Daily Comments 2026 (Also, #yesican Coaching)

For past information, please go back and scroll through the yearly comments.

Also all new information for #yesican Coaching with Karen will now appear in the Daily Comments.

16 February 2026 –Why I’m Devoting Myself to Telling Stories
People have asked why I’m pouring so much time and energy into creating a podcast about my brother, Joel Moss. To some, it may seem unusual—maybe even odd—to gather stories from his friends, colleagues, and the people who knew him in ways I never could. But the truth is simple: even though we were siblings, the age gap between us meant there were entire chapters of his life I only glimpsed from the outside. I’m filling in those pockets now because I need to. Because Joel held—and still holds—a sacred place in my heart.

These interviews are not just recordings. They are my personal pathway through grief. They help me honor my relationship with him, even if no one else ever presses play. Still, I choose to release them into the universe, where they can live, breathe, and be found:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nXmyx9nV80&list=PLSdL23sBfggkA362CLYI_q95u-sEX2jHL

This morning, as I listened to another grief podcast, I realized something important: sharing Joel—and now sharing my husband, Richard—isn’t strange at all. It’s human. When you love someone deeply, when you respect them, when their presence shaped you, you don’t bury that. You carry it. You speak it. You let it live. There is life before and life after, and storytelling becomes the bridge between the two.

Keeping Joel and Rich alive in this way gives me hope. It reminds me that my life didn’t end when theirs did. Yes, I lost the physical presence of both of them, but I’ve gained something spiritual—an energy, an aura—that keeps nudging me forward.

Joel and Rich were complete opposites, yet both enriched me in ways I’m still discovering.
Joel questioned everything I did—not to judge, though he certainly could be judgmental—but to push me to think, to dig deeper, to grow. His questions shaped me into a more thoughtful, loving person.

Rich, on the other hand, believed wholeheartedly that once you were his friend, you were his friend for life. That was sometimes hard for me to understand, especially when it involved people who had hurt him. But Rich didn’t carry grudges. He taught me how to put down the heavy backpack of negativity I’d been hauling around for years. He made me lighter. Happier.

This is how I’m processing life before, with, and after. And the podcast I listened to today reaffirmed that what I’m doing is not only okay—it’s right. (check out Mandy Capehart – https://www.mandycapehart.com/ https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/restorative-grief-with-mandy-capehart/id1583949156

I’ve committed to an online grief support group, to counseling, to coaching, and to staying open to the wisdom shared by those who read my blogs. I’m taking care of myself because Joel and Rich would never want me to hide under the covers and disappear from the life I can still live.

Yes, I’m vulnerable. Yes, I’m exposing myself to people who may misunderstand or accuse me of lying or “spewing nonsense.” That’s their choice. Not my truth.

This is how I grieve. This is how I live. And I refuse to get stuck, because the people I’ve loved and lost would never want that for me. I carry their legacies with me—every day, in every breath, in every story I tell.

Postcard (Through fear of grief we must move on.)

You’ve been gone
So I’m writing
There’ve been so many things
That have changed since you left

Met a person
It’s exciting
And I’d love you to meet
But I know that you can’t

So I guess I’ll just send
Postcards to heaven
Keep you aware
Of how it’s progressing
Wish you were here
Hope I can see you soon…

I guess I’ll just send
Postcards to heaven
Tell you the news
Of whatever happens
Don’t even know
Where to address them to
But I wish you were here
Hope I can see you soon

But the fucked up thing
Is I’m so scared to move on
Cause in grieving you
I get to keep you here

And I’m terrified
Of ever being happy
If it means I have to
Let you disappear

So I guess I’ll just send
Postcards to heaven
Care of a God
I want to believe in
Pray that he knows
To pass them along to you

Since I can’t hear your voice
I don’t know what else I should do
But I wish you were here
Hope I can see you soon

Source: LyricFind 
Songwriters: Eddie Lee Anderson / Olivia Claire Rudeen
Postcards lyrics © Songtrust Ave

15 February 2026 –The Work of Grief No One Talks About
When someone dies, grief isn’t the only thing that arrives at your doorstep. There’s the avalanche of tasks—paperwork, logistics, and decisions that demand attention long before your heart is ready. It’s overwhelming. It’s relentless. And some days, it feels like loss stacked on top of loss.

This week, I tackled the cars—transferring one, turning in another early. It was both physical and emotional labor, and strangely, it felt like losing something else along the way. Filing insurance claims has its own maze of rules, and if you don’t get it right the first time, you find yourself back in line, hoping the second attempt sticks. Social Security changes aren’t rubber‑stamped either. Everything takes time, patience, and a level of clarity I don’t always have.

The only thing I feel truly capable of right now is purging—clearing out what I can so the road ahead has fewer obstacles. It’s midday and I’m already exhausted. If it weren’t for Steve, I might be hiding under my bed. He’s incredibly organized, and when he sends me a to‑do list, I copy it straight into my calendar, so nothing slips through the cracks. I hope we can get through this phase soon because my “OCD tendencies” are starting to flare.

I’ve never been diagnosed with OCD, but I’m a doer. When there’s a task, I want it done now. The problem is that grief doesn’t care about my timelines. Sometimes I’m simply not ready, and that complicates everything. So, I’m doing my best to follow Steve’s lead—what to do, when to do it, and how to pace myself.

I’m grateful that Alex doesn’t have to deal with the red tape. He’s struggling in his own way. He used to tease us for being “old fogies,” but I think we both believed Rich would live longer. Rich lost his own father at 36 going on 37; Ed Hale was 77. The parallels for Alex are a little too close for comfort.

This weekend, I read about the different paths grief can take. Losing a parent is its own kind of heartbreak—you’ve known them your entire life, and even if you understand the circumstances, you may still feel angry, anxious, or abandoned. You also become acutely aware that you’re now the next in line.

Losing a spouse is different. It’s the severing of a deep emotional bond, the sudden loneliness of facing life without your partner. Even when you know guilt has no place in the story, you still find yourself wondering if you could have prevented the illness that took them. (I know I couldn’t have changed anything, but I still wish I had.)

I’m physically and mentally drained. I hear myself repeating the same stories, the same thoughts, and I know people must be tired of it. But right now, this is all I know. This is what’s real, even when it feels surreal.

What happened to the Karen who could binge‑watch Netflix on a Sunday afternoon? Now the sound of the TV feels deafening. I turn it off or mute it. Concentration is impossible. Distraction is my only companion.

Then, in the middle of all this, I got a call from an old friend—someone younger than me, someone I haven’t spoken to in ages. We’ve exchanged comments on Facebook and email, but hearing her voice was different. She shared her own life situation, and it reminded me how little we sometimes know about the people we care about.

She is one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever met, and I’m grateful she’s still in my life. Life hasn’t unfolded the way she or her partner expected, but they’re together, living fully, choosing joy where they can.

Before we hung up, I said something that surprised even me:
We can choose to be lonely and alone, or we can be alone without being lonely.
There is power in learning to enjoy our own solitude while building a circle of friends—our chosen family.

Through my writing, sharing, and connecting, I’m beginning to build that circle again. In time, I believe it will hold me, support me, and carry me forward until the day I join Rich in eternity.

And I do believe he’s watching. I believe he’s cheering me on as I take each step down this unfamiliar path.

15 February 2026 – One Tough Day at a Time
Some days ask more of us than others. When I hit one of those days, I remind myself of something simple but grounding: it’s just twenty‑four hours. I don’t have to solve my whole life in a single sunrise. I just have to move through this day.

We attach so much meaning to certain dates. Valentine’s Day, for example, behind me—has never held much weight in my life with Rich. Our first anniversary was February 3rd, so if we celebrated anything in winter, it was usually closer to that. But truthfully, Rich always felt more connected to our July anniversary. If something special was going to happen, it was usually around July 15th.

We were never big on commercial holidays. Gifts and grand gestures meant less to us than the everyday moments—the touch, the laugh, the shared joke, the guffaw that still echoes in my heart. When I met Rich, he was in sales, and January through April were lean months. Money was tight, but love wasn’t. We learned early that meaning doesn’t come from a calendar.

The Firsts

This year, I’ve already lived through two “firsts” without him—our 42nd anniversary among them. We had talked about taking a spring trip to Niagara Falls or Jamestown, two places he loved. I didn’t expect anything on February 3rd, and I intentionally cleared my mind of the “what could have been.” As Valentine’s Day approached—my first weekend alone—I reminded myself that it wouldn’t have been a special day for us anyway. It would have simply been… a day.

Still, life has a way of nudging us. The day Rich fell ill; I bought a tiny Valentine decoration that reads Love Lives. Maybe it was a premonition. Maybe it was just instinct. Either way, it feels true.

Lifting the Fog

Yesterday began foggy and slow. I wrote. I purged. And purging, for me, is part of moving forward. Most of what I’m tossing is just stuff—things with no real meaning. When I find something that feels like Rich, I set it aside in a special pile. I’ll decide later what stays and what goes.

I’ve tackled storage areas, closets, drawers—places where things were tucked away “for now” and forgotten. With all the garbage bags and Goodwill trips, you’d think I’d see a dent. Not even close. Right now, my car holds six bags of clothing—his and mine—and I haven’t even touched our closets. Forty‑two years of life together creates a lot of layers.

But clearing the clutter is helping me feel closer to him. I can almost hear him teasing me about what I’m keeping or tossing. The truth is, he probably didn’t even know half of it existed. This—this sorting, this choosing—this is the gift I always wished he’d give me while he was alive.

To New and Old Friends

To those of you reading my blog, offering condolences, sharing your own stories of loss—thank you. Many have suggested support groups, spiritual communities, nature retreats. I’m grateful for every recommendation. And please know I’m not doing this alone. I have a grief counselor through Hospice of the Western Reserve, two grief coaches, and a circle of friends who have walked this same path. They help me see through the fog.

I’m also meeting new people—people I might never have crossed paths with a month ago. I’m grateful for the love and support surrounding me.

And for anyone who worries that I’m sharing too much, please understand we each choose our own road. I’ve always lived my life as an open book. It’s how I grow. It’s how I connect. My way isn’t for everyone, and that’s perfectly fine. I’m learning from you, too.

Special Days!

So how do I get through the “special” days? I remember that they’re just twenty‑four hours long, no less. Once the day passes, the anticipation dissolves, and clarity returns. Each time, it gets a little easier, even if a memory still brings a tear.

Happy Sunday. Make the most of your day.

14 February 2026 PURGING
When I feel paralyzed, I do what I’ve always done: I purge. Clearing a space gives me the illusion of movement when everything inside me feels frozen. This morning, even though all I wanted was to crawl back into bed and disappear under the covers, that didn’t help. So, I found a corner of the office to tackle — sorting, tossing, rearranging — trying to make it feel a little more like mine.
The Michigan/UCLA basketball game is playing in the background. My oldest, is there in person (Go Blue), and I’m hoping he gets to witness a win. I’ve been a maize and blue girl my whole life, indoctrinated early by my family. But last August, I got pulled gently toward the scarlet and gray because my youngest works in sports at OSU. Today, though, since Michigan isn’t playing Ohio State, I can safely cheer for my first love.
I’ve been texting with friends and family just enough to soften the edges of the day. It’s beautiful outside, but I’m not ready to navigate the slush and icy patches. Instead, I’m appreciating the blue skies and sunshine from my office window.
This warm spell feels like a promise that spring is inching closer, even though spring in Cleveland can still bring cold winds and snow. (And honestly, I think we’ve had enough snow for one year.) The seven day forecast shows temperatures in the 50s and 60s before dipping back into the 30s and 20s next weekend. Punxsutawney Phil was right — no early spring for us. So, I’ll keep dreaming about the days ahead and prepare for the walks I know I’ll take when the weather finally cooperates.
For those who have asked: yes, we will be having a Celebration of Life for Rich. If you’re interested, please reach out to me directly. I’m not posting the details publicly — this gathering is for those who truly knew him, or knew Alex, Steve, or me.

Thank you for understanding and for helping us navigate this transition in our grief.

14 February 2026

I feel paralyzed. My body moves — I walk, I talk, I function — but it’s all through a fog, as if I’m watching myself from somewhere outside of me. I’m doing things, but I’m not sure why or how. People say this is what living grief looks like: one step at a time, not always forward, sometimes sideways, sometimes nowhere at all.

There are moments when I want to scream that it isn’t fair, but I don’t know who would hear me. I understand the circle of life, the truth that when our time on earth ends, our bodies let go. But understanding doesn’t soften the memory of watching Rich slip into cardiac arrest. That image is etched into me. And yet, right beside it, I hold the pictures of him making those ridiculous goofy faces — the ones that still make me smile even now.

Watching him lie in a coma was peaceful and unbearable at the same time. I wanted him to open his eyes, grin, and say, “Boo, I got you!” the way only he could. My last goodbye, my last “I love you,” came when he was already halfway between here and somewhere else. And still, I can’t shed a tear.

I used to be a crier. As a younger woman, the slightest wrong look or misunderstood comment could send me into a flood of tears. Now, in the deepest grief of my life, I feel hollow. Not dry — just empty.

So, I keep doing. I fill the hours between morning and night with tasks, hoping exhaustion will finally let me sleep. It isn’t the empty bed that keeps me awake. It’s the search for the missing piece — the part of me that left with him.

I wonder when I’ll stop writing these heartbreaking thoughts. I wonder when I’ll truly see what’s happening around me. I wonder when I’ll feel like Karen again.

And then it hits me: this is Karen. This is who I am right now. This is what grief feels like in this moment. And as much as I want to outrun it, I know I have to accept that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

14 February 2026 –A Valentine’s Day Love Letter to the Life We Built
It’s 7:10 on a Saturday morning. Valentine’s Day.
A day that, in our house, never quite followed the rules — and somehow that made it even sweeter.

I was blessed with a husband who told me every single day (and often many times a day) that he loved me and that I was beautiful. He didn’t need a holiday to remind him. Romance, for Rich, wasn’t tied to a date on a calendar — mostly because he lived his entire life without one. If flowers or candy showed up on February 13th or 16th, it wasn’t forgetfulness. It was simply that every day was special to him, and he never kept track of which one was supposed to be Valentine’s Day.

One of the last conversations we ever had still sits in my heart like a jewel. It was the day he slipped into a coma. A doctor came in, asking him the usual orientation questions. When he pointed to me and asked, “Who is that woman?” Rich answered, “My wife.”
Then came the shocker: “When is her birthday?”
And Rich — the man who never got it right — said, “March 4, 1950.”

I was floored. And so deeply touched. That moment will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Rich was always dreaming up big gifts, trips, and bucket‑list adventures for us. He grew up with a few extras, and he loved imagining what he could give me. But I never felt cheated when those dreams stayed dreams. Because what he did give me was far more valuable: his love, his loyalty, his friendship, and the comfort of being truly seen.

And since it’s Valentine’s Day, here’s a story from our very first one — when we weren’t even together.

We were in our first year of dating. Rich had a work trip to Vegas — a photo show, I think — and as he talked about it, I secretly hoped he’d ask me to join him. I waited for the invitation that never came.

Instead, as the date approached, he mentioned he might take someone else — a woman he had invited the year before. I was crushed. We were dating, somewhat exclusive, but not committed. I tried to be brave, but inside I felt the ground shift.

That weekend, he called her to confirm. She said no — she was dating someone else and hoping to spend Valentine’s Day with him.
I should have been thrilled. But the disappointment on Rich’s face kept me from celebrating. The weekend grew quiet. A distance settled in. I thought we were done.

He didn’t go to Vegas. He stayed home. I stayed home. And I assumed that was the end.

But on Monday, Rich drove all the way to Cincinnati — where I was living — under the excuse of “work.” Really, he just wanted to see me. To put Valentine’s Day behind us. To try again.

He didn’t show up with flowers or cheesy lines. But that visit was the beginning of the cheesy smiles I would come to adore — and the beginning of seeing the man he truly was: a good, kind human who learned to love me deeply.

And here’s one more story — one that still makes me laugh.
Rich never officially proposed. Not once. Somehow, a McDonald’s commercial interrupted his attempt, and we both dissolved into giggles. For the rest of our lives, every time a McDonald’s commercial came on, we’d look at each other and laugh, waiting for the proposal that never came.

Yet we married twice in the same year. And as of February 3rd, we would have celebrated 42 years.

When someone dies, they may no longer be here physically, but that doesn’t erase the life you built together. We didn’t separate. We didn’t divorce. We stayed together through everything. And I plan to continue being his wife — in love, in memory, in spirit.

So here I sit this morning, after another restless night, honoring my commitment to him.
Honoring the love that shaped me.
Honoring the man who never needed a calendar to remind him what mattered.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.
I’m still yours.

13 February 2026 –When Someone Calls Your Grief “Diarrhea of Words”

Someone recently suggested I stop writing and posting what they called my “diarrhea of words.”
They said no one cared.
They said I was overexposing myself.
They even implied I was becoming “poor Karen.”

I brought this to my Grief Counselor and the two Grief Coaches I’m working with. Their guidance was simple: keep writing but choose where and how you share. So, I made a decision. I’ll continue to write publicly, but the full pieces will live on my website and blog, with only a link on my Facebook page. My story, my boundaries, my choice.

And here’s the irony: when I checked my website analytics, my traffic has increased by 60% in the last couple of weeks. People are reading. People do care. And a company even reached out asking if I’d consider freelance writing. So maybe it’s “diarrhea” to one person—but clearly not to the majority.

Yesterday, on the premiere of Find Your Way, Alison, Kristy, and I shared our raw grief stories and the tools we’re using to keep living. Loss comes in many forms—death, divorce, estrangement, losing a job, losing a home. But as long as we are breathing, we are alive, and we owe it to ourselves and the people around us to live.

We like to believe life comes with guarantees. Even the marriage vow “till death do us part” sounds like a promise—but sometimes we part before death. And when a partner or spouse dies, the world becomes surreal. Two people who lived as one suddenly become one again, and it feels unnatural. Even in disagreement, Rich and I always found our way back to the middle. That bond doesn’t disappear just because he’s no longer physically here.

It’s hard to believe that four weeks ago today was just a normal Friday. Rich didn’t have a project, so we planned to go grocery shopping together. At the store, he chose to stay in the car—nothing unusual, though something in me noticed it felt different. When I came back with a full cart, he opened the trunk from inside but didn’t get out to help. It was freezing and starting to snow, so I didn’t think twice.

As we pulled away, he asked where I wanted to go for dinner. I laughed—“Home, we have food in the car.” But he insisted I deserved to go out. He knew how much I disliked grocery shopping and putting everything away. So we went to the local deli, shared a sandwich, and he ordered his favorite mousse cake.

When we got home, he unloaded the groceries but immediately sat down, exhausted. Again, nothing unusual—he hated putting groceries away as much as I did.

If I had known he was getting sick, I’m not sure I would have done anything differently. With Rich, he either complained dramatically or brushed things off completely. That day, he brushed it off.

This past week, through counseling and connecting with other grievers, I’ve learned that my brain is trying to reconstruct the timeline—what happened, what didn’t, what I missed, what I couldn’t have known. It’s called grief brain or grief fog. The mind wants to understand how life changed in a blink, so it rewinds and replays, searching for the plot twist.

What I know is this:
My feelings are raw.
My feelings are confused.
My feelings are muted.
I keep waiting to hear my own voice scream, but so far, silence.

And still—I write.
Because writing is how I breathe.
Writing is how I stay alive.
Writing is how I honor Rich.

If someone doesn’t like it, they can scroll.
But I won’t silence myself to make someone else comfortable.

Not now.
Not in grief.
Not ever.

13 February 2026

What Am I Feeling

What am I feeling—
and what am I supposed to feel?
I am lost,
yet some internal GPS keeps nudging me forward—
or backward—
I can’t tell.
All I know is I am moving.

I think I’m depressed,
but I am not hopeless.
I think I’m depressed,
but I still want to live with purpose.
Is this how I should be feeling?

I lost my husband in the physical sense,
but I am still Karen,
his wife,
whether he is here or not.
We are connected
far beyond forty‑two years.
I believe in eternity!

I thought I would be sobbing,
rocking in convulsive pain.
I thought I would want to disappear,
to mingle with his ashes.
I thought my world would end with his—
and it hasn’t.
There are dreams to fulfill, not just mine but his.

I cannot sleep—
they say this is grief.
I feel brain fog—
they say this is grief.
I need to purge,
to clear space
for something unnamed.
I need to make things mine—
but I don’t want to lose Rich.
How do I do that without seeming unloving?

My tears are internal,
my smile or smirk the mask.
My body feels weak inside,
but outside I am ice.
My thoughts whisper:
Am I doing this right?
There is no right way to grieve—
only my way.

What I learned about grieving:
tears.
What I learned about grieving:
loss.
What I learned about grieving:
loneliness.
What I learned about grieving:
unresolved feelings.
I’m NOT READY…

I was not ready
to watch my husband die.
Life feels surreal,
like a dream I’m waiting to wake from.
Where am I?

I am on a journey I did not choose,
a path with twists and turns.
I am afraid of getting lost.
I can’t avoid it,
can’t go over it,
can’t go around it—
I must go through it.
The MUSTS!

I must feel,
even when I don’t recognize the feeling.
I must process my thoughts,
and for me that means writing,
sharing,
speaking truth.
I must give myself time and grace
to take one step at a time.

They say grief is the price we pay for love—
and I had a wonderful love.
His name is Richard.

12 February 2026 Preparing -Find Your Way

As I am sitting at my desk preparing for the premiere of “Find Your Way”, I was thinking in the past I would give my husband a reminder that I was getting ready to record. Rich had the uncanny sense to call me during a podcast even when I had just told him not to call…

I so much want to remind him – but he’s not here.

I’ve been reading the comments from other wives who still are searching for their spouse, weeks, months and years later, it just doesn’t feel real and even though logically it is, our hearts continues to search.

This morning, I had a visit with my primary (Also Rich’s Primary) and he reviewed the medical notes on Rich as he counseled me. Rich had just been in his office 6 weeks earlier and he checked out fine. Maybe a little aloof but he also knew that was Rich’s personality.

As he read through the notes he is surprised that Rich took ill that quickly and his body shut down before treatment could take effect. His reassurance that based on the notes Rich did not suffer and the cardiac arrest is truly what caused his death a week later. We reviewed how his blood work was off the charts abnormal and lack of oxygen to his brain for even ten minutes would not have allowed for a full recovery. We both knew Rich’s wishes and the doctor offered me his observance as a blessing in disguise.

As a survivor we don’t like hearing phrases like that, but the truth is if Rich couldn’t have recovered in a way he felt whole and capable he would not have wanted to return as a different version of himself.

Each day I face my empty house, and I am trying to keep busy with work and purging. I am not throwing Rich away, just the junk like sample CDs that he collected as an IT Guy. I filled three full garbage bags with CDs today and the office is starting to look respectable. I hate clutter and working in this environment for 13+ years has been difficult. (I’m also seeing some hoarding on my part and cleaning that up as well.)

As I look around the office I have pictures of my guy and they make me smile, life may not have been perfect, but it was imperfectly perfect for us. I am grateful for the time we had together.

I am not Rich’s widow; I am Rich’s wife. I don’t like the term widow because it refers to a woman without her partner, but I still have my partner in my heart and at my age I am not looking for another partner…someday in the future I will reunite with Rich.

12 February 2026 – Decisions – My Choice

Yesterday I made a few decisions—not dramatic ones, but deeply personal ones.

After a virtual session with my Hospice counselor, we talked about how writing has been my lifeline. It helps me make sense of what I’m living through, and many of you have told me that my words help you too. So, I’ve decided I will keep writing. I may not post every piece on Facebook, but I will continue adding them to my website and blog, where my full story can live without the noise of social media.

Before Rich died—and before one person’s judgment cracked my already‑thin veneer—I had been writing and sharing my life for more than nineteen years. I’ve taken courses, studied other writers, and shaped a style that feels like home to me. The love of my life, my partner in every sense, is no longer physically beside me. But I refuse to give up the passion that has carried me through every chapter: telling the truth of my journey.

I will do my best to write with compassion, to be mindful of the tender places in others. But I hope people remember that I am vulnerable too. I’m navigating this in real time, with a heart that is still raw.

Alongside my writing, I joined a Facebook group called My Husband in Heaven. For some, joining a group like that just two weeks after losing their spouse might feel too soon. For me, it was necessary. I needed to connect with people who understand this specific kind of loss. In April, I’ll join an in‑person group, and I hope to meet companions who can walk this path with me.

This isn’t the first time I’ve sought connection when life shifted beneath my feet. Soon after Alex was diagnosed with Asperger’s (Autism 1), I reached out to another mother and asked her to meet me for coffee. I needed someone who understood. Many friends and family members had pulled away—not out of cruelty, but because they didn’t know what to say or how to help. Autism was still so misunderstood then. Neither did this mom, her first comment to me was, “I would not have chosen you as a friend, but since your son is on the spectrum…” After that one coffee I never saw or spoke to her one-on-one.

Grief feels similar. When your family isn’t nearby and your closest friends are scattered across the country or the world, connection becomes virtual—texts, Facebook messages, phone calls. Rarely FaceTime. Rarely Zoom. And as I’ve read in this new group, we all miss the same things: the touch, the hug, the familiar annoyances that suddenly feel precious. [We didn’t choose to be part of a grieving group, many of us still feel like wife of our husband in heaven, but we are no longer seen or referred to as a wife, we now are labeled, The Widow.)

I’m fortunate that my sons come home on weekends. I get their hugs, their presence, their grounding energy. But they eventually return to their own lives, as they should. And the space they filled for a day or two becomes quiet again—too quiet, sometimes.

This is the landscape I’m learning to navigate: writing, connecting, grieving, rebuilding. One decision at a time. One day at a time. And always, always with love.

In April, I’ll be joining an in‑person grief group.
The old saying “birds of a feather flock together” has taken on a new meaning for me. It reminds me that I don’t have to walk this uneven, pothole‑filled road alone. Others have traveled it before me. Others are walking it now. And while each of our paths is different, a little guidance can make the next step feel less painful. If I make a few new friends along the way, that will be a gift.

Every grief coach, counselor, therapist, and seasoned griever repeats the same advice: “Don’t make any major decisions in the first year.”
Grief brain is real. Foggy thoughts are real. Distraction is real.

Yesterday was a perfect example. I had a simple plan: run a few errands before my audiology appointment. I went to the bank, then to the other bank. At Bank #2, the associate—someone who knows me personally—spoke with me about Rich. We even laughed about one of his classic moments. Then she came around her desk and gently asked if she could give me a hug. I didn’t realize how much I needed that human touch until it happened.

But when I got back into my car, I completely forgot about my appointment and started driving home. A quarter of the way there, it hit me—I’d made an “oops.” I turned around and headed back, but even when I arrived, I sat in the car for a few minutes trying to clear the fog. Until I walked through the door, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was there.
Grief brain hijacks us. It’s not imagined. It’s not weakness. It’s part of the process.

Last night, I recorded my monthly podcast with Cherished Companions. Doug Wilber, the host, is one of the most sensitive and compassionate people I’ve met. Before we started, he asked if I was truly up for it and gave me an easy out. I told him I was okay. Then he asked if we could shift the conversation away from homecare and talk about my current journey—what happens when someone dies suddenly.

Doug knows this terrain. His father died suddenly when he was only eight. Even as a child, he felt the weight of grief without having the language for it. He watched his mother navigate life with strength and grace, honoring her husband and holding her family together. Decades later, I could still see how deeply that loss lives in him—and how profoundly he admires his mother’s resilience.

I understand that power. I feel it every day.
And I also know this: if I let myself get pulled fully into the current of grief, I will drown.
I refuse to be taken under.

I am choosing, instead, to keep swimming—sometimes slowly, sometimes clumsily, sometimes with help from others who know this water. But always forward.

11 February 2026 _ My Writing Continues

Today, my grief counselor provided valuable feedback on my blogging and journaling practices. If my writing unintentionally causes discomfort or leads anyone to feel personally targeted, I sincerely regret that outcome. Moving forward, I will take greater care to describe situations in a way that avoids identifying any individuals.

My counselor suggested I consider making my journals private or even turning them into a book—something people can choose to read or not. I’ve sat with that all day. And the truth is, I need to be honest with myself and continue living in a way that aligns with who I am.

I’ve spoken with people I deeply respect, and they’ve encouraged me to keep writing my feelings and experiences without attaching names. If someone sees their reflection in my words, that doesn’t automatically mean it’s about them. Instead of assuming, maybe consider how those same behaviors might be affecting someone else.

I’m not the only person navigating grief, and I don’t pretend to have answers for anyone else. I only know how I’ve handled—or avoided—my own emotions. From a young age, I absorbed the belief that I had to be good, had to fix things, had to hold everything together. No one told me that directly; it’s simply what I internalized. But when we’re busy fixing, we often forget to check in with ourselves or question whether we’re actually helping.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve poured energy into helping someone else solve their problems. In doing so, I lost track of my own path. I ended up needing support myself, but because I’m the “doer,” I didn’t know how to ask for it—or how to accept it.

Grief brain has been getting in my way, and talking about it helps me understand the missteps I’m making. If sharing those mistakes helps even one other person feel less alone, then that gives my pain purpose. And purpose matters.

Moving forward, I’ll simply post the link to my journals. If you click it and choose to read, that is your decision. If you don’t, that’s fine too.

You don’t have to agree with the path I’m walking. But you don’t have the right to judge me or spread lies about me. My journey is mine. My feelings are mine. And my voice is mine.

11 February 2026 – Controversy is part of being human. So is judgment. None of us—me included—are immune from believing we have the authority to tell others how to think, how to behave, or how to live a “better” life modeled after our own choices. But when I write on my page, my blog, my website, that is my freedom of speech in action. My words are my reflections, not directives.

If you happen to see yourself in something I write, it may be coincidence—or it may be because you share traits with many others I’ve encountered over the years. I don’t write about individuals unless I have permission.

I’ve been writing publicly for more than a decade. I’ve grown, stretched, matured, and carved out a sense of purpose through this practice. Sometimes I hit a nerve—often my own. Writing is how I process, how I heal, and how I make sense of the world. It’s not for everyone, and it doesn’t have to be.

If you believe my work is “diarrhea” or “bullshit” or attention‑seeking, then do both of us a favor: don’t read it. Don’t follow me. My writing is for me and for those who understand it, appreciate it, or use it as a catalyst for their own growth.

Last night, after a particularly harsh comment, my son Alex talked me off the ledge. He reminded me that trolls exist—people who prey on vulnerability because they don’t know what to do with their own. He asked me a hard question: Did you write your last post to intentionally hurt someone? My answer was an immediate and honest no. I wrote it because I was hurt. I wrote it because I was vulnerable. He asked if I’d consider taking it down. My first instinct was to refuse. Then I chose to remove it—not out of guilt, but out of clarity.

My writing is not meant to hurt, judge, or condemn. It’s meant to illuminate. To question. To teach. To heal. If you read something and immediately announce to the world that it’s about you, perhaps the more important question is: Why do you think that? And if you choose to contact me with incoherent rage, you’re not resolving anything—you’re escalating it. And it’s entirely possible the post wasn’t even about you.

I know trolls exist. I know negativity exists. I’ve learned to block, delete, and move on.

And yes, I am grieving. Grief brain is real. It twists your thoughts, fogs your clarity, and sends you down dark, winding paths you don’t always recognize until you’re halfway through them. That’s not an excuse; it’s a reality. I stand by my writing because it reflects what is true in the moment.

Grief isn’t only about death. It shows up in endings, transitions, betrayals, disappointments, and the loss of expectations. It affects each of us differently. I’ve been told that when I’m grieving, I’m a “bitch.” Maybe I am. I’ll be unpacking that in therapy today.

I’ve also been accused of acting like “Poor Karen.” Well, guess what—I have every right to feel like that sometimes. Feelings are not crimes. Emotions are not character flaws. They are human.

And last I checked, being human is still allowed.

8 February 2026 – Exhaustion, Grief, and the Slow Work of Finding My Way

I’m exhausted.
When someone becomes ill and dies, the body shifts into survival mode long before the final breath. From the first symptoms to the diagnosis to the end, adrenaline takes over. You keep moving, doing, deciding—often without full clarity.

These last three weeks
I’ve been functioning, but not with the sharpness I once relied on. In our marriage, I was a decision maker, but I often deferred to Rich because his choices usually aligned with mine. It avoided unnecessary disagreements—normal, natural, expected. Now every decision lands squarely on me, and the weight of that is real.

Every grief professional
clergy included—will tell you that whatever you’re feeling, whatever detours you’re taking, are to be expected. There is no prescribed timeline. But as a lifelong doer, I instinctively try to create one anyway… until exhaustion reminds me I can’t.

I’m beginning to understand the purpose of burial rituals and send-offs.
They aren’t for the departed.
They’re for us—the ones left standing.

In the early days,
People gather around the griever, pouring out memories and love. But with each passing day, the griever begins to feel like they’re standing on an ice floe drifting out to sea. Even the life jacket—support, routine, faith—feels loose. You feel yourself slipping under.

This is not my first loss.
I’ve said goodbye to grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and my parents. Each loss carried its own ache. But losing Rich is something entirely different. It is its own category of grief.

The loss of a spouse is a life-altering rupture.
For me, it began with shock—and I think I’m still there. I feel anger. I feel a deep sadness that only writing seems to touch. I feel loneliness even when I crave solitude. Expressing my emotions and leaning on support will help me adjust, but right now, it is simply exhausting.

The last couple of weeks have been filled with paperwork
I thought was perfectly organized, only to discover missing pieces. I’ve also been sorting through my “computer brain,” trying to understand how I got here—because grief is always, in part, about the survivor. The survivor must choose to live.

Today I learned about the “40-day rule” I
n some cultures—the belief that it takes 40 days for the soul to reach the afterlife. I grew up with Shiva, a seven-day mourning period where visitors come to share memories and pray. In observant homes, mirrors are covered to shift focus from the physical self to inner reflection

7 February 2026 –When you wake up in the morning, what’s the first thing you think of?

If you’ve been reading my blogs, you already know where my mind goes. You may even be tempted to stop reading because you can predict the next sentence.

Yes, I wake up and immediately feel the truth of another day without Rich.

Once I acknowledge that reality, I put my feet on the floor, head to the bathroom, and then make my way downstairs to brew my morning coffee. Some days I unload the dishwasher I ran the night before. Other days I move slowly, almost mechanically, waiting for that first cup that jumpstarts my day.

People keep asking if I’m taking time to grieve, if I’m caring for myself. So let me answer clearly.

YES—I am grieving, and I am living in the way that works for me.

How I’m navigating this chapter

A funeral or celebration of life might eventually help me find closure, but the time isn’t right yet. That means some of the rawness lingers, and that’s okay.
My sons have stepped in with strength and tenderness, helping me handle the necessary conversations and map out a plan so I can live independently—while knowing they will never let me fall.
My work—what I love—is cathartic. I’m fortunate to choose what I do and how I do it. Routine gives me structure, and structure gives me steadiness.
Self‑care matters. Showering, dressing, eating well, moving my body, resting, breathing. Even working from home, I’m still showing up on Zoom, still being seen. I want to look good because looking good helps me feel good.
- And yes, I can still feel happiness. Not happiness about the loss, but happiness within myself.
I’m learning to use my words with intention.
- No doesn’t have to be harsh, but it does have to be honored. I’m not responsible for making someone feel better on their timeline. Sometimes solitude is my safest companion.
- Yes doesn’t mean accepting every offer of help. It means choosing what empowers me, what supports my healing, what aligns with my path.
I’m rediscovering my core. I’ve spent a lifetime centering others, often questioning whether my choices were truly mine. I can still be compassionate without abandoning myself.
What I feel today will shift tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Allowing myself to pivot is part of living fully and mindfully.

What the last three weeks have taught me…

Even when you listen closely and observe carefully, you never have the full picture. Doctors “practice” medicine for a reason—every human body is different. I thought I knew Rich completely, but he held something back. That was his choice.
Anger is normal. It isn’t always blameful. If Rich kept something private, consciously or not, that was his right.
The “what ifs” are human, but I refuse to take responsibility for what I could not know. I acted with love and intention at every step. When I stumbled, I learned.
It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to repeat myself if repetition helps repair the cracks. I may skip a beat, but I’m working on a new rhythm.
I’m the producer of my life, but sometimes you need a director—a therapist, counselor, coach, or trusted friend—to help guide the scene.

The Band‑Aid moment

For three weeks, my boys have been by my side, with only brief breaks. Tomorrow they return to their own lives, and part of the Band‑Aid gets pulled away. But I won’t be alone. They are a phone call away, and they will come back if I need them. Friends and family check in—by phone, text, email. My circle is strong, and if I need them, they will help keep me afloat.

What I’m asking

Allow me to create my own path. Offer guidance or suggestions without judgment, but please don’t tell me how I must navigate this ship. There are many routes, and I’m choosing mine.

As a new week begins, I’m hopeful that our new podcast series, “Find Your Way,” will give me more tools to heal. I want to grow my Life Coaching practice to help people—people like me—live their best lives. It’s not about six‑figure incomes or lottery wins. It’s about healing. It’s about choosing happiness.

If I can do it, so can you.

6 February 2026 – I feel accomplished today—truly accomplished. And if Rich is watching, I think he’d be proud of how calmly I handled the latest round of tech chaos. My internet was working everywhere else in the house, but my work computer refused to connect. I powered up computer #2 and voilà—internet. Restarted the work computer—still nothing. After a little detective work, I found a message telling me to update my driver. I did, and voilà again, I was back in business.

Twice this week I’ve run into situations that would have had me yelling, “Rich, I need your help!”—sometimes waking him up, other times interrupting his beloved MeTV. His go‑to solution was always a restart, and when that didn’t work, I’d get antsy waiting for him to swoop in.

The other day, while cleaning the office, the backup battery system went into full alarm mode. I couldn’t silence it without unplugging it and letting it die. That meant rerouting cords to another outlet—something I would have begged Rich to handle. Instead, I did it myself. Problem solved. I’ll let Alex and Steve decide the fate of the battery backup when they get here.

Do I wish Rich were here to fix these things? Absolutely. But I’m grateful he always encouraged me to be a detective first, to try, to learn, to trust myself. There were times I wanted him to just take over, but now I see he was preparing me—quietly, consistently—to stand on my own.

The changes in my life over the past three weeks have been seismic. I’m still in the early stages of what feels unfair, overwhelming, and surreal. Decisions I was already making before my world pivoted now feel heavier without my buddy to confirm them. I have my sons, and I’m grateful for them, but I’m also learning to rely on me, myself, and I.

I’ve never liked total darkness at night. When I’m alone, I always keep a night light or lamp on somewhere. Now I sleep with one hearing aid in, because silence feels as unsettling as darkness. I’m finding the tools I need to feel safe, grounded, and okay.

When this nightmare began, I didn’t think I’d ever feel comfortable alone in this home. When Alex left last week, I braced myself for loneliness, fear, the urge to run. Instead, I found comfort in the home Rich and I built almost nineteen years ago. I know he’s here—not in a way I can see or hear, but in the energy he left behind. I keep waiting for his voice telling me not to throw something away because “you might need it,” but instead I feel him giving me permission to let go of the things that weighed us down.

How many flash drives does one man need? Why were we keeping software from the 1980s for computers we no longer own? When in doubt, I move something from one place to another until I’m ready to decide.

And I’m not innocent either. This morning, while making coffee, I opened a cupboard and found mugs and plastic cups I put there when we moved in—May 2007. They’ve never been used. I sorted through them and now have over twenty to donate to Goodwill.

I used the word accomplished, and that’s exactly how I feel. Clearing physical clutter is clearing mental clutter. It’s freeing. And I want to make sure I have space—literal and emotional—to carry Rich with me as I forge this new path.

What unfolded three weeks ago was beyond my control. I’m human. I could only respond to what I saw in front of me. Maybe I tried to redirect him when I noticed things, but he was an adult making choices with the information he had. I can second‑guess myself or be angry with him for dying, but I’m finding comfort in the truth that life and death aren’t always choices we get to make.

Thirty‑eight years ago, we learned that creating life wasn’t as easy as we imagined. After months of disappointment, we began IVF and faced more heartbreak. The night before our final attempt, I was molested by a doctor. I didn’t want to go through with the procedure the next day, but Rich held me with love and kindness, and we moved forward together. Nine months later, Alex was born. That was a choice we made side by side.

Nothing in life is perfect. We have limited control. We make choices, but the universe keeps spinning, handing us challenges wrapped inside the opportunities we create. And here I am—still choosing, still learning, still moving forward.

5 February 2026 – MY CHOICES

I am choosing to steer my grief, not be steered by it. I’m deeply grateful for every friend—near and far—whoever has reached out, but I also need to choose when and how I respond. Sometimes that will be a text, sometimes a call, and sometimes it will go to voicemail. I’m doing well, and I know each day will get a little lighter, even as I miss my favorite friend—the man I chose to love for more than 42 years.

When I met Rich, he still carried feelings for past girlfriends, especially the ones who walked away. One of the things I admired most about him was how fiercely he loved his people. Once you were his friend, you were his friend for life. From the beginning, I lived alongside the ghosts of his “what ifs,” especially one woman he spoke of even near the end. But there was never a question about his love for me. He chose me, he stayed with me, and he honored our vows until death parted us. I could have walked away early on, but I chose to stay because I had the love of Rich—and that was worth everything.

Each day I take one step closer to my tomorrow. It could feel empty, but I refuse to live with a half‑empty cup. Mine is overflowing with love, hope, and the promise of new memories with family and friends.

If you are one of the friends I haven’t spoken to yet—please know this isn’t rejection. I’m giving myself the space to grieve and to grow in my own way. I write about Rich because it comforts me, but I don’t want every conversation with you to revolve around my loss. I want real conversations, renewed friendships, and connection that isn’t defined solely by grief. That means I may need time and distance, and I hope you’ll allow me that grace.

I’m spending time with my sons as they navigate their own grief and build their own path forward. I’m blessed that they love me, support me, and want me to keep living my life fully.

After this weekend, I’ll likely be on my own until the end of February. I’m okay with that. I’ll keep working—podcasting, writing, coaching—and I’ll reach out to family and friends as I need to. Eventually I’ll get out more (winter and I are not friends), and I hope to meet new people and build new relationships that fill the spaces loss has opened.

There is no timeline for grief, but those who know me know I’m a doer. I can’t sit still and wait for healing to arrive. I’ve already begun the process, and I intend to keep moving forward.

Feel free to comment, IM, text, or email. And if you call and it goes to voicemail, please remember—it’s not about you. It’s simply where I am in that moment.

4 February 2026 STOP JUDGING

Why do we assume we know how someone else should be living their life? And why is it so easy to judge others when we bristle the moment that judgment comes back our way?

What I’ve learned as a podcaster, writer, and life coach is this: choosing to be vulnerable—choosing to share your story—does not grant anyone permission to tell you how to live your life. Openness is not an invitation for control. It’s an invitation for connection.

Today I feel blessed—a word I seem to be using more often these days. My recent podcast conversation with Samantha Kane, Roots, Wings, Wellness: Higher Impact for Humanity (https://youtu.be/cOIy18UltYk), offered a kind of support I didn’t expect. Although, if I’m honest, I often discover new layers of myself while recording.

Samantha shared a powerful image: standing with your feet firmly planted in purpose while staying aware of everything happening around you—feeling it through all your senses. That is exactly where I’ve been living these past months. First the sudden loss of my brother Joel. Then the health challenges with my brother Gary. And most recently, the unimaginable—losing my husband. I feel grounded and unsteady at the same time, solid beneath my feet yet emotionally out of place.

Samantha held space for all of that. She offered safety, presence, and understanding. And I believe that’s who she is with her clients as well. If you choose to connect with her, you’ll be in good hands.

Often we become our own harshest judge and jury. We let that inner voice deliver a steady stream of negativity, drowning out our own kindness. The real work is learning how to interrupt that voice—how to build an inner strength that offers acceptance, compassion, and the courage to learn from our missteps.

After my recent podcast, I found myself saying out loud something I had only quietly carried: I now recognize there were signs—emotional and physical—that may have contributed to my husband’s sudden death. But I also know that judging myself or replaying what I “should have” done will not change the reality that he developed COVID and pneumonia. The coulda/shoulda spiral is powerful, and it can eat away at us if we let it. I am doing my best not to fall into that trap.

Lately, social media keeps asking, “What is one thing the world needs right now?” My answer is simple: kindness. If we can truly cultivate kindness—toward ourselves first, and then toward others—we create the conditions for peace. It starts with each of us choosing to release the harsh judgments that are tearing us apart.

Begin today. Begin with yourself. And let the kindness ripple outward.

4 February 2026 –Sharing Our Stories, Even When They’re Messy

Have you noticed how Facebook has become a kind of communal walking stick for so many of us as we stumble along the path of life? Our stories may not mirror one another, but there’s a shared vulnerability in the way we write—raw, unfiltered, and sent out into the universe with hope that someone, somewhere, understands.

My mother used to warn, “Don’t hang out your dirty laundry for the neighbors to see.” But hiding our truths doesn’t protect anyone. In fact, it often hurts us—and the people we touch—far more than honesty ever could.

When I share openly, I learn from my own words. That’s how I process. That’s how I breathe.

Rich was never an open book. He held more inside than he ever let out, always putting on a happy face so he wouldn’t burden anyone. I believed he was fully transparent with me, but now I see he was holding back. No one becomes sick that quickly if everything inside is truly well.

I feel flashes of anger that I didn’t push harder, ask more, insist on answers. But I’m not blaming him, and I’m not blaming myself. If he held back, I believe he did it out of love—for Alex, for Steve, and for me. He never wanted us to feel responsible for his health or his happiness, even though I always saw caring for him as part of my role as his wife.

These past two weeks have taught me something I wish I’d learned earlier: we are responsible only for ourselves. Others influence us, yes, but our choices are our own.

And I am not alone. I am far from the first wife, partner, or spouse to walk through this kind of loss. As I share my story and others share theirs, I can feel the healing happening in real time. I can even laugh—really laugh—at the absurdity of what Rich left behind. My Pain‑in‑the‑Ass Packrat seems to have owned more flash drives and video cards than Amazon. Everywhere I turn, there’s another one waiting to be discovered.

Steve, my oldest—though not Rich’s by blood—has become my rock. He’s stepped into the role of legal advisor (even though it’s not his field), and his organizational mind is helping me rebuild a foundation. My youngest is finding his own way of supporting me, and the mother in me still wants to protect them both.

But we can’t protect anyone from death. It’s part of the life cycle we’re never truly ready for. Sometimes we get a warning, and we cling to prayer and hope for a miracle. When the miracle doesn’t come, some of us leap forward into action while others freeze in place.

A few people have suggested that I’m overthinking all of this or hiding behind my words. The truth is the opposite. Writing these blogs is how I process, how I make sense of the chaos, how I build my roadmap to whatever comes next.

This is my way. And I’m not apologizing for it.

3 February 2026 – 42 Years Ago, Today

Forty‑two years ago today, Rich and I were married for the first time—married to each other, that is. After living together for almost two years, we made it legal. Rabbi Eisenberg (of blessed memory) officiated, and Debbie and Dave Meredith stood beside us as witnesses.

No one knew we were getting married. But with my ex suddenly trying to change our custody arrangement, we decided our partnership needed to be recognized—at least in the eyes of the court.

We renewed those vows on July 15, 1984, surrounded by family and friends at the Quaker Square Hilton. From that point on, we celebrated both anniversaries. Not exactly traditional, but then again, neither were we. February 2 was usually cold and snowy, and since neither of us were winter‑weather people, celebrations often waited for warmer days. We weren’t gift‑givers either, but every year there were hugs, kisses, and the same whispered promise: “Not counting tomorrow.”

Our Unconventional Beginning

On our wedding night, still dressed from our tiny ceremony, we took Steve—then nine years old—to Otani for dinner. He had no idea it was a celebration until the following week when we walked into court.

Once the judge affirmed my parental status, we began planning our July wedding. Rich chose the date himself. He wanted something memorable, and he picked July 15 because it was the release date of The Seven Year Itch, starring his Hollywood idol, Marilyn Monroe.

When we looked at venues, he wanted a place that would still be standing decades later. The old Quaker Square silos‑turned‑hotel fit the bill. It has changed purposes over the years—from hotel to University of Akron dorms—and now it’s preparing for yet another transformation. Life evolves, and so did we.

The Life We Built

Our time together began with challenges, and we faced every one of them side by side. Looking back—especially over these past two weeks—I can see the early signs that something physical and emotional was shifting in both of us. I’ve always been the talker, the writer, the resolver. Rich would voice concerns but rarely take the next step unless nudged… or, as I often teased, nagged.

The old Karen would be sitting here blaming herself for not doing more. But I’m not doing that. I know I was a good, loving partner. I pushed and pulled when needed, and I stood back when dignity required space. Some things love cannot fix. The prostate cancer and the radiation after‑effects stole pieces of Rich that neither of us could reclaim.

A Lesson That Stayed with Me

When I was a junior in high school, I joined the debate team. We prepared meticulously, entered the competition confident—and lost. I was devastated. I told my coach, “It’s not fair!” He agreed but reminded me that life isn’t always fair.

That lesson has stayed with me for sixty years. When life tilts toward unfairness, I have to refocus on the good, find the silver lining, and refuse to fall into the pit of woe is me.

Today, I Choose Celebration

So today, I’m choosing to celebrate forty‑two years of marriage.

At 4 a.m., when I woke up in the quiet of the house, I wished Rich a Happy Anniversary.

We are still together—just in a different way now.

And in my heart, our story continues.

2 February 2026 – Another Monday morning and I am working on embracing the day. I am not expecting sunshine in the sense of the word with the rays from the fireball in the sky to warm and meltdown the cold white snow. But I am determined to see and feel the sunshine from behind the cloudy skies and produce my own internal warmth and optimism.

Last week I shared my dislike for Mondays as I have lost some very important individuals in my life on this day of the week. However, I am making a pledge to myself to see beyond the day and carry those memories with me as I continue to live with purpose.

On various occasions in the best, I wondered how I would react to the illness and or death of my husband, I never thought I would feel so solid even as my emotions chip away very slowly at my veneer. No, I am not holding back or stopping the sadness often associated with tears to appear. I am finding some humor in my loss…

An example of the humor…I knew even before I moved in with Rich he was a packrat and from day I tried to rid our home of ‘things’. Occasionally I could get Richard to tackle his desk, a box or a corner of the office, but more often than not he found more reasons to keep something instead throw it way. The little he disposed of I would celebrate it as a start, but with time that spot accumulated more.

Looking around our shared office space has been difficult for me because I will declutter regularly as my area accumulates. When Rich was in the hospital I declutter bits and pieces hoping it will rial him – he always had a second sense of me throwing ‘things’ out. Today I believe Rich gave me a gift the opportunity to remove what feels like garbage while keeping him close and hearing him say, “I may want/or need that!”

As my son Steve and I started sorting out bills, preparing a budget so I could be clear of where I am today and how I will meet my tomorrows, we found more clutter in expenses. Nothing bad/terrible but subscriptions I didn’t know we were paying monthly as some went to his credit cards (all I knew was he had credit card balances we were paying). Some of these I knew he had but didn’t know they were current. One such one was ADOBE at $70+ a month. When we were doing photography yes we used the product but that goes back at least 9 years. Why did he continue it? You know the answer, “Just in Case!”

Another subscription was Ancestry – I know we bought it over 18 years ago and when we got the basic information we chose to look up – I thought it had been cancelled, obviously it hadn’t been and billed to a card that was in his name, his expenses not mine. I am no longer carrying that subscription for him, there is no “Just in Case!”

If you are reading this no matter where you are in your journey whether single or in a relationship, honest with yourself and pare down. Things don’t really provide us comfort and security especially when you don’t even know you have it.

On Wednesday Rich and I will be married 42 years, and we were together for another 2. That is a lot of accumulation- things we brought into the relationship and what we added.

Rich was good at throwing out the memories or thoughts that did not fulfill him. Rich did not carry a grudge and did not carry someone else problems in his backpack. The intangibles were easier for him to discard…I was his true opposite in this area of life.

As I walk this new path I am determined to do it in away that honors the life we created together despite the differences, the bickering that often made us stronger as a couple, and learning that love has many facets. We may not have looked like the perfect couple, had the perfect life, and what I thought would be the perfect loss (is that such a thing?), we complimented each other and even in death we will continue along that brick road, not paved in gold.

Grief is real and it plays out differently for all of us.

My oldest son Steve has jumped into the role of controller in a positive way. His legal expertise and organization help guide me through my tasks with calmness, not anxiety.

Alex my youngest provides me with humor and stories that he needs in his healing process and I am learning to listen like a mother, not a coach or someone who may know the lessons he is providing me.

I read an article the other day of a woman who got angry with her own emotions after losing the love of her life. Similar to me no tears. Similar to me starting thinking about the declutter. Similar to me fearing fear, not just aloneness. Similar to me expecting to be haunted by her home and finding it a shelter and nothing more. Similar to wondering what other people are thinking…

I know the tears will come, they may appear in waves of sobs, or a single tear rolling down my check. I know the intense loneliness will appear and if I am not prepared it could break me, but what I have witnessed from women before me (my mother-in-law and mother) there is a way to survive those feelings, I must create that path!

On this Monday morning, February 2, 2026, I am preparing to meet my challenges and accept their will be obstacles along the way. However, I am tackling some of those unpleasant tasks that need to get me through to the next step. I am slowly re-introducing myself back into my work with podcasting, with shows scheduled for Tuesday, Wednesday & Friday.

My tasks outside the home may be limited or rescheduled based on the impact of winter weather. I am learning to be honest with myself that I have the ability to be positive and make my loss ignite the best of me. Yes, Rich will be with me. He deserves to enjoy this journey with me.

Today we are married 15,341 days Not Counting Tomorrow = 42 Years.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSdL23sBfggkOWP1xXVz9S_qQ6xQjrbp6

1 February 2026 – Tonight are the Grammy Awards, and with a mix of pride and heartbreak I’ll be watching as my brother, Joel Moss, is honored in the In Memoriam segment for his extraordinary contributions as an American sound engineer and record producer.
(https://www.recordingacademy.com/press-room/in-memoriam)

To the world he was Joel Moss.
To me, he was Joel… or Joelie… or Yosef, his Hebrew name.

This evening is heavy, as most evenings have been lately. In just four months, I’ve lost my big brother and my loving husband—two men who shaped my life in ways I’m still discovering. Their absence is profound, but so is the love they left behind. I’m choosing, every day, to live as fully as I can and carry them with me in thought and spirit.

My sons have been remarkable—showing up, stepping in, and supporting me even when I insist I can manage on my own. There’s a new closeness forming between us, and I’m deeply grateful for it.

And yet here I sit at my desk on a quiet Sunday evening. Not long ago, this would have been a typical day: me tucked away in the office doing work while Rich watched his MeTV shows downstairs. Around this time, 5:30p.m. or so—I’d head down to make dinner, even though cooking had become more of a chore than a joy. Still, every night, without fail, Rich greeted me with, “Hi, Beautiful.”
That won’t happen tonight.

This weekend, Steve and I tackled the mountain of paperwork that comes when someone you love dies. It was overwhelming, but he guided the process with such care, and I made sure I understood each step. When he left for the airport, the silence in the house felt enormous. I called Alex, who distracted me with his usual antics, and it was exactly what I needed.

I’m staring down a week alone. And yes—the deli tray arrives tomorrow. So, if any of my local friends are reading this, please call or text and come have a nosh. I refuse to let good food go to waste.

I’m easing myself back into work this week with a couple of shows I plan to record and produce. Just dipping my toes back in for now, knowing that eventually I’ll be ready to swim a marathon again.

The boys may come back next weekend to help with more organizing and decluttering. As the song says, I’m looking at both sides now—trying to see my life from every angle before making any big decisions. Decluttering has been calling me for months, so that part feels easy. Yesterday I filled another Goodwill bag, and this morning I cleared out old magazines. Maybe I’ll do more later, maybe not.

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, and I’m fully expecting that pesky Punxsutawney Phil to see his shadow and doom us to six more weeks of winter. I’m just hoping they’re mild weeks—no more snow, please.

Today’s update is short because I’m preparing for tomorrow and the long list of tasks ahead. As I learn this new landscape—this strange, unchosen path—I hope the lessons, shortcuts, and small discoveries I gather along the way will help someone else someday. None of us need to reinvent the wheel.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

31 January 2026 – Routines: The Threads That Hold Us – Routines have been woven into my life for as long as I can remember. I didn’t think about them as a child—I just did them. Over the years they shifted, stretched, and reshaped themselves as life changed. I’m no longer racing to catch the school bus or waking up early to feed my boys before heading to work. But for many years now, my mornings have begun the same way: a cup of coffee, my desk, and a quiet moment to prepare for the day ahead.

That simple ritual is still here, even with the missing piece beside me. My other half, Rich, whose days I often helped orchestrate. He never kept a calendar; time and dates were a jumble in his mind. I was his reminder, his organizer, his keeper of what‑needs‑to‑happen‑next. I admit there were moments when I resented that role. But today? I would give anything to step back into it for him.

Now I’m learning how to be responsible for myself in this new landscape. Steve, my oldest, has become my extra set of eyes and ears as I navigate the mountain of paperwork that comes with loss. Life insurance doesn’t magically turn into a check overnight, and the human voice has been replaced with virtual assistants. I’m computer‑savvy, but I have no patience for AI guiding me through one of the most vulnerable moments of my life.

As I move through this process, I’m realizing something bigger: I have a purpose in helping others navigate this same messy, painful, bewildering terrain.

We will all face death—of someone we love, and eventually, our own. One of my greatest fears has always been dying alone. I tried to spend as much time as I could by Rich’s bedside, whispering love and compassion into the quiet, hoping he heard me. His passing happened too fast. In some ways, yes, he died alone. But in my heart, I was holding him tightly.

This past week has shown me how little control we have over our final breath. Somewhere, somehow, the ending is already written. But until that moment arrives, living fully is a choice.

I talk often about choices—what works, what doesn’t, and the courage to change direction when needed. Two weeks ago, I still had the choice to be nurse‑wife. When I realized I could do no more, I made the choice to take Rich to the ER. And you know the rest of the story.

My morning routine helps me start each day, even when the grief feels like a weight strapped to my chest. Sometimes I sit here at my desk and pour my heart into these words because writing heals me. And if even one person finds comfort or connection in my journey, that brings a warm smile to my heart. I’m the authority on my own experience—I don’t expect my path to be yours. But if something here resonates, then we’ve created a human connection, and that matters.

I still catch myself wanting to call Rich, as if he’s just out of town on a work assignment. I want to tell him that Alex called last night—Akron beat Kent State by 17 points. Akron sports were their thing, especially football, which often resembled the Cleveland Browns in all the ways you can imagine. I know I can’t call him anymore, so I send the message in my thoughts and trust that he hears it.

Today, Steve and I are tackling the hard stuff: insurance paperwork. Those monthly payments will stop, and eventually the policy will help me move forward. But this step is another finalization, another acknowledgment that life has changed.

I’m making lists—what needs to be done, what I’ve already handled, where I am in the process. Organization has always been one of my strengths, and right now it’s a lifeline.

Next week, I’m easing back into podcasting and coaching. Some people tell me to wait, to take more time. But what would I do with that time ? Rich would never want me sitting around binge‑watching Netflix… I already do enough of that.

Today, I’m noticing a familiar sensation—one I’ve felt in the past when anxiety and overwhelm collide. A gnawing in my gut, heavy and cold, even as the rest of me feels numb. I know it’s grief, and I don’t like it. I find myself trying to outrun it, ignore it, out‑organize it. But grief has a mind of its own. Right now, it feels like it’s laughing at me, saying, “Sorry Karen, put on your big girl panties and hurt.”

I’ve said before that I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m used to having control. And now, in hindsight, I think I finally understand what Rich was feeling in those months before COVID took him down. That gnawing sensation is shining a harsh light on everything, pushing the ache deeper.

This is where I am today. Still waking up. Still making coffee. Still writing.

Still choosing to live, even when it hurts.

30 January 2026 Dinner with my oldest son was… strange.
Strange without his brother.
Strange without Rich.
Strange in a way that made the room feel both full and hollow at the same time.

When 2026 arrived just a month ago, I never imagined my life would shift so dramatically. I keep saying I feel too calm, too accepting of losing my husband. I keep waiting for the pain, the loneliness, the collapse. They call this shock, but I’m functioning—maybe over-functioning—and every grief specialist tells me I’m doing this the “right” way, my way. But I still wonder.

Where does all that love go?
I used to miss Rich when he was simply in another room. Now he’s in another realm—untouchable, unseen—and yet I feel him close, watching over me, keeping me steady. Is that real, or is it my heart protecting itself, creating a story so I can keep breathing?

There was a time when my emotions were so fragile I cried over everything. Alex called it my “baby deer syndrome.” Now I feel almost… intact. As if I’ve wrapped myself in a protective shield. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t want to feel the sharp edges of this pain, even though pain is part of the truth.

How do any of us process loss—not just of a person, but of anything that once held meaning? I’ve always processed by sharing my vulnerable thoughts, by ripping off the bandages before the wound has even healed. Rich was the opposite; he waited until the bandage loosened on its own. We were different that way, and yet we fit.

Tonight, I stepped outside and looked up at the big, beautiful waxing gibbous moon with Jupiter glowing just beneath it. Something in me was drawn to the sky, maybe searching for a sign from Rich. But why do we imagine heaven is above us? I think it’s everywhere—woven into the air, the light, the quiet moments we overlook until loss sharpens our vision.

For a girl who didn’t date much and struggled to feel appreciated, finding Richard was the icing on the cake. Sharing my boys with him in this imperfect world was a gift I never took lightly. Sometimes we don’t fully understand what we have until it’s gone.

But I haven’t lost him. Not really. We didn’t give each other up. We’re just following different road maps for now, and I trust they’ll lead us back to one another someday.

So yes, dinner felt strange tonight. But it was also a step—one small, necessary step—into whatever comes next.

30 January 2026 – Two weeks ago,

it was just an ordinary, cold January Friday. I had only one podcast scheduled, which ended up being postponed because my guest wasn’t feeling well. With my day suddenly wide open, I suggested to Rich that we go grocery shopping in the afternoon.

Rich had a love–hate relationship with shopping—either he was all in or he despised it as much as I do. That day he simply said, “I’ll drive you and sit in the car,” slipping into his familiar role as my knight in shining armor.

Because he was driving, and the winter roads weren’t as clear as I’d like, he took me to Meijer—farther than my usual Giant Eagle, but a place Alex has been praising for its prices and selection.

As I walked the aisles, I found myself choosing items based on Rich’s likes and dislikes. I took pride in filling that cart with things we both enjoyed, imagining him waiting patiently in the car.

When my cart was nearly full, my phone rang. It was Alex, calling at the end of his workday just to check in. I told him Rich was probably dozing in the car and suggested he call his dad—Rich would be a captive audience for Alex’s banter.

Rich could be either a great phone conversationalist or completely disconnected, especially when MeTV or Unsolved Mysteries had his attention. But not that day. He picked up immediately and shared a warm, lighthearted few minutes with Alex—something Alex now remembers with so much love.

When I finally rolled out with enough groceries to survive a snowstorm, I loaded the bags into Rich’s perpetually overstuffed trunk. He offered to get out and help, but I waved him off and handled it myself.

On the drive home, Rich asked if I wanted to go out to dinner. My first reaction was, “Hell no—we just bought half the store!” But he insisted. He said I deserved it. And even though I was tired from the day, I agreed.

Then came the familiar dance: “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know, where do you want to go?”

We volleyed options back and forth until he suggested Simon’s—a deli that had been our Saturday-night staple for years, where we’d often share a pork schnitzel (yes, decidedly not kosher). At first I said no, then changed my mind—with one condition: no schnitzel tonight.

We ordered a turkey club to share. He ate three-quarters; I was happy with my quarter. And of course, we ended with his beloved mousse cake. Sitting across from him, I saw the love and pride in his eyes—so clear, so present. I didn’t need the reminder, but I’m grateful I got it. I’m so glad I said yes to dinner.

Everything was normal… until the next morning, when it wasn’t.

I woke earlier than Rich, as usual. Around 9:30, I went back to check on him and found him watching TV. He said his throat was scratchy, so I went looking for his Coricidin HBP—only to discover we were out. I got dressed, made his breakfast (banana and coffee cake), ate mine, and headed to the drugstore for cold medicine.

He took the Coricidin and spent most of the day in the recliner. At lunchtime I made him a sandwich, and everything seemed fine—until he stood up and his legs wobbled. We chalked it up to the cold brewing, which for Rich always came with a dramatic “woe is me” energy. I shifted into nurse‑Karen mode.

After lunch I settled him on the loveseat recliner with a warm blanket and Catchy TV—another old sitcom channel he loved. The rest of the day felt like any other “Rich isn’t feeling well” day while I worked, did laundry, and started dinner.

But bedtime changed everything.

Lately, Rich had been navigating the stairs with caution, complaining that after 18 years in the condo the treads suddenly felt too narrow. He took each step one at a time, the way I did after my knee replacement. That night, as I walked behind him, he leaned so far forward he was almost crawling.

Upstairs, he seemed fine—until he sat on the bed and suddenly fell backward, legs in the air. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

That’s when I realized this “cold” was making him truly weak. I struggled to help him into bed. His restless leg syndrome kicked in, and he couldn’t get comfortable. His legs shook, and he couldn’t control them. Still, neither of us thought it was anything more than a rough night. We assumed the medication would help him sleep.

But as they say, the rest is history—or a nightmare.

By Sunday morning, I knew he needed the ER. His throat no longer hurting but he was weaker, slower, and not responding like himself.

I still can’t believe that this was the beginning of his end here on earth.

And yet… Rich is with me. The strength and calm I feel now—I know they’re his gifts. I also know there will be moments ahead when I will scream, rant, and rage at the unfairness of it all. But when those moments come, I pray I can return to this strength, this calm, and continue living my life fully—with Rich beside me in every way that still matters.

[A very special thanks to Jodee at Hospice of the Western Reserve my support contact, Alison Pena Grief Coach, Colleague, and FRIEND, Kristy Anderson who I see as my ‘sister’, my friend, and Grief Coach.]

Looking for Answers I will never find…

29 January 2026 – One Giant Step for Rich, One Baby Step for Me

My son Alex likes to talk about “ripping the band‑aid off,” and today felt a little like that. Before the snow squalls rolled in, I finally took a carload of donations to Goodwill—bags that had been living in my trunk for weeks. Then I swung by the pharmacy for a prescription and headed to get my hair freshened up.

Each stop came with its own emotional weather system.

At Goodwill, I felt relief—like I was emptying not just the back of my Soul, but a small corner of my spirit. Letting go of things I no longer need felt like maybe I was helping someone else who does.

At Walgreens, I chose the drive‑through. It was close to their lunch break, the lane was empty, and I knew I’d be taken care of quickly. Simple, efficient, no emotional heavy lifting.

And at the salon… I needed a little pampering. My stylist gave me the best head massage, and even though I didn’t mention the migraine brewing behind my eyes, she somehow eased it. A tiny moment of grace.

I made it home before the snow picked up, but the sky looked ready to dump another round on us here in Northeast Ohio. I’m hoping the storm isn’t as bad as predicted—Steve’s flight tomorrow depends on it. But if weather wins, I’ll be okay. I have many of you on my phone list. (Ring, ring.)

This isn’t an apology, and I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but I’m realizing something important: the stereotypes I grew up with about loss, illness, and death don’t apply to my life right now. I am still living and breathing—sometimes it feels like I’m doing it for two—because Rich is still with me. I feel his spiritual self walking beside me.

I’m not ready to scream, cry, or rage at the universe for taking him. One of us was always going to go first, and statistically, it’s usually the man. Now my job is to live as fully as I can, slowly at first, until my physical and emotional strength return.

I don’t fully understand how I’m this calm, but part of me believes Rich finally managed to slow me down—something he tried to do in life but somehow succeeded at in death.

My counselor through Hospice encouraged me to keep reaching out. Some of you may want to get together now, some later. Whatever works. With this unpredictable weather, making plans feels like a gamble anyway. A phone call, a Zoom, or FaceTime might be the next best thing.

Today was one giant step for Rich… and one baby step for me.

29 January – When Routine Disappears and Life Demands a New Rhythm

Routines are comforting—until life throws a curve ball so sharp that the routine either stops working or disappears altogether.

For the last year, Rich settled into his own rhythm: the same TV shows that soothed his soul, the same quiet hopes that a job might pop up or that maybe, just maybe, the lottery would finally cooperate. Through all our years together, he always wanted more for me. He often felt like he was failing me, never fully accepting that he was already enough. The trips, the little gifts—they were sweet, but fleeting. What stays with me now are the moments of Rich simply being Rich. My loving, stubborn, hilarious “pain in the ass.” The man who made ordinary life feel like ours.

I didn’t grow up with extras, so I learned early that the real treasures aren’t things—they’re the touches, the words, the belly laughs. Those are what keep my love for Rich alive.

Yesterday, when Alex returned to his own home and routine, it felt like someone ripped off part of the bandage. I kept waiting for the floodgates to open, for the “stages of grief” everyone talks about. Instead, I’m numb. Present. Grasping the moment because that’s all I can do.

Sleep hasn’t been my friend for weeks, and nothing has changed there. But the sleep routine is the only familiar thing left. I’m not waiting for my best friend to wake up and join me for breakfast. I’m not sharing my schedule with him or carving out those tiny moments for a kiss, a hug, or heating up a Stouffer’s meal—because somehow it always tasted better when I made it.

I’m not making big decisions yet, but I’m talking through them—out loud, on paper, in the quiet corners of my mind. I know choices are coming, choices that will shift my journey in ways I didn’t ask for and wasn’t ready for.

And because I’m a planner and a doer, I’ve put support in place. Today I began with Hospice of the Western Reserve. I have a grief coach and a grief consultant—friends who are helping me put words to the emotional pain that hurts in ways you can’t point to.

I catch myself rushing to “resolve” life, and I’m grateful for Jodee reminding me there is no rush. What I feel today won’t be what I feel tomorrow. Grief fog is real, and this one is unlike any loss I’ve known. Rich wasn’t just my husband for 42 years—he was my best friend. We could love and dislike each other at the same time, argue and still be inseparable. That kind of relationship doesn’t automatically translate to others, and I know I may feel fresh grief when I’m misunderstood.

So, I’ll keep writing, (yes Dennis I will), I’ll keep using my words to walk myself through this. If you feel inclined to support me—in whatever way you can—that will be a gift to both Rich and me.

I was told today that I will need you more in the days ahead—in the spring, in the summer, and as next year unfolds. I may not always know what I need, but companionship, friendship, and even the space to be alone will be gifts you can offer, not just to me but to anyone walking this path.

Today, I’m doing something for myself: refreshing my hair. Rich loved my long hair and embraced my grey. I want to keep feeling like his beautiful wife.

Black has always been my favorite color, but lately I haven’t worn it as much. I’m going to keep dressing in whatever feels right each day—black, grey, red, or hot pink. The brighter colors would make Rich smile. No judgments.

If there are rules for mourning, I’m not following them. If I had gone first, Rich would already be planning his next adventure. He teased me endlessly that he’d find a young cute chick—just for the experience—and then meet me in heaven so we could laugh about it.

If my writing feels too raw or too heavy right now, come back when you can. If my words help even one person navigate their own loss, then I’ve fulfilled my purpose.

Now it’s time to take care of myself. To prepare for the day. Health and hygiene are the foundation of this healing journey.

Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. For me, it means finding my path forward—one step at a time—while letting Rich walk beside me, observing, nudging, and tagging along in the way only he could.

P.S. Rich hated the name “Dick” – I’m just putting it out there he was Rich or Richard!

28 January 2026 – When You’re Holding Everyone Else Together… Who Holds You?

How do you work through your own grief when you’re the one everyone else leans on? I’ve been sitting with that question, and I think I finally understand why I feel like a brick wall—solid, unmoving, and strangely sealed off. My emotions aren’t gone. They’re just… contained. And not because I’m trying to hold them back.

I’ve been here before.

When my father died, both my parents tried to protect us from the kind of pain that splits you open. Even in his final weeks, Pops called us every night—sometimes with help—just to say he loved us. Night after night, that ritual softened the blow. When he finally passed, the silence was oddly soothing, like a gentle exhale.

I got the late‑night call. Rich was out of town. Alex was asleep in his room. My mother’s voice was steady—too steady—and the strength in it made my knees buckle. But she wouldn’t let me fall apart. She even stopped me from crying.
So I did what I’ve always done: I got up the next morning, went to work, packed up Alex, and drove to Detroit to prepare for the funeral and sit shiva. I stepped into the role of Responsible Adult. Composed. Capable. Contained.

Once I arrived, my “job” was to support my mother and follow her lead.

Twelve years later, the phone rang again—early morning, the kind of call that rearranges your insides before you even answer. My mother had suffered a stroke. I tracked down Rich on a remote job, and we rushed to her bedside. Again, I focused only on what I knew, not on the terrifying places my mind wanted to go.

And my mind wasn’t wrong. She looked okay, but the stroke had stolen her sight and started unraveling her mind and body. People say Dementia and Alzheimer’s are a long goodbye, but this was too. Two and a half months felt like years—and still not enough time. I lived in her apartment, oversaw her care, and held vigil until her last breath.

By the time we buried her, I was walking in another dimension. I didn’t know my role anymore. I wasn’t a daughter. I felt like an orphan standing beside my two grown brothers. I waited for the tears, the anguish, the collapse. It never came. And even now, after writing about her with so much love, I sometimes wonder if I failed to honor her—or my father—because I didn’t cry.

Maybe it’s because we equate grief with sobbing, wailing, collapsing to our knees. Maybe we forget that grief has other forms—quiet ones, functional ones, the ones that look like strength but are really survival.

And then came Rich.

Before I took him to the hospital, I was annoyed with him. I didn’t know what he needed, and he couldn’t tell me. I knew I had to take him, but those awful second‑guessing voices whispered otherwise. The outcome wouldn’t have changed. If anything, it could have been worse. (And what is worse than death.)

That Sunday morning, I snapped into my familiar mode: Just Do It.
Get him dressed. Get him to the car. Get him inside. Every tiny task took every ounce of strength I had. I thought he had “just COVID.” I had no idea how sick he really was. But I knew I had to stay healthy, stay upright, stay strong—for him.

I broke down for a few minutes when the nurse told me to call my family. She held my hand while I made those calls, whispering, Stay calm. Pray. Be strong.
There it was again. That word. The one that builds a rock wall around me every time.

Alex keeps asking me to lean on him, but my version of leaning is giving him my shoulder, my arms, my protection. I listen to his sobs, wipe his tears, and wait for my own release. I’m still the mom. He’s still the child. My instinct is to shield him from the intensity of my emotions.

Maybe that instinct is what’s keeping me from breaking.

Tonight, Alex had another emotional moment. From miles away, I wrapped my arms around him the only way I could—through the phone, through my voice, through presence. I heard his pain. I felt his heartbreak.
But where is mine?

Did Rich sprinkle something over me that keeps the sadness from landing? I find myself appreciating what we had, even smirking at the tough moments, realizing how lucky I was to share 42 years with him—not just as his wife, but as the “trophy wife” he recently teased me about.

Maybe I’m grieving through Alex. Maybe I’m holding space for everyone else’s pain because that’s the role I’ve always known.
Or maybe the dam is gathering strength behind the scenes, waiting for the moment it finally breaks.

I don’t know yet. But I’m listening. I’m watching. I’m working to comprehend this kind of grief—it’s not about tears, but it feels like bearing a weight.

28 January 2026 – When you share your life with a partner, dependence isn’t something you consciously choose—it simply becomes woven into the rhythm of your days. I never needed Rich’s permission to do anything, but I always told him where I was going or what I was doing. It was respect, courtesy, and connection. He did the same, though sometimes I had to ask because he assumed I already knew.
Now I catch myself waiting to tell him something—some small detail, some passing thought—and I’m confused by the impulse. People keep telling me this is normal, that my brain is still processing the memories of a life built on constant sharing. For decades, even the tiniest moments were exchanged between us. That kind of habit doesn’t disappear overnight.
I keep hoping he’ll come to me in some way. The spiritual people in my life say it’s too soon, that he’s still traveling, still settling into eternity. If I let myself believe it, I can picture him being greeted by an entire welcoming committee, adjusting to whatever comes next.
This past week has felt like a lifetime. I’m swimming in questions I know will never have answers.
For a man who dodged COVID and the flu for years, to be taken down so quickly feels unreal. Yes, Rich could be a little dramatic when he wasn’t feeling well—but this wasn’t that. His strength vanished almost overnight. His legs, his upper body, his energy… all gone. There was no fight left in him. If someone had told me this was how he would die, I would never have believed it. Rich loved life. He always found a way to push through.
Hindsight is a double-edged sword. When we first noticed the weakness in his legs and the other symptoms, would seeking help sooner have changed anything? It all happened so fast that I doubt it—but the question still circles my mind.
Our medical system is fractured, and many of us hesitate to seek help when symptoms seem minor. We tell ourselves a couple of Tylenol will fix it. But when something feels wrong, we have to listen.
And help isn’t what it used to be. There was a time when you could call your primary doctor, and they would alert the ER, follow your case, and show up at the hospital. Now you’re assigned a hospitalist who only knows what’s written in your chart or what tests are pending. Without the human context—the nuances that never make it into MyChart—so much can be missed.
Nurses are carrying the weight of the system, doing the work of doctors for barely more than an aide’s pay. They sprint from patient to patient, expected to provide both medical care and emotional comfort in conditions that often work against them. You go to the hospital to be diagnosed, treated, and healed… and yet people die.
I’m not blaming anyone. But the wheel is broken and patching it with bubble gum and tape won’t fix it. If we don’t demand better—if we don’t advocate for ourselves and for each other—we risk getting lost in the same confusion that took Rich from me far too soon.
I’m trying to come to terms with the reality but I will advocate for change!

28 January 2026 –If only Rich knew… if only.

I’m realizing now just how many friends I have—near and far. For years, especially after Alex’s diagnosis, Rich and I slipped into a kind of “do not disturb” life. We weren’t hiding, but we were protecting ourselves, and in that protection came isolation. I was always open to friendship, but only if it grew naturally. Rich had many of those organic friendships; I tended to hold back.

Through podcasting and coaching, I’ve slowly been building a circle of women I truly care about. I kept them at arm’s length because I didn’t want to take time away from Rich during this chapter of our lives. One of the groups I joined but never attended—The Ethel’s—is now at the top of my list. I’m not seeking “widowhood.” I’m seeking friendship. I’ll carry Rich with me wherever I go, and I won’t feel guilty for stepping into new spaces. He would love my new friends.

If you’ve walked through loss and the unpredictable waves of grief, I hope my journaling offers you something—comfort, companionship, or simply the reminder that you’re not alone. Returning to podcasting and coaching will help keep me grounded in the steps I want to take, and the ones I need to take.

I’ve spent years guiding others through life’s challenges, and I know there is no right or wrong way to move through grief. People will judge—others, and themselves. I’ve lived too much of my life worrying about what people might think or say. Standing here now, on this new timeline, I’m choosing to lean on those I trust… including myself.

I’ve invited friends, family, and anyone who has crossed my path to reach out and spend time with me during these early days. As the weeks go on, I’ll find my rhythm and begin doing more on my own. Until then, please don’t hesitate to ask how I’m doing. It’s a simple, human way to begin a conversation—and right now, connection matters more than ever.

27 January 2026-~~WIDOWHOOD –~~If we insist on using labels, then today I am a widow. I hate that word. It reduces me to “a woman whose husband has died and is unmarried.” Well, no kidding—he just died, and I’m certainly not running out to remarry today or any day in the future. Rich and I will be officially married 42 years on February 3, 2026. And again, on July 15, 2026, we will be married 42 years in the way that mattered to us—surrounded by family and friends who witnessed our vows.

But starting today, or maybe tomorrow, someone will reach for that word and forget that I am Karen KIKI Moss Hale. They’ll call me “the widow of Richard Hale,” as if that title could ever contain the fullness of who we were/are.

When we first married, I didn’t take his last name. After surviving a divorce, I held onto Moss as a reminder that partnership didn’t require me to disappear into someone else. Rich never questioned it; he encouraged me to stay myself.

After Alex was born, I chose to become a Hale. Not because I lost myself, but because it felt like weaving our family a little tighter. I had no idea how much strength that bond would demand of us.

I was blessed to meet Rich. He showed me that a man can be masculine and still carry soft, tender qualities that many never cultivate. He believed in forgiveness, in reconciliation, and in tuning out the noise of the world—even though I suspect he battled plenty of inner voices of his own.

Throughout our life together, Rich went to therapy. He wrestled with it—his stubbornness often kept him from receiving the full gift of help—but he always supported others on their counseling and coaching journeys. He was proud when I earned my Life Coaching certification and chose to offer affordable coaching. He knew that every person I helped also helped me grow, and that was a win for him too.

This past year, he championed my weight-loss journey. He changed his own habits and lost 50 pounds. In late October, he told me how good I looked, how I had become his “trophy wife”—though really, he meant his beautiful wife. He had always complimented me, even before I lost 60 pounds, but this time he was falling in love with me all over again. And for the first time in my life, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.

(And yes, when you lose 60 pounds at 75, there are wrinkles. Rich called them “love lines” and told me to embrace them.)

Anyone who knew Rich when he was younger knows that he felt most whole when sharing his life with a female companion. Before me, there were girlfriends and close female friends he cared deeply about. He saw each relationship as a step toward the one we built. Those stories could have stirred jealousy, but I reminded myself that we were the ones growing old together.

My deeply sexual husband learned to be gentler with me as I lived—decades—with pain during intercourse. When I was finally diagnosed with complete/procidentia vaginal prolapse, he supported me through treatments that didn’t give us the results we hoped for.

Rich used to joke that his dream was to die while making love to me. This past week, as he lay in his hospital bed, I told him I’d have sex with him right there if he would just open his eyes. I thought he’d hear me, grin, and say, “YES.”

If you want to hear our banter, listen to the five episodes of our podcast, Not Counting Tomorrow:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18VHvqtIiCY&list=PLSdL23sBfggkOWP1xXVz9S_qQ6xQjrbp6

We talked recently about reviving it. But it was always about “tomorrow.”

My message to you: don’t wait.

26 January 2026 MY RICH –Some people blog or journal once a day. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I don’t wait for a specific hour or ritual. My thoughts tap me on the shoulder, and when they do, I sit down and compose.

For weeks now, sleep has been elusive. I’ve broken the “no screens in the middle of the night” rule more times than I can count, but placing my words in front of me—sharing them—is what helps me breathe. I’m mindful of it, and I’m giving myself grace.

Today, what I want to share is my husband, Richard. Yes, I’ve written about his illness and the whirlwind of this past week, but there is so much more to him—so much you may not know.

Six years after his brother Bob died at age four, Loretta and Edwin Hale welcomed a new baby boy: Richard Alan Hale. My mother‑in‑law used to tell me stories about him as a child—sweet, even‑tempered, content to sit quietly and create worlds of his own. Four years later came his brother Dave. They played together as kids, but as they grew older, their paths diverged. Still, they held a steady respect for one another. Dave passed away two years ago.

Rich loved nature, though nature didn’t always love him back. He was sensitive to fragrances, textures, and even the faintest sunlight—cloudy days included. But he adored photography. Before I knew him, he spent countless hours in the darkroom, crafting images with a quiet devotion. He dreamed of being a professional photographer, but intimidation kept him from sharing his work widely. He held his art close.

In high school, he was proudly part of what we’d now call the Geek Squad. He embraced the word “nerd” long before it was cool. He had friends—good ones—and when he went to the University of Akron, he found his people there too.

We met through best friends at their wedding. When I moved from Cincinnati, his circle became mine. Over the years, as Rich shifted from the photo industry into the world of computers and IT, some relationships faded, but he carried no bitterness. If you were ever his friend, he always saw you as one, even if you drifted away.

Alex’s autism diagnosis changed our world. Many who didn’t understand the syndrome stepped back—some out of fear, most out of ignorance. But Rich never stopped loving people, even when they didn’t know how to stay.

Financially, we struggled our entire life together, but we made our life ours. In the early 2000s, Rich took pride in baking bagels at Bruegger’s before heading to his part‑time job at a tech college. When he became a full‑time trainer, he hung up his apron. Ironically, the bagel‑baker couldn’t cook much beyond a frozen meal in the microwave. But with a grandmother and mother who handled every kitchen task, he never had the chance—or the need—to learn. When I moved in, I simply stepped into that role.

Rich accomplished so much, yet even last week, before he became ill, he apologized for not being a “good provider.” That inner critic haunted him with all the “should haves.” But he walked the path he was meant to walk. He did what he could, with heart and integrity.

In 2008, he returned to college to finish the BA he had once been only two classes shy of completing. Decades later, the requirements had changed, and he needed a full semester before he could enter the Master of Education program at Akron. In May 2012, while working full‑time and a weekend job, he graduated with honors.

Richard faced more obstacles in the workforce than most. His honesty, vulnerability, and neurodivergence made him an easy target for people who didn’t understand him. Ageism crept in too, especially over the last 15–20 years. Over time, our world grew smaller. It became just the two of us.

He had a wonderfully dry sense of humor. Alex and I still believe he’s not ready to leave us, that he might open his eyes and say “BOO!” just to get a reaction.

His favorite nights out were at the comedy club—we went often until 2025. At home, if he wasn’t working, he was watching ME-TV or another oldies station. He didn’t care for modern shows, but anything with Tim Allen. He was in.

Rich wasn’t an animal lover—he’d been bitten by a dog as a child, and the trauma stayed with him. Still, over the years, a few dogs sensed something gentle in him and gravitated his way.

He loved his boys. Steve may not be his biologically, but Rich stepped into the role of step‑dad with care and respect, and their bond only deepened as adults. And Alex—our long‑awaited child—was worth every unconventional step it took to bring him into the world. Rich was willing to do whatever it required.

There is so much more I could say about this wonderful man. He liked to count our marriage in days—15,333, not including tomorrow. I say we will be married for eternity.

I write this with a smile and a heavy heart.

26 January 2026 –Is Hell Freezing Over?

Lately it feels as if the world—both our personal worlds and the larger one we share—is sitting on thin, cracking ice. There’s an uneasiness in the air, a tension we can’t quite name. And yet we still assume we know what someone else is going through. But do they know what’s quietly gnawing at you?

Some people seem to glide across the frozen tundra without slipping, while others find themselves sliding, falling, and struggling to stand back up. Neither path is wrong. Both require awareness. Each step we take—whether forward or sideways or paused in place—asks us to be mindful of our strength, our footing, and sometimes our need to simply wait for the ice to melt.

How Do We Take the Next Step?

Not everyone is an open book. Even when we are open books, not everyone can read our pages. They haven’t lived our chapters. They don’t know the plot twists we never saw coming.

And yes, I’ll admit it—I can be judgmental. I can forget that people make choices based on the experiences that shaped them. When those experiences were painful or limited, their choices may look like mistakes from the outside. But they’re doing the best they can with the tools they have, just as I am.

Is It OK to Make a Mistake?

Of course it is. No one wants to be wrong, but perfection isn’t part of the human contract. We’re wired for trial and error. We’re meant to learn.

Sometimes that inner voice whispers guidance. Other times it screams, “Danger, Will Robinson!”—a line that still echoes from Lost in Space. Avoiding danger doesn’t mean avoiding life. It means navigating missteps with awareness, curiosity, and the willingness to grow.

Is It OK to Ask for Help?

Absolutely. Asking for help is not weakness—it’s generosity. It gives someone else the chance to show up, to serve to care. Being of service comes in many forms, and offering or receiving help can be deeply meaningful for everyone involved.

Don’t Wait

Build your circle every single day. Don’t wait for an invitation to sit with the “popular girls.” Claim your seat. And if the chair wobbles, rocks, or simply doesn’t feel right, move. Choose another seat, another circle, another space where you can breathe and belong.

It’s OK to Feel Sadness and Fear

I remind myself often: I am not the only one feeling what I’m feeling. None of us are. Grace is a gift we can offer others—and ourselves. And part of that grace is remembering that people only know what they know. They can’t see the whole picture of our lives any more than we can see theirs.

“Death Is Part of Life”

Death is inevitable. It completes the cycle we all walk through. And when someone we love leaves this earth, they leave an empty space inside us that no one else can fill. But they also leave an energy, a legacy, a love we can carry forward.

Their story continues through us.

25 January 2026 – A Morning Wrapped in Snow and Caution

I’ve started a very low‑dose anti‑anxiety medication, and instead of making me sleepy, it’s making me tired in a way that softens the sharp edges of the what‑ifs. I’m taking it while Alex is here, partly for comfort and partly to make sure I can handle it once the storm passes and he heads back to Columbus. If life has taught me anything, it’s to be cautious.

Speaking of caution—I looked out the window this morning and it seems we’ve gotten four to six inches of fresh snow. The road reports are calling conditions hazardous, so I don’t see us going anywhere today.

Alex needs sleep. He feels deeply, just like I do, but he spirals faster, and when he crashes, he truly crashes. When I try to crash, my springs bounce me right back up… and so here I am, writing again.

Earlier I listened to a video about a family whose loved one declined almost overnight. One day they were “typical,” and the next they needed help getting out of bed, walking, eating. Sound familiar? The doctors suspected flu or COVID, and after multiple tests—including three CT scans—it wasn’t until an MRI that they found a stroke. That person is now recovering. They didn’t suffer cardiac arrest. They didn’t fall into a deep coma.

Rich’s CT scans haven’t shown a stroke, but they haven’t ruled one out either. And at this point, even if we put him through an MRI, he wouldn’t come back resembling himself. We made our choice long ago: when the time comes, we would rather move upward toward heaven than be kept here in a body that no longer reflects who we are.

For now, Rich is still breathing on his own. Hospice is keeping him comfortable. Later today, I think I’ll call the hospice team for some support.

I cannot imagine walking this road alone. I’m still grateful for the desk nurse who wrapped me in her spiritual arms Monday night and helped me call my boys. And to Kristy and Rob—who drove 45 minutes through whiteouts and frigid temperatures just to sit with me until Alex arrived—thank you again. Your kindness is stitched into this moment.

When Alex leaves later this week, I know I’ll need time alone… but I’ll also need people checking in, coming by, making sure I’m okay.

This past year has already tested me: a broken shoulder, then a broken wrist, then a long‑lasting reaction to the COVID vaccine—something my body tends to do, but this time it lingered for months. Only a week or so ago did I start feeling human again. Maybe the lingering wasn’t just physical. Maybe it was grief—my brother’s death, my oldest brother’s health struggles, the weight of everything piling up. And maybe I regained my strength just in time for what was coming.

I used to say life wasn’t fair, and sometimes it felt downright cruel. But I’m beginning to see the fairness and kindness that still exist, even in the hardest chapters.

Maybe this winter storm is its own message:
Stop. Breathe. Let tomorrow come on its own.
Take today for the beauty it still offers.

A special acknowledgement to Rachael, who—despite carrying her own grief—has been there for me across the miles. She is the daughter I never had, and her steady presence keeps me grounded.

And to my niece Sue, who is facing the impending loss of her stepdad while also caring for her dad, my brother, even as she navigates her own challenges with MS. Her strength humbles me, and she has been a shoulder for me from afar.

25 January 2026 Holding On, Letting Go, and Everything In Between

As many of you know, Rich has been under hospice care since late Friday. Yesterday they removed the ventilator, and he is sleeping peacefully. He is still with us.

And I’ll be honest: if he suddenly opened his eyes and barked, “Shit, what are you doing?” I would be the most grateful woman on earth. Let him wake up annoyed that I’m decluttering our shared office. Tuesday is trash day, after all, and I’ve got a golden opportunity to toss a lot of crap and recycle even more. I would gladly take his grumbling over my choices.

Underneath the humor, though, some deep fears are bubbling up. I move fast—too fast sometimes—and my thoughts can propel me into decisions before I’ve had time to breathe. With loneliness looming and long stretches of quiet ahead, I know I need to slow down and make choices with intention.

Yes, I’m considering a move to the Columbus area to be closer to Alex. But I also want him to keep growing—his career, his friendships, his life. I don’t want him to feel responsible for taking care of me. Being nearby might fill some of the void, but our independence matters to both of us.

Alex will head back to Columbus on Wednesday—non‑negotiable unless another snowstorm decides otherwise. Steve is thinking about flying in on Friday to spend time here and help me sort through any high‑level matters that need attention. A few of you have reached out about coffee or stopping by; Thursday and Friday are open if anyone wants to claim a spot, weather permitting.

I also have a couple of podcasts scheduled to record this week. It feels important to keep doing what I love, to keep my voice alive in the world. I believe Rich would want that.

And just so you know—I’m looking for a project or even a part‑time job that gets me out of the house. I love working from home, but I think I need something that gives me purpose outside these walls. New people. New conversations. New connections.

My brother Gary, despite his own health challenges, started a group called “Lunches and Brunches,” where people meet for an hour or two to share stories and build community. I’m thinking about starting something similar here—maybe that will keep me rooted instead of moving. If you’re in Northeast Ohio (Macedonia or Brecksville), let me know if that sounds appealing.

I’ve never been one to sit still and wait for life to change. I’ve always been the doer, the mover, the one who creates momentum. That won’t stop now. I intend to keep myself vibrantly alive—carrying Rich with me every step of the way.

24 January 2026 – I’ve never been much of a drinker—maybe a glass of wine in a social moment, or a fun mixed drink that’s basically a mocktail. Rich was the same way. He loved a good Pina Colada, but even the mildest sip could set off his stomach. In so many ways, he and I have always been more alike than different.

Last night, Alex and I stopped at Giant Eagle to stock up before the storm rolled in. We spotted these pre-made vodka cocktails—three for ten dollars. Neither of us are drinkers, not really. Alex is like me: maybe one at a social gathering, or a seltzer at home if the mood strikes. But something about that chocolate cocktail called to me. I poured it over a full glass of ice, hoping it might soften the edges of my anxiety and coax me into sleep. It didn’t.

It ended up being my most restless night since last Saturday, when I first sensed something shifting with Rich. It was subtle—so subtle I kept waiting for my intuition to tell me what he needed. I didn’t crawl into bed until after midnight, and once I did, I lay there sweating, telling myself it was just my COVID symptoms working their way out. Mine have been mild—some mucus, a light cough, fatigue I can manage—but the timing feels cruel.

Around 2 a.m., Alex appeared in my doorway. His room is an icebox even with space heaters, and he was freezing. We built a pillow barrier down the middle of my bed, and the moment he settled in, he was out cold. I lay on my side listening to his steady breathing and the occasional soft snore (he’d deny it, of course). I drifted in and out until 7:30, when I finally decided to get up and let him sleep. He has always needed more rest than I do.

Today will not be easy. Last night, after playing music, singing, and whispering to Rich that it was okay to fly high, Alex said his good-bye. Today they will remove the ventilator. Alex will come with me, but he won’t be in the room. That is his choice, and I honor it. He wants to be my support, just as I was his yesterday and through the night.

Steve called last night apologizing for leaving early to beat the storm. I reassured him that future visits—visits he’s already planning, maybe as soon as next weekend—are what matter. Neither Rich nor I ever wanted to burden the boys emotionally or financially. I only ask for what I truly need.

A family member once labeled me “the doer,” and I’ve decided to embrace it. We are here to live fully, to be the best version of ourselves each day, and that requires action. We each “do” in our own way. Even in grief, I will carry my memories forward, hold them close, and still create new ones. Rich will be with me, just as my parents and my brother Joel have been.

When my father died in 2004, I found my writing voice. It has been shaped and reshaped over the last twenty-two years. My father used to tell me to leave the words to the men in the family, but I know now he was nudging me toward my own strength. Even when I can’t feel him, there is a connection.

My mother showed me what widowhood looked like—though I hate that word with every fiber of my being. She let us help her, but she always had the final say. Little Dorothy Friedman Moss—D’vasha, Baube—was small in stature and enormous in spirit.

And then there is Joel. Losing him in September cracked my heart open in ways I’m still discovering. But it also revealed a world of extraordinary people. I knew many of his friends from his years in LA and Saratoga Springs, but in these last months—and especially this week—those relationships have deepened. They have shown up with love, stories, and presence. I must honor them, too, along with my in-laws who welcomed me as a daughter and loved me as their own.

As the days and weeks unfold, I will keep writing. Some days my thoughts may wander or feel scattered. I ask for patience. I pride myself on being vulnerable and real, and you are welcome to take what resonates and gently delete the rest.

This is my way of breathing through the unthinkable. This is how I keep moving. This is how I honor love.

January 23, 2026 — Not My Favorite Day

Today we made the decision no family ever wants to make: Rich’s care is now transitioning to Hospice. For the moment he remains at Ahuja Medical Center, but he may be moved to the Hospice of the Western Reserve in Fairlawn in the coming days.

Rich has been off sedation for more than 48 hours, and he still hasn’t woken up. He’s breathing on his own, though the ventilator is still in place. Early on there were tiny signs of reflexes—minimal movement in his feet, none in his legs, arms, or torso. A few flickers of eye movement, but nothing that registers in any meaningful neurological way.

This morning’s CT scan confirmed what the neuro team has been gently preparing us for: it is unlikely he will wake up. And if he did, the chances of him having control of his body—or even the cognitive clarity to still be Rich—are painfully slim. His organs are trying to recover, but there is no measurable progress.

My sons and I listened carefully, and we listened with our hearts. We know Rich’s wishes. We have a living will. And this—this state of existence—is not how he wanted to live, nor how he wanted to leave this world.

Tonight, he began receiving Hospice protocol medications. The ventilator will remain until tomorrow when Alex and I can be with him. The team does not expect him to pass immediately; he may hold on for days. If so, he will be transferred to the Hospice facility.

Steve drove back to Chicago today despite the weather. He hit several whiteouts in Indiana, but he made it home safely. That alone feels like a small blessing.

My boys have asked something of me—something I don’t usually do. They want me to reach out for support, to stay connected with friends and family both virtually and in person. They know me well enough to know I’ll try to “handle everything,” but this is not a moment for isolation.

In the coming weeks, I’ll also begin making plans to sell our condo and move. This isn’t a decision made in panic or grief; it’s one Rich and I discussed many times. With Steve in Chicago and Alex in Columbus, staying in Cleveland no longer makes sense. This city has been home, and living here with Rich has been a gift—but I need to be closer to family now. I won’t be sharing where I’m considering just yet; it’s a deeply personal decision, and I’m keeping that circle small. But I will say this: it won’t be Chicago.

Some may think I’m making too many decisions too quickly after such a devastating week. I promise you I’m not. These choices were already conversations—quiet ones, practical ones, loving ones—between Rich and me. My boys know I’m independent, but they also know I thrive on connection. I will find my next home in a place that supports that.

The reality of all this hasn’t fully hit me. Or maybe it has, and I’m simply walking the path laid out in front of me because there’s no other choice. I miss my buddy. I haven’t had a real conversation with him since early Sunday morning. Even on Monday, when I sat beside him, he was foggy and struggling to speak. I truly believed I had tomorrow. And the next day.

Our 42nd wedding anniversary is in twelve days. This is not the gift I imagined for this year. But I will still celebrate the love we’ve shared for more than four decades.

Rich told me he loved me every single day—never once, but many times. He wasn’t a romantic; he was more of a clumsy oaf with a heart of gold. Mine. Lovable in all the ways that mattered.

He made me laugh. He made me roll my eyes. He brought sunshine into our lives even when he didn’t realize it.

Tonight, I will hold those memories close as I try to sleep, knowing that soon the only place I’ll see him is in the photos I keep and the reel of moments that play endlessly in my mind.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

*this is for real*

concept of Different emotions drawn on colorful cubes, wooden background. 23 January 2026 – Emotions and Their Triggers

This snowstorm has me on edge. The fear of being stuck here, unable to see my husband, unable to nudge him awake and bring him back to us—it’s sitting heavy on my chest. I’m trying to sound normal, to feel normal, but honestly? I’m not even close.

Steve suggested we run to the store and stock up for a day or two in case the storm traps us inside. He even “gave us permission” to think about ourselves—me and Alex—because he knows Rich would want that for us. He’s right. Still, watching Steve drive back to Chicago today, hoping he’d beat the storm, tugged at me. He promised he’d be back soon. And I know he’s only a phone call away. I just hope I don’t let myself lean on him too much. My oldest has a way of guiding without taking over, and he’ll only step in if absolutely necessary. I am capable. It’s simply not in my DNA to let someone take care of me.

We’re still waiting on more test results. Another CT scan showed no changes from Tuesday, and only minimal differences from one done a year ago. The MRI is still being arranged. This whole experience—this rodeo—is something no one can prepare for. And I’m far from the first person to ride it, though that doesn’t make it any less of a shit show.

I’m still stunned that Rich ended up with COVID and pneumonia. He’s always been so careful. He only worked a few contract jobs a month and spent most days at home. I caught the virus too, but my symptoms are mild—a runny nose, a scratchy throat—and Tylenol and Zicam are keeping things manageable.

So why is he so sick?

I’m not second‑guessing, just trying to understand. After his prostate cancer and radiation—which he handled without complications—he struggled with severe incontinence. Medication barely helped. He finally had the implant placed in August, but even up until Monday, while it was still functioning, he was having issues. The incontinence had worsened over the last month or two. So even though he’s cancer‑free, did something else start brewing?

He lost 50 pounds over the past year but then plateaued, no matter how hard he tried to lose more. He carried most of his weight in his torso, and I noticed him leaning forward when he walked. Was something else going on beneath the surface?

And then there’s the emotional weight. Since losing his job in December 2024, he’s been depressed in a quiet, lethargic way. I’ve wondered if his mild hearing loss contributed to his foggy thinking, or if the job loss triggered something deeper. His primary doctor prescribed a mild antidepressant, which helped a little, but not enough to lift the heaviness.

I know second‑guessing won’t change the path we’ve already walked. But asking questions might help us navigate whatever comes next with a bit more resilience.

Yes, I’m in limbo. But I’m not letting life pass me by. I’ve spent meaningful time with my boys, and I’ll have the next four or five days with Alex. I’m learning to reach out to people I never imagined I’d need, and I’ve found open, loving hearts waiting for me. Despite the political noise in the world, there are good people out there. Maybe they need to help me just as much as I’ve helped them.

My bed is lonely at night. It may never feel the same again. But I’m surrounded by wonderful people, and I will live fully—for Rich and for myself.

22 January 2026 – Morning Update

There is no change in Rich’s condition this morning. The team is preparing him for a brain and spinal MRI, and I’m holding on to whatever optimism I can. Still, my mind keeps drifting to the what ifs—the ones none of us want to think about but somehow creep in anyway.

I’m grateful my boys are here. They’ve stepped in quietly and lovingly, helping me sort through the practical pieces—making sure bills are in order and pausing anything that’s solely in Rich’s name. There’s no reason to drain our account while we’re in this limbo.

If you’re a local realtor, I may need your guidance soon. I’m starting to explore whether it makes sense to sell or keep the condo. Our bedrooms are upstairs, and when Rich comes home, stairs may not be an option. We’ll both be 76 in March, and I have to think ahead—even if thinking ahead hurts.

For anyone wondering why I’m preparing for every scenario: I’m a lifelong Professional Overthinker. I’m literally wearing the shirt that says so. I’ve always examined situations from every angle—two sides, three sides, sometimes four. I was never a Girl Scout or Brownie, but I’ve lived by the motto to be prepared.

Rich, on the other hand, prepared in his own way. He saved everything “just in case,” which meant we often couldn’t find what we needed and ended up buying a new one anyway. His heart is always in the right place.

UPDATE

The MRI is now on hold. Because of his Medtronic implant, the Ahuja MRI team can’t proceed. He’ll need to be transferred to Main Campus, but first they must assign an ICU doctor there to oversee him. The hope is that once the MRI is done, he’ll return to Ahuja.

The MRI may give us information, but not certainties.

Here’s what we know right now:

It can show whether there is brain activity, but not whether there are deficits.
If he had a stroke not caught on the CT – and the indicators.
He currently has no reflexes in his upper body, some in his lower extremities, and occasional squinting, as well as gag reflexes.
Even if brain activity is present, it doesn’t guarantee he will wake up. He is no longer medically sedated, and although he’s still on the ventilator, they’ve been able to reduce the oxygen intake—meaning he is doing some breathing on his own.
There are still unanswered questions about possible cardiac damage and kidney function.

The ICU staff has been extraordinary. They know I’m an overthinker. They know I’m searching desperately for any sign of hope. But they also gently remind me to stay grounded in reality.

In theory, Rich could wake up at any moment—open his eyes, breathe on his own, and begin to return to us. My dream is that he wakes, turns toward me, tries to speak, and I ring for the nurse as he fights his way back. Angry, even—angry enough to push through this nightmare.

But I also know the opposite is possible. I’m not ready for that reality, but I’m trying to prepare myself for it.

Because of the winter storms, Steve will head back to Chicago tomorrow and return as needed. Alex will stay with me through most of next week. The MRI could happen tomorrow or any day after—it all depends on finding an ICU bed at Main for the transfer.

I’m also preparing myself for the long road ahead. If Rich needs extended treatment or rehab, it could be weeks or months before he comes home. I need to stay strong, stay independent, and take care of myself so I can take care of him.

Thank you—truly—to everyone who has been following our journey, supporting us, and holding us in your hearts. I hope that by sharing this, I’m helping someone else as much as I’m helping myself.

I was once told, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”
All I can say is: God, enough already. Bring him back to health. That I can handle.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

21 January 2026 – It’s Wednesday, and somehow I’m still walking a road I never planned to travel. The path feels uneven—full of ruts, sharp turns, and blind corners. Some moments it feels like a maze I can’t quite map. I keep moving forward, breathing for myself and for my husband, holding tight to the belief that we will push through the barriers ahead. And then, without warning, I feel myself gasping too.

Last night they began easing him off the heavy pain medication and sedation. His vitals remain fairly stable, but the COVID alone has thrown his bloodwork into chaos. Right now, the team is watching his kidney function closely.

Around midnight—technically early this morning—they performed a CT scan. It ruled out a stroke and showed no visible damage from the cardiac arrest. That brought a wave of relief, but it isn’t the final word. Standard protocol is to wait 72 hours before assessing brain function, so in another day they may move forward with an MRI. For now, the doctors aren’t dwelling on that. Their hope, and mine, is that he’ll begin to wake on his own and show signs of cognitive strength.

Alex is having a very hard time. Hospitals have always been overwhelming for him, and this situation is pushing every fear to the surface. He needs his dad to get well—not just in the universal way a child needs a parent, but in the deeply personal way that belongs to their relationship. He and I have always been close; he trusts me with the parts of his life that matter. But he and his father, both on the spectrum and more alike than they realize, have had their disconnects. This crisis is stirring all of that up.

We’re each navigating our own version of this maze, trying to stay upright, trying to stay hopeful, trying to breathe.

Steve arrived from Chicago yesterday after a long, tedious drive through Indiana. He’s safe, settled, and was able to spend time with Rich last night before we grabbed dinner and headed home. He’s working from his hotel just down the street and is on speed dial if I need him—staying close but also trying to keep some rhythm to his own day.

This morning, Alex and I met with the doctors during rounds. They’re optimistic that today may bring some change. They encouraged us to keep talking to Rich, willing him to wake up. Alex played music for him, and although we want to believe he reacted, there’s no definitive way to know. So, we wait. They continue treating him on the ventilator, tube feeding, antibiotics, antivirals—whatever his body needs to keep fighting.

We’ve been warned that his kidneys may take a hit and dialysis could become necessary, but we’re still days away from that decision. His diabetes levels skyrocketed yesterday but are slowly coming down with the insulin they’ve had to use.

As for me, I’m trying—really trying—to take care of myself. Sleep is still elusive, and I already feel run‑down. I started Zicam today as a precaution because I’ve got drainage and a sore throat, which isn’t unusual for me but still unwelcome right now.

Inside, I feel like I’m in a hamster wheel—running faster and faster—yet my exhaustion is slowing me down more than I realize. It’s a strange contradiction, but maybe you understand what I mean.

I don’t know what comes next. Writing about this helps me stay grounded, and your messages, your concern, your presence—they mean more than you know. Thank you for walking this part of the maze with me.

A human hand emerges from a cracked white egg, set against a clean, light gray background. This image symbolizes new beginnings, growth, and the emergence of ideas. 20 January 2026 – I CAN’T CRACK

At midnight Alex and I said goodnight to Rich and drove across the street to the LOFT Hotel – we were both running on empty and we couldn’t go home, my garage remote was in my car and that was in valet and there was no one to get my keys – I doubt I could have driven if I had wanted to.

Although we are in the hotel to sleep – it eluded me more than ever. My thoughts kept drifted in directions I do not want to go, but my fear of not being prepared is mounting. As you all know I am someone who needs to walk through all scenarios – I am a now person, but I don’t like the now.

I am dressed in the same cloths as yesterday and my make-up is a mess as is my hair and WHEN RICH WAKES UP he will see a messy loving wife standing in front of him.

I want to shout out to my friends Rob and Kristy for braving the frigid temps and driving cross town to sit with me while I waited for Alex to arrive. It wasn’t until after they left that I had the opportunity to see Rich and talk to him and pray that he hears me. I am anxiously waiting for Alex to dress so we can go back to the hospital and maybe see our miracle.

A number of things have gone wrong since I took Rich into the ER and had him admitted to the hospital. I understand there is a nursing and staffing shortage, but I am wondering if we are putting our health more at risk in the hospital under these conditions. (More on that at a later time.)

They say no news is good news. We did not get an emergency call during the night, so I am expecting and hoping to have some promising results when we get to the ICU.

I cannot explain the numbness that I am feeling in my brain as it transcends into every inch of my body. I am so cold (in addition to the outdoor temps being subzero), I feel like I am about to crack.

I can’t crack – I have to be strong and supportive for Rich- he would not want me to fall apart. I need to advocate for him – I am his voice.

I can’t crack – I have to be the parent to my two sons. Yes they can help support me but they are grieving and hurting as well, and I have to be mindful that we are all in this journey together.

I can’t crack – that is not my personality, and I will reach out over and over to hold on to those of you who understand whether you have taken this road or not.

I will keep journaling to allow myself to feel and heal – this is how I pray!

Thank you!

19 January 2026 -Where do I even begin this love letter to the man who has been my best friend for more than forty two years?
Our life together has never been perfect, but our love and friendship have always been real, steady, and ours. From the very first moment I saw him—standing in a Temple, where I briefly mistook him for the new rabbi—my heart fluttered. Within hours I learned he wasn’t clergy at all, just the groom’s friend… and I was the bride’s. Fate has a funny sense of humor.
Our dating life was rocky at best. Rich was still tangled in memories of the girl who got away and the one who broke his heart. I was fresh from a divorce, trying to rebuild myself. Despite our religious differences and the emotional pull he still felt elsewhere, something in me said, “Stay.” So I followed my instincts and let friendship grow into love.
Financially, we’ve struggled from the moment I moved in until, well, today. No matter how hard we tried, something always seemed to get in the way. And yet—we survived. We always found our way back to each other.
I affectionately call Rich my Pain in the Ass. He has always marched to the beat of a different drummer, and when he turned fifty three, we finally learned why. Discovering he was on the spectrum made everything click—his quirks, his sensitivities, his brilliance. It explained the challenges he faced growing up, in school, and in the workplace. And somehow, knowing this made him even more endearing.
When our son Alex hit puberty and grew into young adulthood, father and son clashed hard—two men on the spectrum, each fiercely independent, each loving the other completely. And Rich didn’t just father Alex. He stepped into the role of father for Steve, too. He never treated him as anything less than his own, and Steve’s love and support today are proof of that bond.
Tonight, as I sit outside the ICU, memories flood in—our simple joys, our imperfect adventures, our stubborn resilience. Even our honeymoon was a comedy of errors: monsoon rains in Virginia Beach, suffocating heat, a brand new hotel with broken air conditioning and a closed pool, and me battling a migraine that started the night before our wedding. Not exactly a fairy tale, but it was ours.
I won’t list all forty two years of chaos, because the chaos is part of our story. And I am praying—fiercely—that our story continues, that Rich recovers from whatever caused his illness and the cardiac arrest that brought us here.
I’ve told him countless times how much I love him, even on the days when he crawls under my skin. And I know, without a doubt, how deeply he loves me—he tells me every single day, often more than once.
But right now, I am scared. Loving someone this deeply means riding the emotional rollercoaster when life tilts sideways. I’m not religious, but I have asked God to bring him back to health, to keep him by my side for many more years. And now, all I can do is wait, breathe, and trust that nature—and love—will carry us through.

18 January 2026 -Did you know that you are your own mental‑health expert? No one else knows your inner landscape the way you do. You know what stirs you, what soothes you, and what sets off those internal alarms. We all have triggers—every single one of us.

From the moment we’re born, we arrive carrying a blueprint: the DNA passed down from our parents. The familiar story of the egg and the sperm—sometimes created in joy, sometimes not—gives us that 50/50 mix that shapes our biology. That blueprint influences everything from how our brains function to how we respond to life, treatment, and the world around us.

But DNA isn’t the whole story. Mindfulness gives us a way to understand what makes us tick and what sets us off. For a long stretch of my life, I thought I was aware, grounded, and paying attention. I wasn’t. I judged myself harshly and handed my emotional well‑being over to other people without even realizing it.

Mindfulness changed that. When I slow down and truly notice where I am—my surroundings, my sensations, the vibrations that feel good and the ones that don’t—I can shift my internal experience. I can choose how to respond. That choice is where my inner happiness lives.

Mindfulness alone isn’t always enough. Sometimes it’s the doorway that helps someone recognize they need additional support, including medical or therapeutic care. And sometimes the people around us notice our needs before we do. There’s no shame in that. Understanding ourselves is a lifelong process.

Not everyone grows up with the knowledge or tools to understand how biology, environment, and experience shape mental health. Many rely on doctors, friends, or family to help them make sense of their inner world. No one should have to navigate life alone. If we all practiced the simple principle of treating others the way we want to be treated, we’d create a far healthier, more peaceful world.

Recently I asked my husband why so many people seem to believe they have the right to take from others—why we create conflict, arguments, and even wars just to claim something that isn’t ours. Why is harmony so hard? The truth is, change begins with one person reaching out a hand to another.

If you remember “Hands Across America,” or even the early days of COVID in 2020, you know we can come together. For a while, we did. We supported one another. We looked out for those who needed help. But lately, I see us drifting toward selfishness, and I can’t help but feel that some of our leaders have encouraged that mindset.

Selfishness and mindfulness rarely coexist. When we focus only on our own wants, we lose sight of our shared humanity. If we don’t shift this paradigm, we may find ourselves living in a world none of us would consciously choose.

Conceptual Image of Colorful Pencils with Labels Yesterday and Tomorrow on White Background for Creative Reflections 18 January 2026 Sunday morning—not exactly the start I imagined.

Yesterday, Rich woke up with a sore throat, headache, and all the signs of a nasty cold. So, I shifted into Nurse Wife mode. Unlike my better half (and yes, I’m using that term loosely today), I knew what to do: fluids, rest, and Coricidin HBP Cold since his blood pressure is controlled with medication.

But instead of feeling better, he became dizzy, agitated, and—let’s just say—he should have flushed that medication out by now, but no such luck.

By last night, he was struggling to get in and out of bed, complaining of lower back discomfort and weakness. So here I am, writing while he slowly gets dressed, because we’re heading to the ER.

On Thursday he had an appointment with InterStim, the company that manages his bladder device. (Yes, he’s cured from prostate cancer, but the radiation after-effects keep showing up.) By Friday, I noticed he was “off”—moving slower, foggy, not quite himself. I chalked it up to the weather and a quiet workday. Maybe my Nurse Wife intuition should have kicked in sooner.

And honestly, why is it that when our husbands or children get sick, we instantly transform into nurses—but when we get sick, the men in our lives need a formal invitation to put on their doctor hat? If I waited for Rich to tell me how sick he was, I’d probably be calling 911. Thankfully we’re not there, though getting him moving has taken the better part of an hour.

No one wants to go to the ER or risk being admitted, but I’m not trained to handle something that might be more than a cold or a medication reaction. The fact that he can’t get in and out of bed or off a chair without struggling is concerning, and I don’t have the strength to safely help him. My fear is that we both end up on the floor—and trust me, I am not ready for a Life Alert moment.

I’m writing this before we even get to the ER, but I won’t finish it until we have answers.

Some of you might wonder why I’m sharing this at all. Maybe it will help someone down the road. Because every time—YES, every single time—I’ve needed the ER, Rich drags his feet, asks pointless questions, and never thinks to offer water, Tylenol, a heating pad… nothing. My tech-savvy husband won’t even Google my symptoms, and by the time we get to the hospital, I’m worse.

Sometimes we have to admit that guessing, minimizing, or trying to “wait it out” isn’t wise. There are moments when we need professionals.

A trip to the ER can be long, frustrating, expensive, and sometimes unhelpful. But with what I’m seeing today, it would be irresponsible not to get Rich checked out.

So—it’s time to go.

I’m still not sure how I managed to get Rich into the car at home or out of it once we reached the ER. His legs kept giving out, and every attempt to help him felt like he was collapsing in my arms. But we made it, and he’s checked in.

They’ve already taken blood, done a chest X‑ray, tested for flu and COVID, and run an EKG. Ninety minutes later, we still haven’t seen a doctor or heard a single result. In the meantime, I’ve had to be his voice—he’s so weak, and the migraine is making it hard for him to think, let alone speak. He finally drifted off for about fifteen minutes, and at some point they started him on an IV antibiotic.

Moments like this make me wonder how Gary manages being alone in the ER or hospital. I’m grateful I can be here for my husband. Today I’m not playing nurse; I’m simply his Wife/Advocate.

I’m hoping we’ll get answers soon and that this is just a rough virus that needs to run its course. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already worrying about how I’ll get him back home and into the house when this is over.

More on that later…

Update: We finally have answers. Rich tested positive for COVID. They’ve already started treatment, and because he’s too weak to stand or walk, he’ll be admitted. I’m relieved I pushed for care—and so is he.

So that’s my Sunday. How are you doing today?

17 January 2026 Good morning!

Some mornings I wake up feeling like I’ve lived two different emotional lives in the span of a single night. I’m amazed at how quickly my inner world can pull me down one path, only to guide me safely onto another by sunrise.

Life isn’t still. It shifts, stretches, and reshapes itself whether we’re ready or not. And when we’re connected to others — family, friends, community — our thoughts and emotions naturally twist and turn right along with those relationships. Sometimes they pivot so fast that our brains need a moment to catch up.

This is simply part of being human: evolving, recalibrating, and learning to trust the movement rather than fear it.

This isn’t instability.
It’s evolution.

It’s the natural rhythm of a life that’s being lived fully — with connection, with vulnerability, with curiosity. Our emotions are not meant to stay in one place. They’re meant to guide us, alert us, soften us, and sometimes challenge us to grow.

So, when I wake up feeling like I’ve traveled through multiple versions of myself, I’m learning not to judge it. Instead, I’m choosing to see it as evidence that I’m still learning, still adapting, still alive to the world around me.

And maybe that’s the point:
We don’t need to fear the shifts.
We just need to honor them, breathe through them, and trust that each emotional turn is leading us somewhere we’re meant to go.

I’ve learned to navigate my emotional twists and turns through two powerful tools: journaling and working with fellow Life Coaches who help me sort through the moments that feel too heavy to carry alone. Both practices keep me grounded, honest, and connected to my own growth.

Over the years, several people have encouraged me to gather pieces of my journaling and turn them into a book. It’s a flattering thought, but also one that makes me pause. These days it feels like everyone is writing a book, and often the motivation leans more toward self‑validation than fame, recognition, or financial gain. My journals are deeply personal — reflections on my life, my experiences, and the people who have shaped me — and I’ve never been sure they’re “worthy” of a printed publication. And yet… I’m considering it.

The idea resurfaced recently during a session with Kristy, one of my coaches and a dear friend. As I rambled through my thoughts, she gently suggested that maybe this wasn’t about creating a bestseller. Maybe it was about leaving behind a legacy of words — something that might help even one other person feel less alone. That has always been my mission through podcasting, writing, and coaching. If my work touches just one life, then I’ve done something meaningful.

So will there be a book?
Maybe. But don’t expect anything soon. If I choose to take this path, I want to move slowly and intentionally, making sure the process feels right for me — not rushed, not forced, but aligned with the purpose that has guided me all along.

For now, I’ll keep writing, keep reflecting, and keep showing up — one page, one conversation, one person at a time.

My father, J Harmon Moss, was a prolific writing, his favorite form was prose. Both of my brothers Gary and Joel followed in his footsteps; I was a late bloomer. In fact, for many years, more than I can count, my father suggested to leave the writing to the men in the family. At the time my pops was right, although I could write, it was not worthy of print.

When my father died in 2004 I was asked if I wanted to share a few words with family and friends. I actually sat down at my dad’s computer the night before the funeral and wrote out my personal eulogy for him. After I read and shared the words that came from deep inside, my brother Joel approached me and asked, “When did you learn to write?”

My father created a legacy with, “Words by Harmon”, a couple of self-published books. So, maybe it’s my turn.

Lately, I’ve been writing from the deepest parts of my heart about my brothers. Despite our age gaps and the miles that often separated us, I was blessed with two big brothers who shaped me. As a little girl, I used to warn them that they should be nice to me because I pushed them out first — my way of insisting I could have been the oldest. They teased me endlessly, sometimes to tears, but over time we found our shared rhythms. We grew into a bond that felt less like siblings and more like friendship.

Joel, the middle child, carried the most confidence. His sudden passing — with no warning, no signs of illness — has left both Gary and me clinging tightly to each other. The loss carved out a space inside me I didn’t know existed, and it awakened a fierce instinct to become my brother’s keeper. That’s where many of my emotional waves have been coming from: the desire to protect, to hold on, to make sure Gary knows he is loved and not alone.

But I’m learning something important.
I can’t protect him from life.
I can only love him for exactly who he is.

One day, both of us will leave this world — that’s the truth none of us can outrun. But until that day comes, we owe it to ourselves, and to the brother we lost, to live fully, honestly, and with as much joy as we can gather.

Maybe that’s the legacy I’m meant to write.
Maybe these words — messy, honest, evolving — are my Words by Karen.

Cozy tea break with notebook and pencil on a rustic table. Generative AI image 15 January 2026 JOURNALING

Another snowstorm has swept through Northeast Ohio. Yes, it’s winter, and living off Lake Erie means lake‑effect snow is simply part of the deal—but it can still be treacherous.

When you’re not a fan of winter weather, days like this—sub‑zero wind chills, blowing snow, icy roads, and those relentless gusts off the lake—make hibernation sound like the most reasonable option until Spring finally shows up.

For most of my life, I pushed through whatever the weather brought. Work, appointments, errands—I always found a way. But as the years have passed, I’ve learned to choose differently. Now, I wait for the storm to settle and the roads and sidewalks to clear before venturing out.

This morning, I woke up early with the intention of heading to a non‑urgent medical test. After listening to the NEWS5 Cleveland forecast and their strong recommendation to stay off the roads until midday, I decided to reschedule. My husband offered to drive me, but after last night’s ordeal—navigating whiteout conditions on what should have been a one‑hour drive that stretched into more than two—he ended up with a blinding migraine that’s still lingering today.

Sometimes the wisest choice is simply to stay put, stay warm, and let the storm pass.

We always have a choice, but sometimes the wiser choice requires us to think about the consequences. Back when I was working in corporate America, hibernating during a storm wasn’t an option—at least not pre‑COVID. Management loved to remind us to “prepare the night before” for whatever the morning might bring. I can still recall those white‑knuckle drives to and from the office, gripping the steering wheel, muttering under my breath the entire way.

Now that I no longer have management in my rear‑view mirror, I don’t have to push myself through conditions that could do more harm than good. On days like today, leaving the roads to the people who truly need to be out—road crews, first responders, and those whose jobs require them onsite—is simply the responsible thing to do. Most businesses won’t crumble because someone stayed home for a day. And if you live in Northeast Ohio, you know the saying: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” The weather changes quickly enough; why risk your safety or someone else’s?

So here I sit in the early morning quiet, having rescheduled my medical appointment, listening to my husband’s peaceful breathing as he sleeps off his migraine. I’m wide awake, feeling that familiar restlessness—the sense that I should be doing something. Yes, I’m journaling, but my mind is racing with all the tasks I thought I’d squeeze in before and after my appointment. Instead, that old inner critic has shown up, eager to remind me of everything I’m not doing.

This has been my pattern for most of my life: do everything now because there will always be more waiting tomorrow. I’ve learned to soften that voice, to challenge it, but it still sneaks in when I least expect it. This is ongoing work—work I’ll likely be doing for the rest of my life.

Journaling helps. Writing down these thoughts gives me space to sort through what deserves my attention and what doesn’t. It’s one of the ways I stay grounded, stay aware, and stay committed to living my best life.

Journaling isn’t something I invented. Mental health professionals have long recognized that writing can ease stress, lessen anxiety, and even help with certain forms of depression. It offers a space to express emotions that feel overwhelming, and that self‑awareness can bring clarity—helping you regulate and calm what’s stirring inside. For me, journaling interrupts the cycle of rumination and gives my mind room to breathe.

When I journal, I create distance from that inner critical voice, giving myself the power to shift the narrative.
When I journal, I build a safe space where difficult emotions can soften and transform.
When I journal, I become more mindful of what I need rather than what I think is expected of me.
When I journal, my self‑esteem grows, and I show up as my best self—whether I’m alone or with others.
When I journal, I meet my truest inner self… and I genuinely like who I find.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

14 January 2026 – Are You Feeling Ripped Off, or Is It Just Me?

Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m the only one feeling a little… taken advantage of. As a podcast producer, life coach, and journal‑based writer, I’ve always kept my fees reasonable because I live in the real world. I know what it costs to seek help, guidance, or support today, and frankly, some of the prices out there make my eyes roll.

Today alone, more than one person tried to sell me a Journal Certification. A certification… to write my own thoughts? My story? My legacy? Since when did we need permission—or a certificate—to express ourselves on paper?

I encourage others to journal and explore their inner world, and I don’t charge for that encouragement unless it’s part of a coaching session. My coaching remains accessible at $25 per Zoom session. I’ve even offered a few free sessions over time, but I’ve learned something important: when people don’t invest in themselves, they often don’t follow through. Free tends to lead to drop‑off, not transformation.

I still believe deeply in investing in what matters. But when it comes to personal journaling, the only real investment is your willingness to show up on the page. Your thoughts, your feelings, your truth—written in whatever style feels right for you. No certification required.

Your story is yours. Claim it. Write it. Honor it.

If you decide to turn your personal story into a book or a profit‑driven project, then you get to choose whether to invest in writing, publishing, or promotional courses. Learning from people who have already walked that path can be incredibly helpful, but it’s just as important to weigh the cost against the true value you’ll receive. Not every opportunity is worth the price tag.

When I stepped into my current career, I made sure I had income to sustain my family. That meant juggling several part‑time jobs while building my coaching, podcasting, and writing work. In the beginning, I fell into the trap of paying for trainings and “expert guidance” that I didn’t actually need—an experience that inspired today’s reflection.

Success doesn’t come from buying every program or certification someone tries to sell you. It begins with cultivating your own confidence—trusting your voice, your story, and your ability to grow without being pressured into unnecessary expenses.

Cultivating self‑confidence isn’t simple, but it is possible.

Most of us carry an “inner critic” that loves to whisper doubts, stir up fear, and convince us we’re not enough. That voice is shaped by old experiences, comments we absorbed, and stories we’ve replayed for years. Everyone has this voice—yet only you have the power to quiet it.

I spent years in therapy, investing time, energy, and money trying to understand why negativity kept taking center stage in my mind. Even with all that support, I still let those old thoughts dictate my happiness. What finally shifted was a single morning, just before I turned 60, when I decided the negativity had to go. I chose—very intentionally—to look for the sunshine behind the grey winter sky. That choice opened the door to a new way of thinking.

This isn’t a one‑time fix. It’s a continuous practice, a daily recommitment to seeing yourself with compassion and clarity. But with each step, you create more space for genuine peace and lasting happiness.

I’m not here to sell you anything except the reminder that you have the right to choose the path that helps you become the best version of yourself.

You can follow our podcasts, daily reflections, and all Facebook and Instagram posts at no cost. You can choose to record your life‑coaching journey through a podcast—sharing your vulnerability in a way that supports both your growth and the growth of others. Or you can opt for a one‑on‑one coaching session if that’s what you need.

And of course, you can also choose to do nothing at all—because if you’ve already found your inner happiness, that is a beautiful place to be.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

14 January 2026 – Wide Awake at 2 A.M.

I’m exhausted, and yet here I am—lying in bed, wide awake. I never quite understand why these bouts of insomnia show up, but when they do, they take over. My body is tired, but my mind refuses to settle. Instead, it starts creating projects, jumping from one thought to the next like a pinball machine.

Eventually, I give up on the tossing and turning and slip out of bed. I’m always drawn to my computer at times like this. Something about typing out the thoughts that are keeping me awake helps me release them, as if putting them into words makes room for rest.

And I know I’m not alone. At 2 a.m., millions of people across the world are awake just like me—unable to fall asleep, unable to stay asleep, or waking up far too early. Insomnia is common, and tonight, it has my name written all over it.

For me, falling asleep isn’t the problem. When I drift off, I’m out cold—until that inevitable bathroom trip. Sometimes I can fall back asleep afterward, but nights like this are different. I toss, I turn, and I wake myself up even more.

If I’m being honest, this is probably tied to anxiety and stress. Even with all the lifestyle changes I’ve made, the people‑pleaser in me still takes on too much. I pile tasks onto my list until it becomes overwhelming. My saving graces are breathing exercises and, most comforting of all, journaling.

Writing—whether journaling or blogging—helps me untangle what’s happening inside me. It centers me. It releases the tension that builds up in my mind throughout the day.

Some people swear that screens are the enemy of sleep. They recommend warm milk (which I find absolutely disgusting) or melatonin (which might as well be a sugar pill for me). But writing works. Letting the words spill out of my “computer brain” is what helps me settle enough to try sleep again.

When stress and anxiety show up, naming them helps.
And yes, being a people pleaser isn’t always in my best interest. It’s a habit shaped over years of trying to prove my worth—not just to others, but to myself. I’ve learned to tone it down so I don’t burn out or resent the energy that gets pulled from me. Pleasing is a choice, and sometimes it’s a choice I need to rethink.

When any habit becomes overwhelming, it’s important to identify it and find the right “prescription” to tame it. That’s part of staying emotionally and physically healthy.

Life’s twists and turns aren’t avoidable. There’s no perfect path. But the pitfalls can teach us something, and sharing those lessons can help someone else feel less alone.

Sleep experts say a consistent routine is best—wind down, avoid stimulation, turn off the TV, skip the late‑night excitement. But I’ve always been someone who gets lulled by the TV. And yes, I agree—sex wakes me right up.

I do have a routine. But it’s the thoughts I carry with me throughout the day that keep me awake. Until I release them, insomnia wins.

So tonight, I write.

What keeps you up at night
And what tools help you find your way back to rest

#yesican Coaching with Karen

13 January 2026 – t’s Not About Sunshine

People love to say, “At least the sun is shining.”
But anyone who has lived long enough knows the truth: we create our own sunshine, and sometimes life still shakes us to our core. Even on the brightest days, an earthquake can erupt in your heart and soul.

This past year, I’ve written often about my brothers—about losing Joel so suddenly, and about Gary’s ongoing health struggles. I’m the youngest of the three of us, yet Joel’s passing taught me something I never expected: birth order doesn’t mean a damn thing once life starts unraveling. Age doesn’t determine strength. Circumstances do.

Right now, I’m carrying the mantle because I’m needed. And yet, I’m painfully aware of my limits. Gary trusted Joel with everything—his decisions, his care, his worries. Joel was the strong one, the steady one. With him gone, that responsibility has shifted to me. I’ve become the sibling Gary leans on, even from over a thousand miles away. And distance is a cruel barrier when someone you love is struggling.

My heart aches not only for Gary, but for his three children as well. They’re dealing with their stepfather’s illness and imminent passing, all while living far from their dad. Even as adults, this is heavy. There is no roadmap for any of us.

Just a few days ago, Gary sounded upbeat as he waited for his new bed to be delivered. He had even given me a new project to work on for him, and I was excited to send him my first draft. When he didn’t respond, I tried to convince myself that “no news is good news.” But my gut knew better.

I skipped my usual Sunday call, but by Monday I was leaving voicemail after voicemail. When he finally answered, his voice was weak, strained. He told me he’d been sick for two days. I begged him to call 911. He refused. He told me not to anger him.

So I did what I had to do. I reached out to our cousin—the one he listens to—and she coordinated with his wife to get 911 to the house. He’s back in the hospital now. He’s angry with me, but that’s a small price to pay if it means he gets the care he needs. Maybe this time someone will actually look deeper and give him real answers.

But I can feel something shifting in him. A quiet surrender. Like so many seniors, he’s starting to see how alone he is. His Scrabble friends—his lifeline for decades—are dealing with their own health issues. Many have stepped away from the game. His part-time work, which helped him stay afloat financially, has been impossible with his declining health. I know that weighs heavily on him.

I’m grateful I saw him in October at Joel’s Celebration of Life. I got to hug him, talk to him, remind him how deeply he is loved. Chronologically he’s my big brother, but emotionally, spiritually, I’ve become the big sister.

Today, I don’t know what news we’ll get. I don’t know if the hospital will once again send him home with instructions he can’t follow and no support to help him. They promised nursing visits after his last stay—two to four times a week. Not one nurse has shown up.

His primary doctor hasn’t been helpful either. When Gary put me on speakerphone, the doctor bristled. He dodged my questions, glossed over medication duplications, and offered no clarity. Is it any wonder Gary is back in the hospital?

This is the reality of our healthcare system.

Living longer only matters if we can do it with dignity, support, and proper care. My brother and his wife are not alone in this struggle. Families can love fiercely, but without the right paperwork—medical proxies, financial directives—we are often forced to watch from the sidelines.

Today I told one of Gary’s friends that I’ve become his cheerleader. But I’m not cheering for miracles or false hope. I’m cheering for comfort. For clarity. For peace. I don’t want him to hurt—physically or emotionally. And I’m not ready to lose him. At the same time, I have to remember to take care of myself in the middle of all this.

This journal entry isn’t just about my family. It’s about all of us. Life hands us choices—hard ones, messy ones—and sometimes those choices don’t align with what others want or expect. But we must keep loving each other, respecting each other, and remembering to put our own oxygen masks on first.

Because sunshine isn’t something we wait for.
It’s something we learn to make, even on the hardest days.

12 January 2026 -Waking Up to Sunshine — And to Myself

This morning, I opened my eyes to something rare in Northeast Ohio: blue skies and sunshine in the middle of winter. Around here, sunshine is practically a myth from December through March, so when the sun decides to smile, my whole day brightens with it.

The funny part is that I woke up convinced it was Sunday. At 8:50 a.m., I noticed a missed call from my son. He’s never up that early on a Sunday, so naturally I called him back and blurted out, “Are you OK?”

He laughed and said, “Why?”

When I explained that he never calls that early on a Sunday, he didn’t miss a beat: “Should I be worried? Are you having a senior moment?”

Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. But whether it’s Sunday or Monday, I’m choosing to enjoy the kiss of Mother Nature and welcome another glorious day.

Lessons From “The Big C”

Recently, I binge‑watched The Big C on Netflix, starring Laura Linney. I hesitated at first, assuming it would be heavy and heartbreaking from the opening scene. Instead, it was raw, quirky, exaggerated at times, but deeply human. I’m glad I watched it. I learned from it.

Life is messy. Life is real. Whether we’re facing “The Big C” or any other life‑altering challenge, the message is the same: don’t surrender too soon. Get to know yourself. Take the steps you need to navigate the rocky path ahead. Learn where the potholes are, and when you can, leap over them. And when you stumble—as we all do—use the experience to make choices that belong to you.

My Own Journey Through Health Challenges

I’ve never battled “The Big C,” but I’ve been navigating health issues since I was twelve.

At 12, I began feeling sharp pains under my chest. After countless complaints and countless tests, I was diagnosed with a heart murmur and an enlarged heart. Medication helped, and a scheduled heart catheterization at age 14 was canceled at the last minute when a cardiologist determined my body was adapting well. No further treatment was needed.

At 19, the migraines began—intense, debilitating—and were eventually linked to an overactive thyroid. Six years of treatment brought little relief, and at 25, I underwent a subtotal thyroidectomy.

Complications from that surgery led to blood transfusions, which resulted in Hepatitis C.

Over the years, I’ve seen more specialists than I can count. I’ve learned to live with the migraines. I’ve learned to advocate for myself. And this past year—broken bones, weight loss, and all—I chose to step into 2025 determined to work through every obstacle in my path. I’m still here, still healing, still proving that it’s possible.

Your Path Is Yours

Let me be clear: what works for me may not work for you. All I can do is share my tools, my choices, my experiences. Others will offer advice—well‑meaning, sometimes overwhelming—but ultimately, you decide what you need.

I choose to live in the moment and be my best in whatever way the day allows. Some mornings that may mean getting up, soaking in the sunshine, getting dressed, doing my hair and makeup, and stepping into the world with intention. Other days, I shine from the inside even if the outside looks a little tarnished.

When I was hospitalized after my thyroid surgery and during my Hep C treatment, I made a point every day to wash up, put on clean pajamas, and do my hair and makeup—even if I spent the rest of the day in bed. It was slow, it was deliberate, but it was mine. Doctors often commented that I “didn’t look sick,” until they noticed the yellow tint in my hands or eyes. But that small routine helped me heal from the inside out.

After ten days, when I was finally discharged, I felt ready to face the world again because I had honored my own pace.

Do It Your Way

My message is simple: do it your way. As Nike says, JUST DO IT.

Do it for you.

In The Big C, Laura Linney’s character, Cathy, makes choices that fit her—quirky, imperfect, sometimes questionable—but they’re hers. And when those choices turn into mistakes, she pivots. That, to me, is the definition of a good life: not perfect, but lived with intention, honesty, and the courage to begin again.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

11 January 2026 –When You Realize You’re Not Someone’s Person

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes not from a dramatic ending, but from a quiet realization: you are not someone’s person.

Falling in love and building a life with a partner is one thing. Falling in love and slowly discovering that the other person depends on you in ways that drain your spirit is something entirely different.

My first marriage lasted seven years—longer than a “seven‑year itch,” but not long enough to build the kind of foundation I once believed we could create. Back then, I lived by the mantra:
“Make someone happy and you will be happy too.”
It sounds noble, but it’s nearly impossible to make someone happy when they aren’t truly invested in you, or at least not in the way you need and deserve.

With time—44 years of reflection, growth, and healing—I’ve come to understand that we simply weren’t meant for each other. And that’s okay. Our marriage gave us a son we both love deeply, and that alone makes those seven years meaningful. They weren’t wasted; they were part of my path, a step toward becoming who I am today.

We entered that relationship carrying more baggage than either of us could see. Family issues, old wounds, unspoken expectations—we were too young and too unprepared to recognize what we were up against. We didn’t have the tools to repair what was broken, so divorce became the tool we reached for.

Looking back now, I see it not as failure, but as clarity. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and for the other person—is to acknowledge that you are not each other’s person, and to let both lives move forward in the direction they were always meant to go.

When You Realize You Can’t Do Everything for Someone

There comes a moment in life when you finally understand that no matter how hard you try, you cannot carry someone else’s happiness on your back. It took me years—decades, really—to learn that lesson.

In the two years between my divorce and meeting the man who has now been my husband for almost 42 years, I was still performing the role I thought defined love: “make someone happy, and you will be happy too.” I wore that belief like a uniform, convinced it was my responsibility to fill every emotional gap in another person’s life.

During my separation, my parents repeatedly asked me, “What did you do wrong?” At the time, those words felt like blame. I heard accusation, failure, judgment. I thought they were pointing a finger at me for the end of my marriage.

It wasn’t until I was 60 years old—sixty—that I finally understood what they were really asking. They weren’t blaming me. They were urging me to look inward, to examine my heart and soul, and to recognize that I deserved the same love and care I so freely gave to my husband and children. They were nudging me toward self‑compassion long before I knew how to practice it.

By the time this realization settled in, my father was gone. But my mother lived long enough to witness the early stages of my transformation—the moment I stopped trying to be everything for everyone and started learning how to be something for myself.

It’s a lesson I’m still learning, but one I now carry with gratitude instead of guilt.

When Change Starts to Reshape a Marriage

In the midst of all this personal growth, something else began to shift—my marriage. Change, even the healthy kind, doesn’t arrive quietly. It ripples through every corner of your life, including the relationships you hold closest.

For more than twenty‑five years, I was the GIVER in our marriage. The one who jumped up to refill a glass, make a meal, fold the laundry, handle the details, anticipate the needs. It was a burden at the time—and yet it was simply who I believed I needed to be.

But as I began carving out time for myself—real time, even if we were sitting in the same room—I felt the tension between old habits and new intentions. My body would still rise automatically to take care of something, even when my heart was whispering, “Sit. Breathe. This moment is yours.”

Self‑care sounds lovely in theory, but in practice it can feel like breaking a lifelong contract you never realized you signed.

And yet, this shift has been good for both of us. Hard, yes. Uncomfortable at times. But good. Because a marriage built on one person giving and the other receiving eventually becomes lopsided. Balance doesn’t happen by accident—it happens through awareness, honesty, and a willingness to rewrite the script.

As a podcaster, blogger, and life coach, I remind others that growth is a lifelong process. I’m no exception. I’m still learning, still stumbling, still catching myself in those old patterns. And on the days when I slip back into what I call my “bad habits,” I’m practicing something new:

Grace.

Grace for the woman I was.
Grace for the woman I’m becoming.
Grace for the marriage that is learning to evolve right alongside me.

Because becoming the best version of myself isn’t a destination—it’s a daily choice. And some days, that choice begins with simply staying in my seat and letting someone else get their own drink.

Have I Mentioned I Am BLESSED?

Life is beautifully messy. Some days, love feels like pure light—warm, bright, and effortless. It’s those “sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows” moments Leslie Gore sang about, when everything feels wonderful simply because you’re together.

And then there are the other days. The ones where love feels heavy, not because someone is doing something wrong, but because we forget to let the love we give so freely circle back and nourish us too.

My husband of almost 42 years never fit the picture‑perfect image of “Prince Charming.” From the moment we met, life handed us obstacles—real ones—and we’ve spent decades navigating them side by side. We’re still running the course, maybe at a slower pace now, but still moving forward together.

Richard is my soulmate. Not because our story is flawless, but because it’s real. And when I allow myself to give a little less and receive a little more, I can see the sunshine again. The lollipops. The rainbows. The sweetness that’s always been there.

I’ve had to reshape my expectations of myself. I used to believe that love meant doing, giving, anticipating, fixing. But I’ve learned that giving less doesn’t mean loving less. It means making space for balance. It means allowing myself to be cared for, too.

And in that space—where giving and receiving finally meet—I remember just how blessed I truly am.

If I Do Nothing Else…

If I do nothing else in this lifetime, I hope my words matter to someone.

I hope that the wisdom I’ve gathered over 75 years—through joy, heartbreak, reinvention, and resilience—nourishes at least one person, maybe more.

I hope my words give someone the courage to pause, breathe, and choose a path that leads them closer to their own inner Happy.

I hope my words offer tools we all need from time to time—gentle reminders, small shifts, new perspectives—that help us make choices rooted in hope rather than fear.

And most of all, I hope my words are understood.
Because change is possible.
It always has been.

But it’s a choice only you can make.
Only you can uncover, nurture, and protect your inner Happy.

If my voice helps even one person take that step, then I’ve done enough.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

9 January 2026 -Another Sleepless Night

It’s another one of those nights when sleep simply refuses to come. I lay in bed tossing and turning, only managing to wake myself up even more, until I finally gave in, slipped out from under the covers, and wandered into my office.

Yes, I know what the experts say—avoid screens, avoid stimulation, avoid anything with a glowing light. But I’m not trying to sleep anymore. The trying is what’s exhausting me tonight.

Some nights, I can trace the restlessness back to something specific—a conversation, a moment from the day, something I watched, or just a random thought that decided to take up space in my brain. But tonight was different. I turned off the TV, turned off the lights, and I was tired. Yet the moment I tried to drift off, my body jolted awake as if sleep were the last thing it wanted.

I’ve been dealing with health issues again this week, and I’m blaming this bout of insomnia on whatever is stirring inside me. The vertigo and ocular migraines have returned—worse during the day, stopping me mid‑step, forcing me to pause. I keep reminding myself that “this too shall pass,” but the lingering question remains: Why is this happening again? No answers.

Still, despite the struggles of 2025, I’ve made a conscious choice to keep putting one foot in front of the other and live as fully as I can. Even if that means being awake at 2 a.m., blogging my way into tomorrow.

As I sat here writing, an instant message popped up from a high school classmate—sitting in their car, many states away, waiting for a DoorDash order. The timing felt oddly comforting. For a few minutes, we shared a simple electronic conversation that somehow deepened into something more meaningful. Two people awake in the night, helping each other feel a little less alone.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a client meeting, and it reminded me once again that life is challenging for everyone. None of us walk a perfect path. There is no perfect. We all stumble. We all fall. Sometimes we bruise, sometimes we break—bones, dreams, and expectations. But we also have the remarkable ability to mend, to rebuild, to evolve. Some of us choose to refine our abilities, to grow through the discomfort. Others don’t. But the choice is always there.

Even in my lowest moments, I’ve pushed myself to be better than I was yesterday. I can’t imagine giving up on living, even when the skies feel black as coal and I’m searching desperately for a sliver of light. The physical and emotional pain is real, but I’ve learned to use it as fuel—one step, one breath, one moment at a time.

So tonight, when sleep felt like a chore I didn’t have the energy to fight with, I chose to write instead. And here I am.

I think I might finally be tired enough to crawl back into bed.
With any luck, my husband hasn’t noticed I snuck out.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

8 January 2026 – A New Year, A New Light

2026 has not disappointed. Every morning has greeted me with a sunrise—some muted behind clouds, others bursting with brightness. Today, one week into the year, Northeast Ohio is showing off a blue‑sky, almost‑spring kind of day. I know it won’t last—we’re still in the earliest stretch of winter—but it’s a lovely reminder that light always returns.

(And for those counting with me: 72 days, 13 hours, 44 minutes, and 58 seconds until Spring officially arrives… though we all know those first thirty days often masquerade as winter.)

Exploring Disappointment

Today I found myself thinking about the words disappoint, disappointed, and disappointment.
To disappoint someone is simply to fall short of the expectations they’ve placed on us. But here’s the truth:

Their expectations are theirs—not ours.

Someone once said, “If you align expectations with reality, you will never be disappointed.”
And Sylvia Plath captured it even more sharply: “If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.”

When I stop expecting sunshine on a Northeast Ohio winter morning, I stop feeling the heaviness of cold and darkness. I look beyond the clouds—and somehow, the sun finds its way through.

Seeing life as half‑full instead of half‑empty doesn’t erase disappointment, but it transforms it into hope. Positive thoughts don’t magically fix everything, but they can absolutely “make our day.”

Another quote I love (author unknown, though I’d happily claim it):
“You’ll end up really disappointed if you think people will do for you as you do for them. Not everyone has the same heart as you.”
So keep your heart shining anyway.

Waking Up Today

The past few days have brought dizziness and a strange sense of disconnection. When I focus on a task, I can push through it, but the sensations have made concentration difficult—and yes, that led to disappointment in myself.

This morning, the symptoms are still there, but not as overwhelming. Even as I write this, I feel an odd tingling through my body and mind. It’s unsettling, but I’m here, writing, breathing, moving forward.

Adjusting My Expectations

Yesterday I chose to set realistic goals—ones that honor what my body and mind are experiencing. With support from my husband and my medical team, I’m learning to adjust rather than resist.

As I typed that last sentence, a wave of heat and cold washed over me. It felt like something releasing, a shift toward the next plateau.

Realistic goals give me permission to be in process. They soften the disappointment and help me accept the changes I’m navigating.

Practicing Self‑Compassion

I’m naming what I feel—physically and emotionally—because naming helps me process.
I’m reminding myself that I’ve walked similar paths before and found my way through.
Each time, I’ve grown stronger, more aware, more grounded.

What I Know

Life is not perfect. It never was meant to be.
We’re here to walk our path, take detours, stumble, get up, and learn. If we only choose the safest route, we never become who we’re meant to be.

I’m not suggesting we seek danger. I’m suggesting we stay awake to our steps—
the wrong turns, the trips, the falls, the bruises, the negative self‑talk—
because each one teaches us something essential.

You and I can live fully when we recognize our abilities, honor our limits, and keep moving forward with intention.

And today, that’s enough.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

6 January 2026 –As a podcaster, life coach, blogger, and public speaker, I’ve built my own circle, and I’m proud of the work I do.

No, I’m not making six figures—despite the time, energy, and heart I pour into every project—and I refuse to let the social‑media braggers convince me that my worth is measured in dollar signs. Would I like to earn more? Of course. We all deserve to be compensated fairly. But my work has never been about chasing the almighty dollar, even though earning a living is still a necessity.

Lately, the trolls have been busy flooding my inbox with unsolicited advice, telling me everything I’m doing “wrong” and offering—for a fee—to show me how to do it “right.” The truth is, there is no universal right or wrong unless I’m the one asking for guidance.

If you’re facing something similar, I hope you pause long enough to ask yourself what you want to change—and at what cost, not just financially but emotionally and spiritually.

I believe that positivity, honesty, and kindness shape the way we move through the world. They enrich our work and our relationships. But they don’t guarantee bread and butter in the pantry. Each of us must make choices that align with our purpose, our needs, and our reality.

The old saying, “Find a job you enjoy, and you’ll never work a day in your life,” only holds true if you also have the financial means to keep a roof over your head and food on the table. And often, it’s not just about sustaining yourself—you may be supporting family, or even friends who rely on your presence and care.

When I was forced into retirement fifteen years ago, I was fortunate to step into podcasting and freelance blogging. Those opportunities stretched me, challenged me, and helped me grow beyond my comfort zone.

What I’ve learned is this: obstacles are part of every path. Some we can step over, walk around, or leap across. Others stop us cold. But as humans, we have the ability to choose our next move—even when the choice isn’t easy, even when the outcome isn’t what we expected. Pivoting is part of the journey.

For 2026, my intention is simple and deeply personal: to keep doing work that brings me fulfillment. To stay vulnerable enough to grow. To allow myself the joy of excelling in ways that feel meaningful, not performative.

Purpose over perfection. Growth over comparison.
That’s the path I’m choosing.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

5 January 2026 – Waking up to Sunshine

Waking up to sunshine, melting snow, and above normal temperature, is making me smile. David McNally a guest on “How to SuperAge” – https://youtu.be/UByP_9KShfY shared that if we find one positive thought each day despite our circumstances we can live a happier, content and purposeful life.

I have subscribed to this idea for many years, and it helps me focus on what I can control, my thoughts.

If controlling your thoughts is disruptive due to physical and mental issues reaching for help is a choice you can make and I subscribe to making choices that help me see clearly.

The lyrics read, “On a clear day you can see forever…” is the key to positive and purposeful living. Sometimes we need someone to guide or coach us to see what is right in front of us.

It has taken me a long time to realize that holidays and special occasions have been difficult for me. Past experiences have been plagued by expectations causing disappointment when my story book version did not pan out.

Growing up I was known as a crier and disappointment brought me to tears making my circumstances even less desirable.

Whether it is age/maturity choosing to reduce my disappointments I have learned to lower my expectations and be in the moment. (Not always easy.)

The holidays are over and I feel emotionally and mentally healthy. Compared to many my experiences were minimal to none. Lighting the Chanukah Candles gave me purpose and provided me with memories with my dad reciting the blessings, and the family singing, ‘Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel’!

Christmas was low key as well, just spending quiet time with my husband and reaching out to family via, phone, text, and social media filled my heart.

New Year’s although a huge celebration, preparing food to please my husband and son acknowledging the end of 25 and the beginning of 26 was purposeful. We did not need a champaign toast to greet the new year.

Today we are back to ‘normal’ whatever that is and my purpose through podcasting, coaching and blogging is actively fulfilling my purpose. However, normal today is not necessarily what I had expected as I am trying to guide my older brother through his health issues and being over a thousand miles away it is not an easy task!

I know I am not alone. Many of you are helping a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or an adult child through life, and this is not something that we are trained for and often by the time we find the answers we need, we have more questions and nothing seems to be resolved.

I have shared that as I review my life I have been very lucky with my parents and brothers. We have a strong bond that has provided us love and with that love a lot of passionate care. However, we need to get that same care from our medical team and communities.

May be this is a new avenue for me to follow in 2026.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

5 January 2026 – When Technology Becomes Gatekeeper and Judge

This morning began with frustration. I opened Nextdoor™ to share my latest blog, only to find a notice waiting for me: “Account temporarily suspended for breaking a community guideline.” Suspended by whom? A staff member? A robot? Hard to tell these days.

For two years I’ve posted my blogs on that platform. People read them, comment kindly, and often tell me they appreciate the perspective. I’ve never used the space to hard‑sell anything. Yes, I mention my services, but no one has ever hired me through Nextdoor™—and that’s perfectly fine. My intention has always been to offer insight, reflection, and support in a way that feels accessible and respectful.

So why the suspension? No explanation. No human contact. Just an automated message and a locked door. It makes me wonder: is this really the world we’re building, where technology not only assists us but also polices us without context or conversation?

(Did you watch 60 Minutes last night (1/4/26) https://www.cbsnews.com/video/ai-powered-humanoid-robots-60-minutes-video-2026-01-04/ ) If Robots are built and used by humans to enhance our capabilities I scream, BRAVO, they should not be replacing the human need for connection.

As a writer, I rely on technology every day. I can’t afford a human editor, so I use tools like Grammarly to help refine my work. They’re useful, but not perfect. I still depend on my own judgment, my education, and my human eye to catch the errors the algorithms miss. Technology is a partner—but it’s not infallible.

And it’s not just Nextdoor™. Facebook Marketplace recently flagged my listing for a perfectly legitimate Series 4 Apple Watch as “counterfeit.” One moment it was posted, the next it was deleted by an AI system that apparently knows better than I do what I own. For the record, it’s real, it works, and I simply no longer need it. (If you’re reading this and you’re interested, feel free to reach out.)

I’m not anti‑technology. I use it, I appreciate it, and in many ways it makes my work possible. But days like today remind me that when we hand over too much authority to automated systems, we lose something essential: nuance, communication, and the simple courtesy of human understanding.

Maybe the real question isn’t why I was suspended. Maybe it’s how we can reclaim a little humanity in a world increasingly run by algorithms.

When Conversations Became Screens and Voicemails

All of this has me thinking about how much our communication habits have shifted. So many of us—me included—lean on texting, voicemail, and quick digital exchanges to stay connected. It’s efficient, yes, but something gets lost in the process.

There was a time when conversations happened face‑to‑face or voice‑to‑voice. I used to pick up the phone to ask a question, check on a friend, or simply chat with someone I cared about. Even calling a business felt personal. We spoke to real people, and there was a shared understanding of respect and patience.

And who could forget dialing 411? You’d ask for a phone number, and the operator—an actual human being—would search through multiple spellings, double‑check details, and do it all with a friendly tone. It was simple, but it made you feel connected to the world around you.

Today, smartphones© are supposed to replace all of that. They’re designed to anticipate our needs, fetch information instantly, and streamline communication. But for anyone who struggles with technology—whether due to disability, age, or simply preference—this shift hasn’t been empowering. It’s isolating. When the tools meant to help become barriers instead, people get left behind.

We talk so much about progress, yet sometimes progress forgets the people who still need a human voice on the other end of the line.

When “Progress” Leaves People Behind

Let me take this step further—and make it personal.

My brother Gary, whom I’ve written about many times, has faced a cascade of medical challenges this past year. Layered on top of that is the sudden loss of our brother Joel—four years younger than Gary, four years older than me. Joel wasn’t just a sibling; he was Gary’s lifeline. He understood Gary’s medical needs, his personality, his routines, and he had the local connections on the West Coast that made navigating life a little easier for him.

With Joel gone, I’ve stepped in as best I can. But stepping in from across the country is not the same as standing beside someone. I’m constantly searching for resources, trying to piece together a support system that should already exist.

Gary has spent nearly every weekend in the hospital in the Laguna Woods area. Each admission brings a new set of questions and rarely has any clear answers. One visit ends with “no diagnosis,” the next with a completely different diagnosis. They send him home—83 years old, hard of hearing—with a stack of instructions and a list of medications that seem to change every time. He may be cognitively sharp, but the sheer volume of information is overwhelming. And with his wife facing her own cognitive challenges, he returns home without the support he needs. Inevitably, he ends up back in the hospital.

This is the reality we don’t talk about enough: our society is not prepared for people living into their 80s, 90s, and beyond without a built‑in support system. Gary has people who love him deeply, but none of us live in his community. We are scattered across the country, trying to help from afar.

Technology has never been Gary’s friend. Even decades ago, when he bought his first Apple computer, he chose it because it promised simplicity. But simplicity has given way to complexity. Today, “support” means navigating a Genius Bar—if you can get there, if you can hear in the noise, if you can process the rapid‑fire explanations. For someone like Gary, that’s not support. It’s a barrier.

What feels intuitive to one person can be impossibly confusing to another. And instead of building bridges, we’ve allowed algorithms to become gatekeepers. We let automated systems speak for us, decide for us, and sometimes misjudge us—without context, compassion, or correction.

This isn’t just about technology. It’s about the widening gap between those who can keep up and those who are left behind. And it’s about the human cost of pretending that digital solutions can replace human connection.

The Answer Is Not…

The answer is not as simple as “just move him.”

Yes, on paper, Gary could relocate to live near one of us—his adult children or me. But real life isn’t lived on paper. He has called Southern California home for more than three decades. His body doesn’t tolerate cold, snow, or ice. And moving an 83‑year‑old man with complex medical needs isn’t a tidy checklist. It means selling his condo, packing up a lifetime of belongings (and his wife’s), rebuilding an entire medical team, and uprooting the fragile routines that keep him grounded.

And let’s be honest: if it were you, would you want your family to force you to move simply because the system around you is failing?

Gary is far from alone. Countless older adults are caught in this same impossible gap—too independent to be placed somewhere, too vulnerable to be left without support, and too far from family to receive the hands‑on help they deserve.

Every time Gary is discharged from the hospital, he’s promised visiting nurses who will ensure he’s set up safely and has the resources to live independently. But the promises are inconsistent. Some days they arrive. Some days they don’t. Some days they show up without knowing why they’re there at all. The system is so automated, so dependent on digital instructions, that when the human caregiver arrives without the “right” data, they’re unable to act. We’ve built a healthcare structure where compassion is present, but functionality is missing.

So today, my list is long.

I need to find someone who can help Gary update his medical and financial directives—shifting responsibilities from Joel’s name to someone he trusts now.
I need to search for a part‑time caregiver who can help him manage prescriptions, meals, and daily living—someone affordable, because Social Security is his only steady income.
I need to help ease his anxiety so he can reclaim some sense of peace and autonomy.

And the question that sits heavy on my chest is: Where do I begin?

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

4 January 2026 Right or Left Foot
Stepping FORWARD

2026 is already humming with purpose and possibility, and we’re only a few days in. At newclevelandradio.net, the year has opened with two remarkable conversations—each one reminding me why storytelling, vulnerability, and shared wisdom matter so deeply.

Friday, January 2nd brought a profoundly meaningful recording with Kim Scharnberg as we honored the life and legacy of my brother, Joel Moss, through Where the Music Never Dies. This project continues to be part of my own healing journey—an exploration of grief, love, memory, and the ways music keeps us connected long after someone is gone.
Watch here: https://youtu.be/pVORoajSqTM

Just before that conversation, I had an unexpected moment of clarity. I realized that podcasting could become a powerful extension of my Life Coaching practice—not just interviews, but guided storytelling sessions where you become the guest host of your own transformation. When clients speak their truth out loud, something shifts. Honesty deepens. Vulnerability becomes strength. And the path toward the life they want becomes clearer.

This year, I’m opening that opportunity to anyone ready to move forward and willing to let their journey inspire others. If that speaks to you, reach out: kh.yesican1@gmail.com

Then, on Saturday, January 3rd, Elise Marie Collins and Podmatch.com introduced us to the extraordinary David McNally. Nearly 80 and radiating youthful energy, David reminded us that age is merely chronological—not a limitation, not an excuse, and certainly not a reason to retreat into the proverbial rocking chair.

At 72, already accomplished in both career and life, David chose to go back to college. He could have audited classes for free, but he opted to pursue a full degree simply because he wanted to. That alone is a lesson in optimism and agency.
Listen here: https://youtu.be/UByP_9KShfY

David also spoke candidly about grief—having lost two wives, one to cancer and one to Alzheimer’s—and yet he continues to live fully, intentionally, and joyfully. His message was simple and powerful: we can complain about the world, or we can look for one amazing thing each day. If we look closely enough, the sparkle is always there.

Today is Sunday, and while I’m not recording, it’s not for religious reasons—just a moment to breathe before another week of meaningful conversations. I’ll be back on Zoom soon, bringing you more stories that illuminate, challenge, and comfort.

If you’re seeking inspiration, connection, or a spark to begin your own next chapter, stay close. We at newclevelandradio.net are growing, expanding, and deepening our reach through our partnership with Cleveland 13 News:
https://www.cleveland13news.com/
https://newclevelandradio.net/podcasting-with-cleveland-13-news/

Cleveland 13 News is in the midst of a major technology upgrade, and that means exciting things are on the horizon for all of us at newclevelandradio.net. Very soon, you’ll see more live broadcasts, smoother production, and fresh collaborations that amplify the voices and stories our community has grown to cherish.

2026 is already revealing itself as a year of momentum and meaning. So, whether you step into it with your right foot, your left foot, or a little wobble in between, the direction matters far more than the choreography. Forward is forward—and that’s exactly where we’re headed.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

3 January 2026 – A Visit That Feels Like Coming Home

On Tuesday, our youngest son drove in to spend the last days of 2025 — and the first moments of 2026 — with us before heading back to work. Every time he walks through the door, there’s a familiar comfort that settles in, as if the years fold in on themselves. After all, he spent much of his young adulthood here, building his career and figuring out who he wanted to become. A part of me still feels like he belongs in his childhood room.

Of course, that room hasn’t grown the way he has. At 6-foot-2, he’s long outgrown the tiny space with the slanted ceiling — the one perched above the garage, forever the coldest room in winter and the hottest in summer. Yet his name is still on the door, a quiet reminder that no matter how far he travels or how much he evolves, this will always be home.

When Love Doesn’t Need a Perfect Moment

My eldest had hoped that a rare lull in his workload might let him join us on New Year’s Day. But life as a corporate attorney doesn’t pause for holidays, and once again he found himself buried under deadlines instead of blankets on our couch. Both of my sons are deeply committed to their careers, and that means our visits don’t always line up the way we wish they would.

Still, we find our ways to connect — in texts, in calls, in those small but meaningful check-ins that remind us we’re stitched together no matter the miles or the schedules. Our bond doesn’t depend on photos with Facebook-perfect smiles. I don’t need proof for the world, and I certainly don’t need it for myself. The love is real, steady, and present, even when we aren’t in the same room.

The Gift of Two Men Who Shaped Me

As this new year begins, I’ve found myself reflecting on just how fortunate I am. At 75, I still share my life with my partner, my steady companion, my Rich. On February 4th, we’ll celebrate 42 years of marriage — a milestone that always arrives with a bittersweet echo. It’s also the day my father left this world, 22 years ago.

There’s a tinge of sadness in that overlap, of course, but there’s also a quiet beauty. These two men — my husband and my dad — both pushed me, in their own ways, to become the best version of myself. Their influence is woven into who I am.

My dad, though, had one flaw I loved to tease him about even now: he insisted that writing belonged to him and my brothers. More than once, he told me to leave the words to “the real writers.” And when I was younger (much younger), I tried to imitate their poetic style. They had rhythm; I had… well, rhymes like spoon and moon. Charming, maybe. Cheesy, absolutely.

But life has a way of revealing our gifts when we least expect it. At my dad’s funeral, someone asked if I wanted to speak. What they didn’t know was that I had already written something — a small piece, just for me. I don’t think I kept it, but I remember how it felt to read it aloud. Something opened. The words flowed because they were rooted in love, memory, and truth.

Afterward, my brother Joel looked at me with surprise and said, “Who are you? Did you know you have a talent for words?” That moment changed me. It was as if my father had passed the torch — from Words by Harmon to Words for Karen.

And so, I write. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write because the men who shaped me — one gone, one still by my side — believed in the woman I continue to become.

Stepping Into a New Purpose for 2026

As I look ahead, 2026 feels different. It carries a new purpose for me — a deeper calling to use my words to guide others. I’ve been doing this for years through podcasting, blogging, and Life Coaching, but this year I’m taking it further. I’m inviting others to step into vulnerability and share their Life Coaching goals out loud through podcast conversations. Whether it’s a single episode or an ongoing series, the act of speaking our intentions can be transformative.

There’s something powerful that happens when we write down our thoughts and then give them a voice. They shift from ideas floating in our minds to pivotal truths that help us grow into who we want to become.

Of course, in a world that loves to judge, stepping out of our comfort zone — or even our discomfort zone — isn’t easy. But if the last several years have taught me anything, it’s this: true happiness begins within. When we’re brave enough to seek it, name it, and let it out into the world, we become some of the luckiest people alive.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

2 January 2026 – Sitting here in my office–my little sanctuary of microphones, memories, and intention—I’m preparing to record the first of many stories about my brother Joel. As I’ll share in the opening of Where the Music Never Dies, this series is part of my grief journey, a path I hope will lead me toward comfort, clarity, and the kind of healing that only storytelling can offer.

When the idea first came to me—to create an ongoing space where others could share their memories of Joel—I hesitated. A few people questioned the timing, the purpose, the emotional weight of it all. So, I tucked it away for a while. But Joel had a way of nudging me toward my truth, and I could almost hear him saying, “If you need this, do it.” And so, I am.

I chose to begin in 2026, after spending the last three months revisiting the memories that shaped us—our childhood, our shared humor, and especially the time we spent together caring for our mother in her final months. Her illness, painful as it was, gave Joel and me a rare gift: the chance to know each other as adults, not just siblings. I’ll never forget the day of her funeral when Joel quietly said, “We’re orphans now.” Yet in that moment, something shifted. The bond between Joel, Gary, and me deepened into a relationship rooted in love, honesty, and mutual care.

Just as my mother gave us that gift, Joel has given me another. In his absence, my relationship with Gary has grown into something steady and essential. We have become each other’s person, and that is no small blessing.

When my mother passed in 2016, I created a podcast with my friend and psychotherapist, Alicia Mindlin. It wasn’t about my mother specifically, but it marked the beginning of my wellness journey through loss. Since then, the podcasts I’ve hosted and produced have evolved into spaces where storytelling and vulnerability meet—where my guests and I face life’s challenges together, openly and without pretense.

A few years ago, a Facebook post from a high school friend—sharing her heartbreak after losing her husband—reminded me how universal grief is, and how deeply we need to talk about it. That moment sparked GRIEF BELIEF, our first series featuring a panel of grief and life specialists. That project has now grown into our newest podcast, Find Your Way, hosted by Alison Peña and Kristy Anderson, with guest Scott Martin joining us on Monday, January 19th.

Where the Music Never Dies will be something different—something deeply personal. It will also become a concept I offer to my coaching clients, because storytelling has a way of revealing truths we didn’t know we were ready to face. This isn’t psychotherapy or counseling. It’s life coaching elevated through narrative—your stories, my stories, our stories—shared as pathways toward wellness.

And today, I begin.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

1 Janaury 2026 – A podcast – The Journey of Personal Grief – Stories of My Brother Joel
Tomorrow, January 2, 2026, I begin a deeply personal—and public—journey of sharing stories about my brother, Joel. His sudden passing in September still feels unreal. I find myself reaching for him, expecting his voice, his presence, his humor… and then remembering he is no longer here.

What I do know is that Joel touched countless lives in his 79 years, and there is so much about him that I never had the chance to witness firsthand. As I move through my own grief, I want to gather those stories—the pieces of him that live in the memories of others.

Many of you who follow my podcasts and blogs know that Joel spent the last two decades of his life at Caffè Lena in Saratoga Springs, a place where the music truly never dies. It’s a space rooted in Lena Spencer’s vision from 1960, now home to a thriving music school and a legacy that continues to inspire generations.

Joel was a storyteller, though a modest one. When he spoke about the artists he worked with across music, film, and Broadway, the names—Paul, Michael, Bob, Patti, Bonnie—floated by as if they were simply neighbors or old friends. To him, they were just people. To the world, they were icons.

Now, the people whose lives he touched will help fill in the missing chapters of his story for me.

This new series, Where the Music Never Dies, takes its name from the musical piece written by Joel Moss and Peter Davis—a tribute to the enduring spirit of Lena Spencer and the community she built.

If you would like to be part of this ongoing project, I would be honored to hear from you.
Please reach out to newclevelandradio@gmail.com.

Recording begins tomorrow, January 2, 2026, with our first guest, Kim Scharnberg—an American composer, arranger, orchestrator, record producer, and conductor.

Your stories will help keep Joel’s light alive.

https://www.caffelena.org/joel-moss-fund/#:~:text=An%20error%20occurred.,it%20here%20in%20his%20memory.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

1 January 2026 – HAPPY DAY/NEW YEAR from YES ICAN COACHING with Karen

The calendar on my computer tells me it’s January 1, 2026—a new day and a new year. Yet waking up this morning felt just like any other: the familiar urge to use the bathroom and then slip back into my warm, cozy bed.

The truth is that the date itself isn’t what makes today magical. The magic lies in the simple fact that I am here, alive, and given another chance to show up as the best version of myself.

Life’s magic isn’t always sparkles and spectacle. Sometimes it’s confusing, fleeting, or downright disorienting—now you see it, now you don’t. Sometimes it’s more “What just happened?” than “Ta-da!”

CELEBRATIONS

My husband and I have never been big on celebrating commercial holidays or even the personal ones—birthdays, anniversaries, all the dates that are supposed to feel important. Instead, we live by a quieter code: offering each other friendship, kindness, and love every single day. That, to us, is the real gift.

GIFT not WRAPPED UP with a BOW

Yesterday, I received a different kind of gift—one from my two sons. They are so alike in some ways and so different in others, but each expresses love in his own unique language. Their gestures, subtle and heartfelt, wrapped around me like virtual arms despite the miles between us.

I felt lucky. And that’s not a feeling I’ve always allowed myself to claim. For years, my own inner demons—those old memories, those lingering words—tried to convince me otherwise.

THOUGHTS

We all carry these demons. They’re born from moments that left a mark, from comments that stuck, from experiences that still echo. But when we choose mindfulness, we can soften their grip. We can transform those bad vibes into something gentler, something healing. Choice is one of the most powerful tools we have as humans, and when we use it intentionally, we move closer to our best selves.

MINDFULNESS

Mindfulness gives us a way to interrupt the intrusive thoughts that try to take over. It creates a pause—a space where we can breathe, refocus, and gently guide ourselves back to steadier ground. It’s not easy, and it’s not instant. It takes practice, patience, and personal tools.

We’ve all heard the phrase “just breathe.” And yes, if we’re alive, we’re breathing. But mindful breathing is different. It’s the moment we become aware of our breath, feel it move through us, and allows it to carry tension out of our bodies. That awareness releases toxicity and invites calm.

Here are a few tools I use personally and share with my clients:

Notice the thought without judgment. Label it as simply a thought—something you can manage.
Return to your breath. Feel each inhale and exhale. Let your breath shift your mindset.
Ground yourself with the 5-4-3-2-1 technique, engaging all five senses:

Name five things you see
Identify four things you touch
Notice three things you hear
Sense two things you smell
Name one thing you can taste

THE WHY

Why does this work? Because it pulls you out of the swirl of uncomfortable thoughts and anchors you in the present moment. Your senses become allies instead of agitators. Your nervous system settles. And once you’re grounded, you can make choices that truly serve you.

Intrusive thoughts are part of being human. They don’t define you, and they don’t have to mean anything. Often, they’re just the brain sorting through old information and stimuli from your life’s journey. You may not be able to simply “shake them off,” but you can learn to calm and disarm them.

Mindfulness won’t erase the maze of life, but it will help you navigate it. When you feel lost, overwhelmed, or unsure of the way out, pausing to observe—really observe—your situation can illuminate the path forward.

A new year doesn’t magically change us. But each new day gives us another chance to choose presence, compassion, and clarity. And that, in itself, is a kind of magic.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

WeRNotJustCleveland

NewCleRadio

Daily Comments 2026 (Also, #yesican Coaching)

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Thank you for understanding and for helping us navigate this transition in our grief.