Almost a year after Lexy’s death, I read something that changed me:

You can stop living the day your child dies — and become a corpse waiting for your own end.

OR

You can carry their love forward.

Carrying love forward means recognizing grief as a different expression of love.

It means finding a way to express that love — every day.

It means choosing to live your best life — because that’s what your loved one would have wanted.

—

For years, with the expectations of life, work, children, and a spouse, I had stopped exercising. There just wasn’t time.

But in April, I realized: I CAN’T live my best life if I’m not healthy.

So I made a commitment: 10,000 steps a day, every day. About five miles. No excuses.

Twelve days in, I got a last-minute chance to see one of my favorite shows.

It meant I might fall short.

I went anyway.

That day, I walked 8,600 steps — 1,400 short.

I swore: NEVER AGAIN.

For weeks, I kept it up — until I hit a day that drained me emotionally. I felt paralyzed.

I wandered the house and barely logged 4,000 steps.

But I realized something:

That was the BEST I had to give that day.

And that had to be enough.

—

Yesterday, I tried switching my routine — no upbeat music, just a quiet audiobook.

I chose an easier route: fewer hills, more flats.

But still, my body ached like I had walked 10 miles. I only did 3.8.

It wasn’t my goal — but again, it was everything I had to give.

—

This morning, the forecast said thunder and rain showers.

I could walk circles around Walmart or the mall. But slowing my pace would stretch a two-hour walk into three — and I wasn’t willing to do that.

So I decided: I’LL WALK IN THE RAIN.

I’d walk until I felt I’d given my BEST — not just until I hit a number.

About 30 minutes from the end, the rain started.

I was over a mile from my car — I had no choice.

I had to keep going.

And somewhere in those final steps, I remembered…

—

I remembered riding my bike as a kid — through summer storms, chasing the edge of a squall line, zigzagging between sunlight and rain.

I remembered standing at the front door one afternoon, asking my mom if I could go outside and play.

From the kitchen she called, “Absolutely not. It’s raining cats and dogs.”

“No it’s not,” I said, looking at the sunlit front yard.

I walked back to where she stood — and started laughing.

The rain line had passed right over our house into the front yard.

We stepped outside and watched it together.

—

LAUGHTER.

I remember what that felt like.

I haven’t laughed much this past year.

And when I have, it’s often been alcohol-induced.

But today — walking in the rain — I LAUGHED.

A real, joyous, deep laugh.

I laughed at the rain.

I laughed at myself.

I laughed with strangers.

There weren’t many of us left walking or running.

But to every one I passed, I shouted encouragement.

“Beautiful weather!” I called to two young women.

One grimaced and tugged her hood lower while her friend responded with dry sarcasm, “Yeah… beautiful.”

I laughed again.

—

Didn’t she remember jumping in puddles?

Didn’t she remember what it felt like to be totally, utterly soaked — and HAPPY?

Didn’t she remember wringing out her clothes in the bathtub, chasing the rainbow after the storm?

Maybe she didn’t.

But I did.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

I found joy in that memory.

I walked the last 3,000 steps to my car, soaked and smiling.

I laughed the whole way.

—

PEACE DIDN’T COME IN SILENCE OR STILLNESS.

IT CAME SOAKED, SMILING, AND WALKING THROUGH THE STORM.

– Originally posted on Facebook on 12 JUNE 2025.

– Posted here on 31 JULY 2025