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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 ❤️

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.”  

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.