Gratitude, Love, and Looking Out for One Another
It is very early on a Thursday morning as I write this. Jet lag, emotion, and life have a way of waking you before the sun.
I want to say thank you.
The messages, calls, notes, and quiet gestures of support over the past few days have meant more than I can possibly express. When life tilts suddenly, you find out very quickly how many people are standing nearby, ready to steady you. I have felt that steadiness.
Kristin was an extraordinary woman.
We met in college as two kids who thought we had things figured out. We grew up together over nearly 30 years, married almost 28 of them. Most of the best parts of me were sharpened, softened, strengthened, or outright created because of her. She had high standards, deep empathy, a subtle sense of humor, and a fierce love for her family.
She was also far more private than I am. And out of love and respect for her, that privacy will remain. Some stories are sacred. Some struggles are not meant for public consumption. What I will say is this: she worked incredibly hard over the years to seek and receive help for internal battles that many people fight quietly. That matters. And it is important for anyone reading this to know you are never alone. There are people who care. There is help. There is no weakness in reaching for it.
The range of emotions in grief is something no one can quite prepare you for. Gratitude and heartbreak can occupy the same breath. Strength and collapse can take turns within the same hour. I’ve learned this week that it’s okay to feel all of it. (And yes, apparently it is also normal to cry in airports. I can now confirm this firsthand.)
Kristin is forever loved by her family. That will not change. Love doesn’t end because a life does.
If there is anything I hope comes from this moment, it’s a renewed commitment for all of us to watch out for one another. Check in. Make the call. Send the text. Sit a little longer. We never fully know what someone is carrying.
Thank you for carrying some of this with me.
Steve
I want to say thank you.
The messages, calls, notes, and quiet gestures of support over the past few days have meant more than I can possibly express. When life tilts suddenly, you find out very quickly how many people are standing nearby, ready to steady you. I have felt that steadiness.
Kristin was an extraordinary woman.
We met in college as two kids who thought we had things figured out. We grew up together over nearly 30 years, married almost 28 of them. Most of the best parts of me were sharpened, softened, strengthened, or outright created because of her. She had high standards, deep empathy, a subtle sense of humor, and a fierce love for her family.
She was also far more private than I am. And out of love and respect for her, that privacy will remain. Some stories are sacred. Some struggles are not meant for public consumption. What I will say is this: she worked incredibly hard over the years to seek and receive help for internal battles that many people fight quietly. That matters. And it is important for anyone reading this to know you are never alone. There are people who care. There is help. There is no weakness in reaching for it.
The range of emotions in grief is something no one can quite prepare you for. Gratitude and heartbreak can occupy the same breath. Strength and collapse can take turns within the same hour. I’ve learned this week that it’s okay to feel all of it. (And yes, apparently it is also normal to cry in airports. I can now confirm this firsthand.)
Kristin is forever loved by her family. That will not change. Love doesn’t end because a life does.
If there is anything I hope comes from this moment, it’s a renewed commitment for all of us to watch out for one another. Check in. Make the call. Send the text. Sit a little longer. We never fully know what someone is carrying.
Thank you for carrying some of this with me.
Steve

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