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Can People Change?

by Skylar on Nov 13, 2025 category Uncategorized

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 Sep 20, 2025 category Uncategorized

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.”

Lessons Learned From Grief

by Skylar on Jun 14, 2025 category Uncategorized

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 May 11, 2025 category Uncategorized

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.