a phone call away, no matter the hour, no matter how heavy the moment. We don’t always have the right words, but we don’t need them. We’re loving each other the only way we know how in this disaster: by showing up, by listening, by surviving together. In a year defined by heartbreak, he has reminded me that I’m not carrying this alone.

My mom’s love after the loss of our dad has become something deeper, heavier. Though my mom and dad were divorced, they loved us first and always. Now that love lives on through her in a new way. She carries the weight of being the only parent left, holding space for her children’s grief while managing her own. She doesn’t get the luxury of falling apart for long. Her love is proof that even after unimaginable loss, a mother’s heart expands to hold everyone else first.

The steady presence of coworkers, friends, and family became more important than I ever expected. They didn’t need to have the right words. Their consistency was the comfort. In a season when the world felt unrecognizable, their care became a lifeline, proof that support doesn’t always arrive loudly.

2025 broke my heart and rebuilt it at the same time.
Strength doesn’t always look loud. Surviving is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.

I’m still breathing, and that’s worth more than gold.

Can People Change?

by Skylar on category

Can people change?

I would have said no. You are who you are, and eventually, with time, you’ll fall back into old patterns, mindset, and habits. I lived blissfully naive for the first thirty years of my life. I didn’t think people could change because I had never experienced anything so significant that it altered the lens through which I view life.

Becoming a Mom humbled me, but giving birth to my Son and grieving the death of my Dad in the same calendar year rewrote my inner blueprint. For months, I lived in the midst of the connection to life and mortality. Every cell in my body was working overtime to create life, but my brain sat on a merry-go-round, processing death. The combination made me hyper-aware of both the fragility and the miracle of life. The way I saw myself, others, and The World changed. Motherhood expands your heart in ways you never thought possible; it rearranges your priorities, deepens your empathy, and teaches you both the strength to persevere and the surrender that comes with it. In contrast, grief carves out a hollow space that reshapes your understanding of love and time. Together, these experiences transformed my foundation—they stripped away what was superficial and rebuilt me with a new sense of purpose and vulnerability. I’ve changed into someone different over the last year: softer and firmer all at once, guided by love and loss in equal measure.

I was and still am grieving and surviving at the same time, and some days neither is easy. I see people differently now. I see the parent walking into the store with heavy eyes and the toddler with uncombed hair. I no longer judge them. I notice the individual standing in line in front of me with unfocused eyes, their mind submerged in a memory. I have immense empathy. The scope of my vision has widened. I notice the heartbreak and despair of those around me. I can feel it, and now I see it without critique, understanding that the parent or individual might be only surviving the day.

I’m living in two timelines: the life I have, and the one I lost. I have a beautiful life, with so much to be grateful for. We wake up in the morning in a warm house with food to eat. We go to bed at night with every bed full after saying a prayer. I know I am blessed, but I selfishly grieve the loss of a future I had always expected. Papa won’t be there this winter when Marlow learns to ski. Tears slip down my face every time I drive on Hwy 83 as I pass Seeley Lake, knowing there will be no more summer vacations that feel whole. There will always be one beating heart missing.

My inner circle changed. Friends came to stay, and others slowly disappeared. In the silence of life changes, people drift away – not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know how to reach you where you’re at. Even if you wanted to, you don’t have the capacity to throw the drifters a rope to reel them back in.

To every friend that’s become distant over the last year, I’m sorry if my brokenness ever made me a bad friend to you. I know there are days I disappear without a word. I’m sorry if my silence ever made you question if you really matter to me. It isn’t because I don’t care. It’s not because you aren’t important. The truth is that sometimes my mind becomes a war zone I can’t escape. I fight battles I don’t know how to explain some days, and in those moments, even the people I love the most feel a million miles away. Still, the ones who stand beside me mean more than I’ve ever expressed. In my silence, I carry gratitude, grateful that you’re here when I’m not easy to love. My inner circle shrank, but I love them harder than I ever have before. I will never again wait for a funeral to say what matters. My people will hear it and feel it with each conversation.

It’s okay to embrace the change that comes when life shifts so profoundly. In the past six months, I welcomed a new soul into the world and said goodbye to the one who helped shape mine. These moments, though opposite in nature, rewrote who I am at my core. Birth fills you with new love and responsibility, while loss opens a space of reflection and tenderness. Together, they remind you that life is meant to evolve, and that you are meant to grow as well. It’s okay to let go of who you were in the past and honor the person you’re becoming, whether you’re broken, whole, or somewhere in between. Change, after all, is not just something to survive; it’s something to live entirely within, allowing both love and loss into your heart.

Breaking the Silence: Talking Honestly About Suicide

by Skylar on category

My Dad died by suicide.

I am not writing this post to ask for your attention or sympathy. Instead, I hope it brings insight and understanding.

(This Post isn’t written elegantly, pretty, or well thought out. It is a jumble of introspection. September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, and the action of suicide in my life has changed the blueprint of who I am.)

Death by suicide is the unthinkable and the unfathomable. It doesn’t get talked bout post-death. How many obituaries have you read where you know or assume it’s death by suicide, but it’s not mentioned? I wrote my Dad’s obituary, and I left it out. There is nothing inside of me that is ashamed of my Dad; however, people want to shove suicide into the dark corners. It’s stigmatized. Suicide makes everyone feel uncomfortable. I’ve noticed that people react differently in the wake of death. Death by accident or disease brings immense empathy. We show up and ask what we can do to help. We are more willing to lean in and talk about departed loved ones. When it’s suicide, it’s like the collective oxygen gets sucked out of the room. People don’t know what to say. They don’t know how to act.

How do you feel when a loved one dies by suicide?

There is no easy grieving, and the loss of a loved one will change you. Your world splits into the ‘before’ and ‘after’. It has been described by counselors worldwide as ‘complicated grieving’ when you grieve a suicide. Guilt, regret, and anger are significant parts of the process and appear more frequently than other emotions. My Dad knew I loved being his daughter. Being his little girl is one of my most cherished titles I carry, but I have guilt that I didn’t hold on to our last hug a little longer. I regret not telling him how much he is loved and how much we need him here on Earth when I started noticing the signs of hopelessness. I am angry he didn’t choose to fight or get help. I am angry he left five grandkids to grow up only knowing his memory instead of making memories. When someone you love dies by suicide, their song abruptly stops in the middle of the melody, and you never get to hear the ending.

Suicide survivors get caught up in the moment and the cause. I have to remind myself to separate how my Dad died from my Dad. My Dad happened to die this way, but that doesn’t have any effect on my Dad as a person.

How do you talk to a suicide survivor?

Those who have lost a loved one by suicide are suicide survivors.

First of all, don’t feel bad for them. They are not victims. Simply show up; don’t shy away. People often stay away after death, and they use the excuse that they don’t know what to say. It’s okay to say you don’t know what to say.  

Grief so often feels like carrying a story no one wants to hear. People worry that mentioning their name will upset you or make it worse. But it isn’t silence that protects us, it’s the remembering that heals us. When someone finds out my Dad died, almost without fail, the next question is: “How did he die?” As if the details of someone’s death could possibly explain the fullness of their life. When someone dies, the world has a way of reducing them to a single fact: gone. People fixate on the ending, as if knowing how it happened will help them understand who they were. Sometimes the most powerful question isn’t how it ended, but how it unfolded. Because the people we lose don’t live on in the details of their death. They live on in stories. In memory. In us.

My Hope…

Again, I do not write this post for sympathy or attention. I contemplated for days whether to publicly post this Blog, especially considering the stigma of suicide and the complexities of my Dad’s death.

Nonetheless, I have a hope. I hope you pick up the phone, text those who are close to you, and simply check in to see how they are doing, and then ask how they are really doing. Life is hard. People struggle. Sometimes it’s easy to spot, but sometimes you will never even know. So do me a favor, grab your phone. Make a call. Send a text. You may be glad that you did. You will never regret saying, “I Love You.”  

Marry Someone You Can Suffer With

by Skylar on category

When we talk about marriage, we use phrases like “happily ever after,” but life isn’t always happy. There are plenty of times in a relationship marked with sunshine and clear waters, but the truth is that no one leaves this Earth without having to cross turbulent seas.

Sometimes, two people who are truly meant for each other will face the most brutal battles. Not because they are wrong for each other. But because the world will test everything real. Love like that doesn’t come easy. Love is built through both joy and pain. Distance. Misunderstandings. Growth. But if they can hold on through the chaos and choose each other over and over again, they’ll find something most people only dream of. A love that didn’t just survive the storm, but it is unbreakable because of it.

Sometimes you hear love stories about how a partner saved them from a dark place or showed up in their life at precisely the right time. That isn’t Kody and my story. Kody and I found each other when we were both happy and whole, living our lives in a way that we were perfectly content to live independently for the foreseeable future. We met, enjoyed each other’s company, and couldn’t deny that we shared core values. We both decided that choosing each other was worth a shot, so we moved to a town with no family ties and took a gamble on each other. Our love has never been the ‘electric chemistry – set my soul ablaze’ type of love. It’s been a love that has grown through friendship, laughter, faith, hardships, illness, and teamwork.

Deciding to start a family was the best decision we ever made, but no one warned us about the toll it takes on your marriage. We were prepared for postpartum, daycare bills, and diaper changes, but not a complete overhaul of our marriage. During the first weeks after we brought Marlow home, I fell so deeply in love with the version of Kody as a Father. It was wonderful, and still is. Nothing makes me smile like watching Kody tickle Marlow on the floor as she repeats ‘again, again, again’ through giggles. As the nights turned sleepless and the days continued, I came to understand how marriages can erode quietly and gradually after the baby arrives. Our love never faded, but it became easier to snap at one another, while the other partner is too fatigued to speak back, so they shut down. The house seemed loud, but the marriage was quiet. Identifies shifted; I felt invisible, and Kody felt replaced. Emotions drifted apart as conversations were reduced to schedules and checklists. There became no time for spontaneous weekend trips, movie nights, or relaxation. We went from partners to co-parents, trying not to drown. Fortunately, we realized this period of our marriage and love together was a more challenging transition than we anticipated, and no matter what, we weren’t going to walk away. This wasn’t my perception; this was our vow to each other. We reminded each other that we are a team, repeatedly. The discussions would happen during late-night “we’re doing okay” pep talks while folding laundry. We began to accept that one partner might contribute 97% of the effort, while the other puts in 3% at the end of the workday, even though we were both tired, tapped out, and running on fumes. We choose to give each other grace, but most importantly, we choose each other.

Going from two to a family of three was a challenging transition, but it was a transition we both agreed to. We both had a significant stake in the scenario. We were raising our newborn into a toddler. As you learn and grow, so does your child, and your marriage evolves or erodes. For us, it becomes easier, and we have found a way to evolve. However, death, losing a parent, that isn’t something you plan for. You don’t get to choose when you bury your Father. Kody and I have both now buried our Dads. It’s a type of suffering you feel independently, but unfortunately, the suffering seeps out of you like sweat and affects those closest to you.

There is no elegant way to put on paper how Kody has suffered the loss of my Dad this last spring. Kody personally lost a friend, a father-in-law, and the Papa of his children. It has resurfaced emotions and grief of losing his own Dad unexpectedly six years ago. I could tell Kody took my Dad’s death hard for multiple reasons, but he rarely showed it because I was the one struggling with the loss at such a deep level. He showed it through the steady presence of never ignoring my needs or emotions. The quiet comments, “It hurts me to see you hurt,” and “I wish so much I could take this pain away.” Kody showed up in all the ways he knew how: spending long weekends at home with Marlow while I made solo trips back to Central Montana, spending three weekends straight in the woodshop perfecting my Dad’s urn, and offering a steady hand across the covers when I’d jolt awake, soaked in sweat from nightmares. Kody has walked this journey with me. He has held me when I was drowning and built a boat to get me to shore.

Love is easy when it’s good. When you’re sitting on a rooftop bar or binge-watching Harry Potter and drinking Butter Beers in the Fall on a Saturday evening – anyone can fall in love through that. Everyone looks good in the honeymoon phase. Anyone can laugh with you on a vacation, while eating overpriced sushi, and make appealing posts on Instagram. That’s not the test. The test is, who are they when tragedy actually shows up? When the unexpected happens. When the paycheck doesn’t stretch. When one of you gets sick and the illness doesn’t go away. When you bury a parent and the grief hits so hard, you don’t know what to do. When you’re staring at the mortgage and wondering whose car you’ll sell first, that’s when forever actually happens. Who’s standing with you when you’re in the ER at three in the morning? Who’s steady when your world isn’t? Who looks at you in your worst moment? The broken, exhausted, ugly cry version of you, and still chooses you. The one who makes the bad things bearable, not the one who makes the good things better. You’d better pick someone you can sit in the fire with because life guarantees suffering.

My point is this: find someone who loves you so completely, who you love equally as much, so that when bad times come, you can hold each other together when it feels as if everything else is falling apart.

The Summer Sorrow Came Home

by Skylar on category

You think there is always a tomorrow. We don’t get to choose the storm or when it will hit. None of us asks for it, either—loss, change, heartbreak. The moments that split your life into “before” and “after.”

I knew if I could hold it together for thirty days, until the last day of school, I would get the entire Summer to get my shit together. I wouldn’t have to hide behind the forced smiles and “I’m fine” lies. I would be able to take off the mask I wore for the last month of school, so my students, co-workers, and the world wouldn’t have to see how heavy I felt, because they don’t want to know, and because I didn’t want to talk about it. I genuinely thought I would take a month to go through the process of grieving the loss of my Dad, recharge, and enjoy some vacation time with family. I’m not naive, I knew I would always miss my Dad, but there are stages of grief. That’s a known fact. I would follow the steps, and I should get “over it” after a certain amount of time. Life broke me, but I had a plan to put everything back together.

Wrong.

I took off the mask, my strength and stability shattered along with it. My energy plummeted. The simple act of walking up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain. Sleep came with waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares. Intrusive thoughts bombarded my brain, suffocating me until nausea and trembling took hold of my nervous system. During the afternoons when I couldn’t fathom leaving the house, I would cuddle Marlow into my lap, put on a movie, hide my face, and let the tears fall silently. Physically, I was existing, but behind my eyes, I spent the days trying to piece together events and understand suicide, like suicide can be understood. The few times I went out in public, it was easy to perform because everything seemed to be functioning on the outside. “You’re doing so well,” so many would say, but it is impossible to see a broken heart, the constant lump in your throat, or the knots in your stomach.

Missing someone after they are gone is the simple part. The hard part is everything else. The loss of every version of your life where they were supposed to be. The milestones I assumed we’d share, and the ordinary moments that felt guaranteed, like my Dad meeting his new grandbaby in September. I never considered that my Dad wouldn’t meet this baby when I sent him a picture of Marlow in a Big Sis t-shirt back in April. Grief doesn’t just take your present. It steals your future, too. It rewrites your story without permission, ripping entire chapters from the book you drafted.

By mid-July, I had the realization that I wasn’t going to get my life together in the way I thought. My soul had been damaged, and even if I took the time to heal, there will always be a scar. I started to accept that I will never be the same, and maybe that’s a good thing.

(This should be a paragraph about how I’ve changed, how I view life differently now. But I can’t write about that, at least not right now, because I can’t put those changes and thoughts into words yet. It’s too new.)

What I do know is that I took my pre-grief life for granted. I took for granted the way the overall spectrum of my life wasn’t tainted by grief. The way I could experience a joyful moment without pain coexisting in my heart. I took for granted my regulated nervous system and mind that didn’t race constantly. I took for granted my sharp memory and the way I could focus on tasks for hours on end without it feeling like a million tabs are open in my head. I took for granted not feeling in survival mode. I took for granted not having intrusive thoughts. I took for granted that only bad things happened to other people, and I held a naive belief that my world would always remain intact. I don’t wish to go backwards because I believe life happens for us, not to us. Mostly, I trust that I will be a better person, wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend because of my Dad’s story.

I am still learning, and I have a long road ahead of me. Grief isn’t a set of steps to be completed so that you can move on; it’s also not meant to be confined. So, I will let the tears fall when they come. I will let laughter rise when memories bring warmth. I will let sorrow and joy coexist, because they are not opposites. They are just love in different forms. Grief doesn’t just break you. It rebuilds you into someone forever changed.

Lessons Learned From Grief

by Skylar on category

In many ways, it feels like yesterday when my legs gave way, and I collapsed to the cold, hard ground when I heard the news that he was gone. Gone. How is that even possible? We are all going to the same place. My dad just beat me there.

Over the years, I have written about my journey: challenges, phases, motherhood, partnership, relationships, and teaching. Loss is now a part of my story. The reason it’s so important to touch on this topic is because grief, at some point or another, greets all of us. Each of us, on this beautiful adventure we call life, encounters loss and pain. Grief is like a fingerprint – unique to each of us. There is no right way or wrong way to grieve, but there are lessons one will learn in the process.

I’ve learned that..

Grief is a dimension I’d never known about, and sometimes, I wouldn’t mind not knowing about it. Grief arrives when you lose someone you weren’t ready to lose. You don’t have to experience grief with a loss; however, you can only avoid it by avoiding love. Love and grief are intertwined. The depth in which you grieve is directly related to the magnitude of your love for the person you lost. Grief is lonely. It doesn’t end. It’s something someone gets through; we become bigger, and we learn to include it inside ourselves, to hold it, to expand around it, rather than getting through it, and that takes time.

I’ve learned that..

Pain and loss are not unique; people around us are hurting. You don’t have to look far to see heartbreak and loss written across someone’s face. The days after my dad died, I went to school because it turns out that when someone dies, life still goes on. Moments felt suffocating. The lights were blinding, and the noise unbearable. I felt exposed – like everyone saw that my dad was dead and that my entire world had just shattered. I had a humbling realization. How many times in life have I stood right next to someone who is experiencing tremendous pain? What has their day been like? Did they get fired? Are they fighting with a spouse? Facing divorce? Losing a friend? Grieving a loved one? I have learned not to be so quick to judge when others seem less than pleasant. And when a dear friend loses a spouse, or a parent, or a baby, or a friend, I know that the pain doesn’t fade. It remains. After a loss, it’s not what people say that you will remember; it’s how they showed up. I was asked, ‘What do you need?’ repeatedly in the first weeks. I didn’t know what I needed. I was barely getting through the day. I didn’t have a list of my needs. I didn’t think my dad was going to die. Now, I know that individuals experiencing abrupt change need compassion. That compassion creates a more acceptable environment for all of us to grieve as we were designed to.  

I’ve learned that…  

Grief can bring out the best and worst in a person. Part of me died in the same moments my dad’s heart stopped beating, but another part of me was born. I’ve gained a sensitivity that can zoom into someone and say, ‘I see you. I see your pain.’ I notice absence. I notice presence. I notice joy. I notice pain. I notice calm. I notice anxiety. I’ve learned that discussing complex topics is a courageous act. No one is asking for a silver lining, but everyone has the choice to show up and be a good person. I hope experiencing grief, this part of my story, will bring out the best in me. While the loss of my dad has broken the vision I once had for my children regarding fostering a relationship with their Papa, it has not broken my ability to grow and become a better version of myself.

I have learned…

Life isn’t always beautiful, but life goes on. I have come to realize that none of us has as much time as we think we do. I don’t just feel frugality, but I also feel a sense of preciousness. I want to treasure life and savor every moment of it. I no longer wish to take it for granted. I won’t waste my breaths and walk like a ghost through it. I will value life, appreciate it, hold on to it, and fight for it.

Julian Barnes, an author, wrote about love and loss in the book Levels of Life. There is a description of how emerging from the madness and loneliness of grief can be similar to a train bursting out of a tunnel into the sunlight after having been in darkness. However, you also come out of the tunnel, just as a seagull comes out of an oil slick, tarred, and feathered for life.

I miss you

by Skylar on category

I need more time but time can’t be borrowed.

On May 1, one of my worst fears came true. It felt like an icicle damn came shattering from a roof and impaled me right in the core of my heart. I punched the wall over and over and kicked the door, then I laid down and sobbed. I couldn’t move. I wanted to wake up the next morning and realize it was only a nightmare, but I never fell asleep that night. I lay there and drowned as the invisible pain held me captive. I never thought you’d leave so soon.

I miss you, Dad.

I wonder where you’re at right now; then I realize you’re all around me. I can feel your presence in each sense. In the silence, I can hear you. I hear your quiet wisdom reassuring me. I still smell the ripped black Carhartt crewneck you wore the last time you hugged me. I never thought I’d miss the smell of dust, sweat, and cow shit, but I’d give anything for your warm body to wrap around me one last time. I feel your touch through Marlow Girl. The number of times you told me that the best feeling in the world is when a little one wraps both arms around your neck and hugs you. I squeeze the breath out of Marlow and hold on extra long when she does this now because I sense you through my daughter. In the night sky, I can see you. Memories start seeping out of a hidden drawer I didn’t even know existed. Your smile is my favorite memory. Even though I can’t be near you, I still feel you holding on. Even though you left, it doesn’t feel like you’re gone.

I never thought you’d disappear. I was wrong. I promise, Dad, to make you proud even if you can’t be here with me. Since you left us, I’ve been back home twice to see Miles. The silence of the drive was almost unbearable, but the hug I was met with was worth every mile. You constantly told me, “He’s your only sibling, so you better love him.” I promise never to part ways with Miles again without hugging him and telling him I love him. I will call him and check up on him. We will continue camping every summer and snow skiing every winter. I promise my kids will see their Papa through the man you raised in your Son.
I promise to dabble in photography and video making. I’d been running ideas by you for the last couple of months about how to start a little side hustle during the summers. I had so many ideas, but you kept coming back to videography. You sent me three TikTok videos and countless texts about it. You told me I have absolutely nothing to lose. I promise you, I’ll give it a try, Dad.
I promise to slow down. You have called Marlow Girl a Nervous Nelly since the day she was born. All you wanted was for her to sit on your lap and cuddle, but you accepted that she’s our little-spirited mover. In the rare instances when she crawls on my lap to snuggle, I won’t move. I’ll hold her tight and think of you and how you used to cherish every moment she sat unmoving in your arms.

Returning to Kalispell after my last trip home and driving back into ‘normal’ life felt anything but. It almost feels wrong that everything is exactly the same, yet something is now hugely different. Sometimes, being back in normalcy makes it feel like you’re not really gone—as if I’ll get a call from you any minute. The call never comes.
I question God sometimes, and I still do some nights when I’m trying to make it make sense, staring up at the ceiling and having conversations. I know you crossed a bridge that I can’t follow. The love that you left is all that I get. I miss you more than life.

Mind Your Own Motherhood

by Skylar on category

“We listen and do not judge. We keep an open mind and speak kind words.”

I repeat that statement to my students, sometimes multiple times a day. Middle schoolers can be ruthless.

So can Mommas.

It starts before you even have the baby. I heard letting your heart rate get above 140 while pregnant can be harmful to the baby. Why are you still strength training? You shouldn’t lift more than 20 lbs. Are you having a natural birth or going for an epidural? Don’t get induced. Inductions force your body to labor before it’s ready. Then the baby is born. Are you going to breastfeed? Breast is best! You’re putting your baby in daycare? Oh … the germs! Did you give your infant all their shots at once? Spacing them out is the best route. Co-sleeping? That is so very dangerous. Cry-it-out method? You’re creating attachment issues.

I have a 21-month-old feral spitfire occupying my household, so math tells me I’ve been exposed to the Momma Judgment comments for 30ish months. I’ve concluded that the judgment isn’t going to stop. Instead of daycare, it will be the age at which we allow Marlow to have a phone. What kind of car will she drive, or will we make her get a summer job, and what clothes will we allow her to wear to church?

I told myself that I wouldn’t open up my heart and offer my personal opinions if I put my thoughts to paper and published this writing to the public. Still, here I am, about to get honest without knowing who I may offend.

Fitness During and After Pregnancy

You do not need to comment about whether it’s in the Mom’s or baby’s best interest if the Momma-to-be is training during her pregnancy. I can guarantee you that Momma is ONLY thinking about the health of that growing bean instead of her uterus. I am 100% sure she has discussed her training routine with her OB. That Momma knows her body and limits better than anyone else.  

Post-Postpartum bounce back? Please, shut up! Do not comment on that Momma’s appearance two weeks or two years after giving birth. You have no idea what she may be experiencing internally, physically, or emotionally.

I experienced prolapse, pelvic floor distress, and damage to my sphincter. Telling me I look great and bounced back! Thanks, but I can’t run, jump, or lift weights. Thanks for thinking I bounced back because I no longer have the extra weight around my tummy.

Natural Birth / At Home Birth / C-Section / Induced

You can write a birthing plan. You can be as detailed as having a playlist that is played starting at the time you begin the birthing process. You can have a plan, but sometimes that plan combusts, and you have no control. You can’t control if the baby is breech. You can see if you’re a candidate to try to flip the baby to head-down, but if you don’t have enough fluid, you are getting a c-section even if your original birth plan stated vaginal delivery.  

I was told by more than one person that Marlow’s delivery was so long and difficult because I chose to get induced. I was told that my body was not ready to give birth and that I should have waited because my body would have naturally gone through the birthing process without the help of Pitocin. What I never told those individuals who had such strong opinions is that at my 40-week appointment, it was determined through the ultrasound that my placenta was deteriorating. My OB said I had 48 hours to see if contractions started naturally or I needed to get induced for the safety of the baby. I’m not sure if the general public knows, but a baby can’t survive in the uterus without the nutrients from a healthy placenta. I would have never watched Marlow grow into the spicy spirit she is today if I hadn’t forced my body into labor.

Stay-At-Home or Daycare

There are pros and cons to both. Do what is best for your family, and don’t (excuse my language) fucken judge others. It’s that simple.

I could continue my rant with breastfeeding vs formula, co-sleeping vs cry-it-out methods, and the vaccination situation, but I’ve made my point. We’ve got to start trusting Moms. Our jobs as Moms, whether we rear face until they are 12 or send them to private school, are hard enough. Can’t we build friendships and love one another because being a mom is the most complex job in the world?

I don’t care about your personal decisions [that do not affect me or my family] because I care about you as a person, Mom, and friend. Ask a pregnant Momma-to-be how they feel physically and mentally instead of judging their weight or fitness routine. Who cares how they deliver the baby? Regardless, it is personal, challenging, and will 100% be life-changing for them whether it goes as planned or not. There is no need to ask about daycare or whether they will stay home with the baby. Instead, offer support once the baby does arrive Earth-side. You don’t need to ask them if they want to try to breastfeed. Every Mom wants that, and if they choose it’s not best, it’s not working, or the baby doesn’t latch, I can guarantee that Mom feels guilty. You should listen and not judge. Have an open mind and speak kind words.

I believe motherhood should be something that unites women. I hope women cheer each other on instead of giving our un-valued opinions that bring each other down. I know we are all humans. It is impossible not to think negatively when someone is doing something you don’t believe in. However, how you handle that thought is totally something you can control.

✕