Two Augusts ago…

Over 600 miles separate me from the place where my husband died two years ago today. His body wasn’t found until the next day. After piecing the story together from input one of our sons provided, it was clear that the death occurred the previous day.

All of the official documentation surrounding his death list tomorrow’s date, though not as “Date of Death” but “Date Found.”

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“Found” makes it sound as if he was lost. Well… I guess in some ways he was.

I knew where he was. He was at our lake house in Maine with two of our boys. The same place he had been all summer. I was there visiting them a handful of days before as I traveled to Maine to pick up our middle son to bring him home for his high school summer marching band camp. And, everything seemed fine during that visit.

In fact, what I recall from that weekend visit continues to bring a smile to my face. Peter and I were able to spend some quality time together… neither of us knowing it would be the last time we saw each other. The following Friday, a neighbor would find his body on the floor of our home.

When I would visit Peter during the summer, things were good. And… he was lost. I lost Peter to alcoholism several years before he died.

He had gotten pretty skilled at hiding his drinking, though unable to fully hide it from me. He wouldn’t drink to excess while I was there. He saved that for the time after I would leave… the time when our teenage boys would become the caretaker for their alcoholic father.

His drinking really began as he sought a way to process the grief thrust upon him after our foster son was removed and reunited with his biological parent. It had been nearly two years since we walked out of the hospital with a newborn baby boy. And for all intents and purposes, those who should have known better kept telling us that this would be a child available for us to adopt.

And yet… things didn’t play out that way. And Peter never got over it.

I haven’t either. The difference is that Peter and I grieved loss differently. And I had a lot more supports in place than he did. He worked from home and in many ways lived as the primary caregiver for our boys.

He was there when they got home from school.

He helped with the homework.

He made dinner.

He got them ready for bed.

Because many times, I was at work. In meetings. At conferences. Surrounded by people who played a vital role in my own process of grieving the loss of this child.

Peter was alone. And in an effort to heal his broken heart, he self-medicated… with alcohol.

The alcohol took hold pretty quickly. Before we knew it, Peter was hiding vodka bottles in the house, mixing drinks in his “water bottle” and getting up very, very early in the morning to be able to drink before anyone else awoke.

Peter was lost. And I couldn’t do anything to help him.

When his body was found, I was confident that it was the alcohol that killed him. A later autopsy would suggest otherwise, though the alcohol really didn’t help.

Peter died of a broken heart. Grieving the loss of a child that we dreamed would be our own, his heart stopped functioning properly. Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy is the official medical term for the heart disease with which Peter lived. And yet, no defibrillator or pacemaker was going to be able to stop the inevitable.

I just wish it didn’t have to be so violent.

I just wish it didn’t happen when he was alone. Sure, two of our boys were in the home with him… neither of which possessing the cognitive ability to recognize what was happening or to seek out help.

I just wish I could have been there to hold him, to remind him of how much I love him, to assure him that everything was going to be ok… his pain was ending.

And mine was just beginning.

I wish I had been there for him two years ago today. And, of course, I wish he was here with me now.

Life has gone on, as it always does after loss. My grief has changed… and it has changed me.

It’s bittersweet to say that our boys are thriving. They miss their dad, and they talk about him often. And they have not let the loss keep them from living.

I can say the same.

I still wake up in the bed Peter and I shared.

I still have his pictures on the wall.

I still maintain a section of the closet for his clothes… the shirts that I may occasionally wear myself… the shirts I still find myself lifting to my nose in hopes of still catching the slightest hint of his scent.

And now I’m the one there when the boys get home from school.

I’m the one cooking dinners.

I’m the one helping with homework.

I’m the one doing the things that Peter once did.

For two years I have been raising our boys and living my life without Peter.

For two years I have been missing having him beside me… in our bed, at the table, throughout life.

For two years I have been doing the things I know he’d be proud of.

For two years I have been journeying through grief. Something I will be doing for the rest of my life.

I began by saying there are 600 miles separating me from the place where my love breathed his last. Much like last summer, I have taken our boys on a road trip… seeing sites, visiting family, and making memories.

Right now we are on the return portion of the trip, stopping in two more cities before getting home. It’s a trip I set out on last year in an effort to give our boys something to hold onto, some joy in the midst of our sorrow.

And this year is the same.

And… in little ways, Peter is here. He’s always with us. And he always will be.

And on days like today… the “anniversaries” connected to his death, his memory grows stronger. With each breath, each mile, each bit of laughter and each tear… I am reminded of what an incredible man Peter was. And how lucky I was to have him by my side as long as I did.

It’s just wild to think that two years have passed.

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It is an incredibly vulnerable place to be when asking others to offer endorsements for my book; Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief.

Each request that I sent out was followed by an episode of imposter syndrome.

Who am I to think that people will be willing to read my manuscript?

Who am I to think that people will be willing to provide endorsements for the book?

Who am I to ask people to take time out of their lives to help me?

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And… the responses were beyond humbling.

I have received endorsements from friends, from colleagues, from people I have known, admired, and whose work I have followed for years. And they have said very kind things about my work.

And I have received endorsements from a couple of individuals whose own work parallels in beautiful ways that which I present in the book.

Sharon Salzberg is one of those people.

Sharon is one of the most influential meditation teachers and authors of our time. And her work on lovingkindness… the practice of meeting ourselves and others with compassion rather than judgment has helped countless people navigate loss, uncertainty, and change.

In many ways, my work in Grieving Differently aims to do the same.

To receive an endorsement from Sharon is a gift to me… and her kind words carry great meaning.

When I write in the book about queering the stages of grief, I invite the reader along with me as I question the rules and understandings we have inherited when considering how grief is supposed to look. I dismantle the idea that there is a “right way” to grieve, a correct order and timeline.

Queering the stages isn’t an effort to replace one prescribed process with another. Instead, it is the work of making room for grief in all of its complexity… circular, unpredictable, beautifully messy, and deeply human.

And that work requires compassion… for others, as well as for ourselves.

This book is an invitation to stop measuring, judging, and criticizing ourselves for how our grief journeys unfold. It is an invitation to believe more fully that we are not doing it wrong.

At the heart of Grieving Differently is a hope that in our grief we might treat ourselves with greater tenderness and offer ourselves patience, kindness, and a depth of compassion that we would freely give to someone we love.

That Sharon was able to see this in my book means more than my words can express. So I offer you hers…

In “Grieving Differently,” Rev. Timoth gently guides readers through the challenging and difficult terrain of grief, reminding us that there is no correct way to grieve, but what’s most important is to meet ourselves with compassion and kindness regardless of how the process unfolds.

Sharon Salzberg, author of “Lovingkindness and Real Life”

Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief releases October 6, 2026

Signed copies available now for Pre-Order.

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People die. Relationships end. Jobs are lost. Bodies change. Dreams dismantle right before our eyes. Pets leave us too soon. And the lives we perhaps imagined for ourselves disappear without warning.

We are all “aware” that these things happen. We’ve probably experienced at least one of these particular losses, possibly more, as well as those not on the list.

And to be aware of these things we grieve requires more than simply knowing that loss is part of life.

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Real grief awareness begins when grief becomes inconvenient.

It begins…

when the funeral is over.

when the leftover lilies have wilted and should probably be thrown in the trash.

when the sympathy cards and casseroles have stopped arriving.

when the story has been told more times than we would like… and needs to be told yet again.

when a name that makes everyone else uncomfortable is the only name the grieving person wants to hear.

when the one grieving is still crying months or years later.

when that same person starts laughing, dating, traveling, celebrating, or building a life that others didn’t expect them to build.

Real grief awareness begins when grief becomes inconvenient. Because people can be just as uncomfortable with the ways we begin living again as they were with the ways we fell apart.

Some people want our grief to be visible just enough to prove that we loved the person who died… yet not so visible that it disrupts the room.

We are expected to carry our loss… quietly.

We are expected to remember… not dwell.

We are expected to heal… though only in ways others recognize.

We are expected to move forward… and then when we do, some become suspicious of our moving forward looking too much like joy.

It’s not surprising when grieving people are often forced to navigate not only the loss itself, but also the expectations surrounding how that loss “should” be carried.

And when that is the case, we learn to soften our anger, hide our exhaustion, and reassure people that we are “doing better,” even when we haven’t the slightest clue what “better” even looks like.

This is why grief awareness matters.

August is National Grief Awareness Month.

It is a time when we are invited to learn that grief isn’t measured by how often someone cries, or by how quickly they return to work. It’s not measured by whether someone continues wearing a wedding ring, or by how often they speak the name of the one who died. And it is definitely not measured by how successfully they appear to be “moving on.”

Grief has no timeline. It abides by no rules. It follows no single prescribed path.

We don’t make it through our grief, or complete our grieving and then return to the person we were before.

Grief never ends. It changes. And it changes us.

Real grief awareness is when we stop treating grief as a problem that needs to be solved.

Grieving people don’t always need answers. We need people who are willing to remain alongside us when there are no answers.

We need people who will say the name.

People who will remember the anniversary.

People who will listen to the same story without reminding us that they have already heard it a hundred times before.

We need people who won’t disappear when our grief lasts longer than their attention span.

And we need people who will celebrate with us when we begin discovering that life still holds meaning, and that there is still room for laughter, connection, and love.

I explore all of this in my book, “Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief.”

I show what it is to question the rules we’ve inherited about what grief is supposed to look like. I turn those expectations, examine them from different angles, and ask who they were designed to serve.

I “queer” the traditionally-known stages of grief so that we might make room for experiences that don’t fit neatly within them. And I invite you along on the journey.

This August, perhaps grief awareness can become more than an acknowledgment that grieving people exist. We know we do. So maybe it can become a time for us to commit to learning a truer understanding of grief.

Grief doesn’t need to be corrected, rushed, explained, or navigated in such a way as to make others more comfortable. It just needs room to be true… and messy… and beautifully human.

“Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief” will be released on October 6, 2026. Signed copies are now available for pre-order at GrievingDifferently.com.

No matter what you are grieving… and no matter how you are doing it… know that you are not grieving wrong. And you are not alone.

Be gentle with yourself!

Timoth

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My book, “Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief,” will be released on October 6, 2026. And you can now pre-order a personally signed copy directly from me.

Too many of us have been taught to shape our grief around the comfort of others rather than the truth of our own experience. “Grieving Differently” challenges the expectations placed on grieving people and creates space for grief to be fully honest, beautifully messy, and absolutely human.

There is no one “right way” to grieve.

You’re not doing it wrong.

Pre-order your signed copy today:

GrievingDifferently.com

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I don’t need a specific month to make me aware of how I carry grief in my body. In many ways, I have become an expert at knowing. In fact, we all have. Anyone who has ever endured significant loss… loss of partner/spouse, parent, child, pet, job, relationship… knows what it is to grieve.

And many of us are also well aware of how it is we navigate grief when it comes.

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August is observed as National Grief Awareness Month. For me… it is also “Death Month,” the month in which my husband, Peter’s body was found two years ago. And when that anniversary hits this year, unsurmountable waves of grief will most likely accompany it.

Yet it’s not only at anniversaries, or holidays when the grief descends. It truly never leaves us. It has made a home within us and is now our constant companion… whether we like it or not. Grief never goes away, it merely changes.

And for me, two years out, I can honestly say that my grief and the ways I navigate it have changed.

The frequently with which I find myself sobbing uncontrollably has diminished.

The ways in which my mind and body have protected me from holding too much of the pain have ebbed and flowed.

The desire to stay in bed all day, skip the shower, deprive my body of the nutrients it needs to go on… these have mostly disappeared. I say “mostly” because there are still many days where I find myself wanting nothing more than to keep my head on the pillow, wrap up in a quilt, and stare helplessly across our bed at Peter’s urn on the bedside table.

And there are days now, much more frequently than before, where I find myself living a life I never thought possible without Peter. I am living, laughing, and loving in ways that at times surprise even me.

And I am living, laughing, and loving in ways that make others uncomfortable.

Just as the exhibiting of my grief made people uncomfortable, there seems to be an equal amount of unease when they see me living as I am.

And perhaps that’s what a Grief Awareness Month is for. It’s not to make those of us steeped in grief more aware of our current state. It is to help those around us to let go of their rigid understandings of how grief should look and how it should be navigated.

Bringing Grief Awareness means teaching people about the distinct ties between the depth of our grief and the affects it has on our mental and physical health. It means offering people new ways to view grief beyond what has been deemed “normal” or “expected.” And it means showing them that there is no one “right” way to grieve.

In my book, “Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief,” I show the reader what my experience has been as I grieve Peter’s tragic death. I place my own journey against what many have considered to be the standard stages of grief as birthed by renewed psychiatrist Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and “queer it.”

I look at it from other angles, from the edges, to see how my own experience fails to fall neatly into Kübler-Ross’ stages. I question who those stages were designed for and who they leave out. I discuss the expectations many hold for moving through them and encourage the reader to embody and live their grief in ways that are authentic and true to them.

I never set out to publish a book about my grief journey and what it has taught me. And from those reading some of my early work, I have heard how beneficial it is to share the experience.

And I am so excited to do just that.

“Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief” is set to release on October 6, 2026. I hope you will consider picking up a copy or asking for it at your local library. And I hope it speaks to the grief you carry in such a way that brings you to give yourself permission to grief outside of the “normal” stages.

Visit GrievingDifferently.com to learn more about the journey. There you can sign up for my newsletters and (very soon) pre-order the book. And find ways for us to work together so that I may be a companion on your journey.

No matter what you are grieving… and no matter how you are doing it… know that you are not grieving wrong. And you are not alone.

Be gentle with yourself!

Timoth

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I picked up the chocolate cake last night on a trip to the grocery store. It wasn’t on the list I had compiled in my phone before leaving home though it was listed in bold, 60 font, italicized and underlined on the list in my head.

Paper Towels, bananas, Powerade… and don’t you dare forget the cake!

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Jacob was excited to see me place the cake in our cart. Chocolate is his favorite. Though he did try to get me to buy some red, white and blue cupcakes instead. No… for so many reasons.

Once I told him the cake was for Daddy’s birthday, we moved on… me, fully knowing that he didn’t understand what I had said, or what I was doing. Honestly, I don’t know that I understood what I was doing.

As I’ve shared previously, I’m not one to wish Peter a “Happy Heavenly Birthday!” So I’m not sure what has kept me hanging on to our family’s birthday tradition of chocolate cake.

Perhaps it’s an attempt to remain connected to him in some way. Not that I don’t still feel connected to him. I do. It just feels like the fear of one day waking up without that connection is stronger now than it has been.

Nearly two years have passed since the worst day of my life.

Nearly two years have passed… damn!

Looking back, I have to admit that two years has flown by. What is it they say? “Time flies when you’re having fun?” Well screw that!

Clearly there’s another reason for two years of my life to have seemingly evaporated somewhere between Peter’s body being found and me now typing these words. And the horror of that August night is just as vivid in my memory today as it was then.

I actually had a moment just this morning where an overwhelming feeling of dread washed over me. It was my mind trying to once again convince me that what I know to be true actually is. Peter is dead. Has been dead… for nearly two years. I know this in my bones. And clearly my mind and my heart want to make sure of it.

I can honestly say that not a day has passed where I have not thought of him. I still keep his prayer card in my front left pocket as well as another leaning against his urn on his bedside table.

I still wear his rings… and his necklace… and quite often some of his clothes and his shoes.

I still have three large framed photos of him on the wall just above my monitor.

I still get mail for him.

I still tear up when I hear our song.

Out of curiosity, I scrolled through countless text messages today to see what our conversation was on his last birthday. As was often the case, he was in Maine for the summer with the boys and I was at home. Though reading through the texts it appears that I was able to get to Maine to take him out for a belated birthday dinner just a couple of days later.

The exchange we had on his actual birthday honestly could have occurred on any other day of the year. We shared our “good morning” greetings with each other followed by a few questions and responses back and forth.

Curiously, I never once wished him a Happy Birthday. My gut tells me that I said it to him on the phone. Not all of our interactions were through text… though far too many of them were in his final days.

At least I hope I wished him a happy birthday.

The tone of the texts told me very quickly that something was at play. It was the alcohol. It was the loss of his job. It was the strain of trying to find a therapist. It was all of the weight that Peter had upon his shoulders.

It was my unnamed fear of what the alcoholism was doing to him… to us… to our family.

I’ve read through many of our texts over these past two years… searching perhaps for the glimpses of the man I love in a time when I knew him to be happy. I’ve poured over our words, questioning context and intent. I’ve longed to come across the moments reflected in our texts of our shared life when things were really good.

Because things were really good. For a long time, they were really good. Until the alcohol took hold of him.

God, I miss him!

And perhaps that’s why I bought the cake. Perhaps that’s why I cling to tradition when wanting to acknowledge his birthday in some way.

I’m sure that’s why, as I sit here gathering these thoughts, that my chest tightens, my breath revisits the shallow depths it has returned to countless times. I think I miss him more today than I have in a long time. Or at least that’s what the tears are telling me.

I would do anything to have him sitting at our dining room table tonight after dinner, watching as his face becomes flush with embarrassment when I predictably walk into the room holding his chocolate cake and singing birthday wishes.

I would do anything to see his dimples retreat further into his cheeks with each smile and laugh that he shared.

I would do anything to turn back the clocks, to erase these nearly two years of grief, to have him by my side once again.

I would do anything.

And… knowing there’s nothing I can do to bring him back… I buy him a cake. And I think of him again. I smile. I cry. I thank him for loving me as he did. And I vow once again to love him for the rest of my life.

Perhaps that’s the birthday gift that I will always plan to give him

…along with the cake.

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80 days.

For so many of us, one of the hardest parts of grief isn’t the grief itself. It’s wondering whether we are doing it “right” or not.

We wonder…

If we should be “further along.”

If we should cry less.

If we should have cleaned out the closet by now.

If we should stop talking about them.

Here’s what I want you to hear:

You are not grieving wrong.

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Grief follows no single timeline.

No universal roadmap.

No finish line where someone hands you a certificate that says, “Congratulations. You’ve made it. Your grief is now behind you.”

There is only one way for you to grieve… your way.

And your grief deserves compassion, not judgment.

And that’s what I hope you will find in my soon-to-be-released first book; “Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief.”

It is being released on October 6, 2026.

Today I’m also excited to share that the website for my book; GrievingDifferently.com, is officially live!

It’s the new home for everything related to “Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief.” There I will be sharing updates, launch information, events, and, soon, an opportunity to pre-order your signed copy of the book.

We’re just 80 days away from release, and I can’t wait to share this journey with you.

Visit: www.GrievingDifferently.com

[Interested in being part of the Grieving Differently Launch Team? Fill out the interest form at bit.ly/GrievingDifferentlyLaunchTeam or reach out to me directly. I’d love to have you as part of the Team.]

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There’s a section of my book, Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief (which is scheduled to be released on October 6, 2026) that introduces what I have named as a new Stage of Grief:

Coming Out

In that section I talk about what it is for a person who is grieving to have to “come out” time and time again as…

The grieving spouse

The grieving parent

The grieving child

The grieving neighbor

The grieving citizen

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When grieving we are constantly having to inform others of the catalyst for our grief. Not that we go out and publish a full page ad in the Boston Globe. But we do bring into casual conversations the reminder to us of what has brought on our grief… and share it as new news with others.

And though I find myself having to “come out” as a grieving spouse more often than I would like… that’s not the coming out I’m talking about here.

Yesterday, I came out in a very public way about something that has been held within me for some time. I introduced the world to the love I have found this past year in a polyamorous relationship with my, now, two partners John and Tony.

And I have to tell you… I think I felt even more anxiety while writing the just over 2,000 words revealing this news than I did when I told my mother I was queer.

Since releasing the news on social media and in my Substack yesterday, I’ve had some time to reflect on the experience, the response, and the anxiety that was just below the surface through it all.

Let me begin with the response… because it’s hella joyful!

With each comment that has come in as I share of my newfound love, a smile plants itself on my face with no intent to leave. The kindness shared in the words written is overwhelming. The radical acceptance spoken in comments on a post about a form of relationship that might be quite complicated for some has warmed my heart immensely.

It’s a beautiful change from the online vitriol that I was steeped in during Pride Month. And it was not unexpected.

The people with whom I am connected through social media not only are very dear to me… I know they are good-hearted people. Loving people. Kind people. People that you want to be sure are in your corner for when stuff gets hard.

So honestly, sharing the stuff that got hard for me with these loving, beautiful people shouldn’t have been as anxiety-producing as it was.

And still… it was.

As I reflect on that experience… the fear and the anxiety that I was carrying in my body as I wrote my words to share came from a place that shouldn’t surprise me. It came from the exact place that I’ve known fear has been manufactured for many others for many years.

As I considered coming out as an openly queer man in a relationship with two other openly queer men… I wasn’t as afraid of what people would say as I was fearful for what the institution would declare.

And when I say “the institution,” I mean the church. Though not the local church from which I serve as Pastor to the community. I mean the larger structure of the institution… the one that holds the rules and guidelines and generations of “this is the way we’ve always done its.”

I was not sure what it was going to be for me to serve in a denomination that has had little to no conversation about polyamory… or at least to which I have been privy.

Yes, we are an extremely progressive Christian denomination. And… well, let’s just say that I have been on the receiving end of some not-so-progressive demands, I mean decisions, in the past that caused me to pause before going so very public with my love and my life.

Now, many already know that there is little of my life that doesn’t go public. I’ve grown a substantial following on social media over the years and on probably less than five occasions I have posted something that wasn’t accessible by anyone with a particular platform’s account.

Everything I post, I post publicly.

My Substack is public.

My TikTok is public.

My Facebook is public.

My Bluesky, Instagram, Threads, YouTube…

All of it is public. And I don’t censor my life when I share.

Which I guess is one of the things that was causing me concern in this situation because by not telling everyone about Tony and John, I was not telling everyone about one of the biggest components of my life.

And guess what? Now I have. Now, I have spoken of my new relationship, detailed it in 2,000 words. And now it rests with the receivers.

I’ve already shared how amazing that response has been.

And, much like when I came out to my mother when I was twenty-three years old, the weight that lifted from my shoulders yesterday as I clicked “post” on my post allowed me to stand much taller than before.

I no longer had to hide an important part of who I am.

I no longer had to be cautious in choosing my words when discussing my life with others.

I no longer had to worry about questions that might arise as more and more people see John, Tony and me spending more and more time together.

The weight lifted.

The anxiety dissipated.

The fear… well, in all honesty, there’s still a bit of fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the other shoe dropping. Fear of some hierarchical gavel falling onto my life because someone somewhere doesn’t understand how my life and my love now fits in the boxes which I have occupied all these years.

And as I think of that fear, I think simultaneously of the fear that has been in me at other times when I have spoken truth into the universe.

I know there is always potential for harm to be endured when speaking truth.

I know that there are those in the world who, because they don’t understand what I share, will try to diminish or destroy what I have.

I know that there very well may be some difficult conversations around the corner.

And as long as I remain true to who I know myself to be…

As long as I remain true to who I believe God has created and called me to be…

As long as I remain true to that which that radical Rabbi, Jesus taught and modeled for us all…

I have nothing to fear.

For those who have never had to “come out,” this experience may sound quite foreign. And perhaps I am glad that is the case. Because to “come out” means that there is something being hidden… and the weight of that, the grief of that, the pain of that is quite unbearable at times. And I would wish that upon no one.

But the freedom that comes with naming your truth? Well… it’s beyond priceless.

So thank you to those of you who have hoisted me to cloud 9 these past 24 hours with words of love and encouragement. Many of you have been the ones that sustained me in the time following Peter’s death… as I “came out” as newly-widowed. And many of you are the ones that I know I can lean on when stuff gets hard.

I’m glad to have you in my corner.

And no matter what comes of this big reveal, I know that I’m happier being “out.” And I’m really happy being “out” with these two that I love so deeply.

That which has been kept hidden is out in the open for all to see, and I’m really happy for the freedom that comes with that… the freedom to live life as authentically me.

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That’s actually an option on your Facebook profile when noting your status.

Currently, mine says “married.” There is an option for “widowed” though I just never felt a need to change it after Peter died. In many ways, at least in my mind, I am still married.

I still wear his engagement and wedding rings.

His name is still on our shared checking account.

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And just the other day I had to correct someone on the phone who made an assumption that a previous account would have been in my wife’s name.

“You mean, husband. That’s what you meant to say.”

So to think that I am still married speaks more of the deep connection that remains between me and Peter and less about what I understand to be the legal description for the “surviving spouse” when the other spouse is, well… not surviving.

In fact, I knew very early on as I was making phone calls and checking boxes and filling out various forms after Peter’s death that I was no longer considered to be married. Our marriage ended the moment Peter took his last breath.

“To death do us part.”

Though beyond my Facebook account, I have become quite good at naming my widowdom… widowhood? (is that even a word?). I’ve not been ashamed to take on that marker even though I hate it.

And just like my holding on to the married title, “widowed” will always remain.

Perhaps what I need to do is petition Facebook to switch it up a bit and allow us to check multiple boxes to represent our “Status.”

And if they did… though I’m quite sure they wouldn’t… I would mark several.

Married - check

Widowed - check

And the others? Well… included in my options are things like; “Single.” Am I single? Does that speak to those who are “not married,” or is it more of an identifier for those of us for whom Cupid’s bow can’t seem to land a shot?

There’s also “In A Relationship.” And that is one I could mark as I am, indeed, in a relationship. I’ll say more about that in a bit.

Facebook also lets me choose whether I’m Engaged, In a Civil Union, In a Domestic Partnership (been a while since I’ve heard that phrase), Separated, Divorced, or In an Open Relationship. And if none of those indicators speak to my current situation, I still have the option of landing with “It’s Complicated.”

What relationship isn’t complicated? I mean, doesn’t the level of complication rely largely on your ability to navigate complicated things? Even being outside of a relationship can be complicated. Maybe we should all ask Facebook to let us mark that Status as well.

In reality, what sometimes appears complicated to some is actually quite natural to others.

For instance, I don’t have to think for very long to consider the number of people with which I’ve engaged over the years for whom my relationship with Peter was quite complicated.

There were plenty of folks who couldn’t get past the idea that two consenting adults who happen to be the same sex, could be deeply in love and create a life together that produces an abundance of joy and celebration.

Similarly, I’m sure that for others, the idea of a Civil Union or Domestic Partnership is just dripping with complications.

And don’t get me started on Open Relationships. That would require a lot more words and a significant amount of my time to help the confused move the needle from complicated to understood. Though a worth-while conversation it would be.

Here’s the reality… wherever we land on Facebook’s Status spectrum, someone is going to question our experience.

Those who believe our purpose as humans is to marry and procreate will question those of us who are single, separated, or divorced.

Those who thrive in an Open Relationship may question those of us who are Married, in Civil Unions or Domestic Partnerships… any relationship where monogamy plays an important role. (And I am very mindful that those in these categories; married, civil unions, and domestic partnerships can very well intersect with an experience of an open relationship… it all depends on the couple.)

Those who are divorced may question those of us still married.

Those who are choosing to remain single may look upon those of us in just about every other category and question the value of the experiences.

Do you see what I was talking about when suggesting that just about any locale on the spectrum of relationships can be complicated for someone?

If I ever decide to let go of the “Married” moniker of my Facebook status, I’m quite sure that “It’s Complicated” would be the next stop upon my journey. If for nothing more than the relationship in which I now find myself is one which many do not yet understand.

You see… one year ago, on July 5th, 324 days since Peter had died, I was met by a new love… one that I wasn’t seeking, and one that has been absolutely life-giving ever since.

And that love is so unique that I’m confident some of you reading this are going to struggle to comprehend what I’m about to name. And, it is a love that would have me petitioning Facebook to add yet another moniker to the Status options:

Polyamorous

Rooted in the Greek word, Πολυαγάπη, or “many loves,” the relationship into which I have fallen is a form of ethical or consensual non-monogamy built on open communication, mutual respect, and trust.

You see, one year ago, Tony and John came into my life. And we are now in relationship with one another… all three of us.

And it is absolutely grand. And I can imagine for some of you reading this… it’s complicated.

I’m sure there are many things that go through the mind of someone reading how a man whose husband died nearly two years ago has found love in a relationship with two other men.

First, there are those who will question if this means I am “moving on” from Peter’s death. The short answer is “no.” The expanded answer is; “hell no!” There is nothing that I will experience in the remainder of this lifetime that will ever have me “moving on” from Peter. He is, and always will be a part of me, part of our family, and an ever present part of my life.

Next there may be some who question how I can be in relationship with two other people. Well… it’s easy. I have found a love for each of them, and they for me as well as for each other. And it is a love that works.

I believe we all have the capacity to love more than one person. In fact, I think we prove this more often than we might be willing to admit.

I’m aware that by sharing about my love and my life, it sparks questions for many people, and always will. Because we question the things we do not know.

Believe me, when I first learned of polyamory years ago, I did the same. In fact, Peter and I had discussed whether that was a direction we wanted to take with our relationship. Heck, we even joked with our boys about having three dads instead of two. I mean, come on… what kid wouldn’t want that?

I talked to people I knew then who were living a polyamorous life. I asked about their experiences, their struggles, and their successes. I asked what they saw as best practices, fully knowing that just as there is no one, cookie-cutter path for couples to maintain, those with whom I was speaking were not spokespersons for all things polyamory.

And yet, it was so helpful to hear their perspectives.

They talked about what first brought them to including an additional person in their life. The challenges they had to overcome together. And the many ways in which their lives are much richer because of it.

I asked about balance and rhythm and the ways which those in the relationship received and provided ample time with the others… as individuals, and as a group.

I asked about jealousy, which as I have learned is the quickest and easiest way to short circuit any attempt at an expanded relationship.

And that is one thing I must say about my relationship with Tony and John… jealousy does not exist. What does exist is a mutual respect for one another and a deep, growing love that is sustaining us all.

When Peter died, I had no desire to seek out love once again. I had no desire to bring someone new into our boys’ lives. I had no desire to navigate whatever complicated emotions accompany a new relationship following your spouse’s death.

And as is so often the case… I wasn’t looking for love. And love found me.

I was cautious at first. I wanted to make sure that what I was about to embark on was something that would be compatible with raising our three boys as they are my top priority.

I don’t recall how much time had passed between first meeting Tony and John and asking our boys what they would think if I were to start dating. I do, however, recall the response.

Our middle son didn’t give me a yes or a no… he simply stated; “I was the one that gave you the idea in the first place.” And he was, in fact. On a random car ride he posed a random question, asking if I was going to have a boyfriend. In his own way he was telling me that he was ready.

As our conversation continued, asking permission from the boys to dive into something new, I then asked what they would think if I was dating two people. The response gave me what must be the experience I recall from How the Grinch Stole Christmas as the Grinch’s “small heart grew three sizes that day.”

It was our middle son again who responded to my question without hesitation; “As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

Yup, my heart grew. And apparently my heart wasn’t the only thing that was filled to capacity that night because tears overflowed from deep inside as a flood of emotions swept over me.

My boys wanted to see me happy. And I am.

Tony and John spend a lot of time at our house these days. We share dinner nearly every night, six of us around the table. And to see the interactions between these two men I love and the three boys is nothing short of beautiful.

Tony and John were woven into our family almost seamlessly. They were so eager to learn about our boys, to get to know them, and to be a presence in their lives.

They’ve gone to all of the boys’ concerts and baseball games. They’ve shown nothing but love for our boys. And seeing that, the guard I had up when considering what it would be to bring someone new into their lives quickly eroded.

Tony and John have become part of our family.

And they have been with me through what has been some of the more difficult days I’ve experienced since Peter’s death. Never encouraging me to move on from Peter. Instead, they show time and time again how they want to get to know him more. They aren’t here to replace Peter. No one ever could. They are here to share love with me and our boys. And I couldn’t ask for anything more.

From the outside, our relationship may be complicated for some. But what we are experiencing in it? Pure joy. And a connection that was instantaneous… and continues to strengthen with each passing day.

So yes… my Facebook status could easily read “It’s Complicated.” Yet, as I shared previously, the complication would rest on the shoulders of others… not mine… not ours. We’ve figured this thing out and created an incredible rhythm that works tremendously for the three of us… well, the six of us, actually.

And I am confident that Peter would approve.

I look forward to sharing so much more of what life is bringing my way with these two incredible men in my life… I can’t wait to tell you more about what we have created… the “Unholy Trinity,” as we call it. I can’t wait for you to see that it is, in fact, not complicated at all.

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Somewhere, probably in a tote stored in our basement, there is a “book” that I put together when I was in seventh or eighth grade. I put “book” in quotation marks because it is nothing more than several pieces of paper folded in half and stapled along the fold. If I remember correctly, I decorated the cover in some ridiculous manner. I remember a lot of orange.

Within its pages I wrote a small collection of poems and short stories… very short stories. And I added to the pages a variety of illustrations that my teenage mind thought appropriate.

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I don’t recall any titles or story lines from my writing. What I do remember is the inferred state of mind found within my words.

Thinking back, it is clear to me that I was not in the best mental state when I put it together.

My home life was far from ideal. Having alcoholic parents and an abusive step father took its toll on my young psyche. And the pieces I wrote allowed for what then was a necessary outlet.

The poems and stories were dark. And honestly, if I found myself reading them today I would have great concern for the young person that had been holding the pen. Images of self harm, veiled suicidal ideations, and a poorly-masked existence as miserable as miserable can be. I’m surprised turning it in to my English teacher didn’t earn me a trip to the school psychiatrist… or a padded room in a hospital near by.

The abuse and neglect I endured at home caused me to seek out any and all avenues to more positively negotiate my mental and physical health. And as I look back upon them today I see a collection of survival skills that helped to build the life I am living today… far from the abusive home, far from the thoughts of ending my life, and far from the internal struggle I poured out in words upon the “book’s” pages.

I wrote, without even knowing that to do so was to pour out my feelings, to release myself from the hold they had on me. And it seems I have carried that skill into my adult years.

When I found myself years ago navigating the process of searching for a new faith community to serve…

When I began to accept the reality that my husband was found dead on the floor of our Maine home…

When what is being demanded of me as I now parent our three boys became overwhelming…

I wrote.

I poured my thoughts and feelings into words, many of which have gone no further than the page onto which they are written. And many others have been shared. In fact, much of what I have written over the past two years since Peter’s death now finds its way into a real book, with a real cover.

And today? As our eldest son sends an entire counter-full of items crashing onto the floor… broken shards of glass flying across the room?

I write.

I write to allow the anger and fear an outlet, an opportunity to evacuate the mind that is already filled with enough anxiety and fear to keep a school psychiatrist busy well into the summer month’s at school’s end.

I write to escape, even if for just a few moments, what my life has become without Peter.

I write to distract myself… to give my eyes something to focus on other than the young man stomping his feet, pounding his fists, and doing everything he can to force his neurologically-damaged brain to reset.

I write to force my own mind to move away from thoughts of institutionalizing our son… something we swore we would never do.

I write to escape.

I write to keep myself from crying, to keep myself from breaking down entirely.

I write to keep myself from losing my shit… again.

I write because I don’t know what else to do.

I write because it’s what I have apparently done much of my life when I find myself overwhelmed by circumstances beyond my control.

And I write because I know that when I come to the end of whatever it is my heart and mind have decided I need to say, I’ll experience my own reset.

It allows me to breathe.

To cool down.

To put things in perspective.

And eventually, it allows me to return to the reality that I am parenting a child who lives with severe autism and neurological challenges that stem from early childhood abuse and neglect… both of which occurred before we ever met him.

Writing allows me to reframe the situation… and recognize that our son doesn’t have the same outlets or coping skills upon which I have been able to rely.

Writing allows me to slow my heart rate, lower my blood pressure, and reroute the synapses of my brain that went rogue just moments ago.

And writing about these moments creates a bank of memories… the tough times I have endured, and survived. And it’s much better to store all of that on paper (or digitally) than to carry it around with me.

Without writing to provide that, I’d surely crumble under the weight of it all.

It has taken me a good hour and a half to put these words down. And it also appears as if our son has been able to achieve a reset.

I think I have as well.

Maybe now I’ll take a walk to the basement to rummage through some totes to see if I can find some of my earlier “work.” It might be nice to be reminded of how I have been equipped all along to do these hard things.

Because I know I will need to lean on that skill again… in the not-so-distant future.

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These are the parenting moments of which I am least proud. Typically my anger resides so deep within my being that by the time it makes its way to the surface it’s nothing more than an eye roll or a passive aggressive remark. That’s not the case today. Today, it is on full, fiery display.

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And when I allow myself to take a few thoughtful breaths, I quickly come to the conclusion that the eruption of anger manifested in me shouting loud enough that my throat now hurts has little to do with my son converting his drinking cup into a projectile and more to do with overall circumstances of my life.

I never would have screamed like that when Peter was alive.

I wouldn’t have to. We shouldered the parenting of our three boys and the navigating of their varied diagnosis and disabilities together. And a yoke shared across four shoulders feels far less weighty than across only two.

This morning I, and my two lonely shoulders, collapsed under its weight.

What got me here? What caused our son to bat his full cup of lemonade off the kitchen table? What has me sitting at the keyboard processing not only this morning but the last year and a half?

Here’s how my morning went up to this point…

Some time in the night, our eldest son made his way downstairs to the bathroom and didn’t even come close to hitting the toilet when he vomited. Imagine my surprise when I flipped on the light and was about to enter in.

He hadn’t yet emerged from his bedroom when I made my discovery, closed the door and walked away. A mix of concern and frustration beginning to grow.

And when I opened the door to his room, his greeting; “It puked” caught me less by surprise than that which I encountered as my eyes scanned the room. “It puked,” alright. And as I took him to get cleaned up and dressed, I did as I had already done with the bathroom door downstairs, I closed the door to his room and walked away.

Seeing that our son was no worse for wear, it was only frustration that continued to ratchet up. And no, I don’t believe that when he says; “it puked,” he is referring to himself as “it.” I think, in some miraculous way, he’s garnered enough cognitive ability to scapegoat the blame for the condition of his room.

And this is not the first time I have found our son’s room this way when entering in the morning to start his day. And it won’t be the last. And as much as it absolutely sucks to name that… it’s just part and parcel to what we deal with here in the Sylvia household.

For instance, just yesterday, our son’s greeting as I opened the door was; “It peed.” This wasn’t the first time. And again, it won’t be the last. And let’s just say that that greeting is far more welcome than the one accompanying the literal shit show I encountered last week.

Once our son was dressed and downstairs, I got him his medicine and his breakfast and sat him down at the table to eat. It was some time later, after our other boys had left for school, that things escalated.

I honestly can’t recall what I was doing, which speaks to the mental state I am in. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago when this all occurred and I’m sitting to write about it now with little recollection.

Whatever it was that I was doing, our son was doing something that he shouldn’t have been. And when redirected… he was set off. Now, it is not unusual for him to exhibit frustration when things don’t go his way. I’m sure I was the same way when I was his age. However, with the deficit in expressive language skills with which he lives, frustration comes more frequently for our son. And as of late, that frequency has increased.

Perhaps it’s hormones… or a chemical imbalance due to ongoing adjustments to medication levels. Maybe it’s grief. Whatever it is, our son’s behavior has shifted significantly so that frustration, anger and aggression have become steady visitors… as this morning has shown.

A failed attempt at redirection led to our son’s frustration level spiking, his anger becoming visible and a plastic drinking cup full of lemonade soaring through the air.

And it led to my response which I’m not proud to claim.

How am I not having a nervous breakdown? I’ve asked myself this question numerous times… especially as of late. And the truth is… I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown. I really don’t even have time to sit here and write about it. Though writing seems to be the one thing these days that herds together all of the scurrying thoughts in my mind. I’m sure my meds help, too.

I have far too many things vying for my attention. There is so much more to which I have to tend now without Peter. And it seems I’ve not only reached a limit… I’ve gone over it. And I am currently unable to see a way back.

I place a bucket in the sink and turn on the hot water while I go upstairs to strip our son’s bed, being very careful where I place my feet as I move around his bed.

I begin by mopping up the mess on the floor of the dining room… and the various places the lemonade splashed. I then mop the bathroom and our son’s bedroom. I’ve put the first load of bedding in the washing machine… the same bedding I just washed yesterday.

I do my best to move past what has occurred and to restore a sense of calm to my life and to our home.

I haven’t even been able to take the time to jump in the shower. And now that our son is up and about… and dysregulated… I don’t see that I’ll be doing so anytime soon. Though after cleaning up what I’ve had to clean up… it will be beyond welcome.

Now I know that someone will read about my morning and quickly land in the place that has them saying something like; “Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten so bad?” Or “Why didn’t you ask for help?” To which my beyond-frustrated, unfiltered self might say; “Why the hell don’t you just shut up?!?!” And yet, I know better.

I know that those who ask these poorly-worded question mean no ill will. I know they want to be helpful and just don’t know how to be. They don’t know what to do. And, that makes two of us. I don’t know what to do either.

I don’t know what to do to lessen our son’s frustration.

I don’t know what to do to keep myself from getting overwhelmed.

I don’t know what to do to ensure that I won’t be screaming once again.

I don’t know what to do to regain my ability to focus and organize my time.

I don’t know what to do to.

So I write. I sit in my recliner, laptop before me. I forgo the shower. I try to do as little as possible to provoke our son. I contemplate having a cigar.

A headache has now joined with my sore throat, and emotional exhaustion is making it very difficult to keep my eyes open. God, how I’d love to have a nap.

Instead, I’ll look over the laundry list of things I was supposed to be doing today and see if there’s anything I can salvage. And if not… tomorrow’s another day. Hopefully one without a need to re-wash bedding or re-mop floors. Hopefully one where “it sleeps” and wakes up in a better mood.

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The boys had been in bed for a couple of hours. And I, apparently channeling my dead husband, had fallen asleep on the couch. My background noise, the television, had moved on from one Christmas movie to another. My phone sat squarely on my chest. The sound coming from it belonged to a TikTok video that has been on repeat the entire time I snoozed. I’m sure the content creator appreciated the extra views.

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And though surely concocted by local chambers of commerce, the day for me and Peter was not one to do-over something from the past… it became the one day that we wished we had opportunity to do over. And not because something was wrong… but because everything was right.

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It really was the best day of our life. And today, eleven years later, is our anniversary…or would be our anniversary if Peter were still alive.

Perhaps it’s because I am a glutton for punishment. Or maybe it’s because I needed a way to mark this day with intention. Whatever the reason, the decision to sit down and watch the recording of our wedding was one that brought a flurry of emotions… mixed, painful, and necessary.

I listened to the music again

I looked to be reminded who of our friends and family were present.

I watched as Jacob, then knee high to a grasshopper, walked between us as we made our way down the aisle.

And I heard “All of Me” sung as a surprise for Peter.

Tears streamed down my face as I relived that day… as I watched the man I love stand beside me, preparing to commit what came to be the rest of his life to me, to us. And as I heard Peter speak the words of our shared vows, a familiar response returned.

My stomach tightened.

My chest heaved.

My eyes let loose the tears that have been held up, just below the surface.

My body clearly remembers how to respond when the break in my heart is reopened.

The vows we spoke that day were not written by either of us. We found them somewhere. And when we did, they spoke to us enough that we chose to include them in our wedding.

Done in a “repeat after me” style, I was the first to share them. They were words that spoke of celebrating and encouraging one another, witnessing the growth achieved and the potential that still remains. They were words that, at the time, rung true to what we had been cultivating for the twelve years that led up to “Do-Over Day.”

Hearing Peter speak the final words of our vows caused an increase in tears flowing down my cheeks.

“I give myself, as I am and as I will be. And I do it for all of my life.” (Excuse me while I pull the sleeve of my shirt up to my face to wipe fresh tears away.)

And then when I saw what he did after he spoke these words, it truly broke me.

Index finger raised with his hand facing my direction, Peter bent his finger repeatedly in what those familiar with American Sign Language would know as the letter x. Yet the sign, a byproduct of our shared time learning ASL, took on its own meaning in our relationship.

I honestly wish I could fully recall its full origin. My sense is that it grew from a lighthearted interaction that held our deep, mutual commitment as its base… and the idea that we would be together forever. In fact, “forever” is the word we attached to this movement. And it would be brought out at some of the most hilarious moments… an inside joke known only in our relationship.

When Peter would do something embarrassing he would look over at me, make the symbol with his right hand and indicate that no matter how embarrassed I may be… I’m stuck with him… forever.

When he would do something I wasn’t overly fond of… like taking turns so sharply I feared the vehicle might tip over… he’d look to me with his hooked finger in the air, a huge smile on his face, and say the one word that both reminded me of how blessed I was to have him in my life and how much absolute chaos we would endure together…

Forever!

Clearly we had no concept of forever at the time. And though we didn’t use these words in our wedding, we have now experienced the “till death do us part” part of common wedding vows.

I guess that’s what hit me so hard when I listened to Peter recite our vows as I watched the recording of our wedding today. He named; “I give myself, as I am and as I will be,” (which rings so closely to our choice of John Legend’s “All of Me” as our song) and then followed it with; “And I do it for all of my life.” And then he lifted his right hand, extended and bent his index finger and spoke the one word that in this moment holds enough power to reduce me to a puddle.

Forever!

Peter loved me… gave himself to me fully, as he was and as he became… and he did it for the rest of his life. Peter died having lived fully his promise of loving me forever.

And now I am here without him…

still holding up my end of that promise.

I love you, Blub! Happy Anniversary!

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When we first brought Jacob into our lives, I had a very unhealthy imagination in regard to what it meant to parent a neurodivergent child… and particularly this child who lives with severe autism and a variety of neurological challenges that stem from early childhood abuse and neglect. (Well before we ever met him)

I had it in my head that there was some miraculous way that we were going to “help” Jacob “escape.” I even sat down on his bed with him one day when he was seven or eight, looked deep into his eyes and said some bullshit like: “I know you’re in there… and we are going to do everything in our power to help you break free.”

Like I had the ability to lead my autistic child in some inner mind jail break that would free him to live a life more… more what? Normal? (I hate that word!) No, I wasn’t headed there. I just thought, at the time, that there was something hindering Jacob’s day-to-day living that could be lifted from his young life to allow him to live more free.

How could I have been so dumb?

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Over the years as Peter and I grew into our parenting role with our boys, we also grew in our knowledge around the various diagnosis that follow our boys from room to room and out into the world.

Jacob’s “neurological challenges” diagnosis is probably the most difficult to navigate. There’s nothing concrete about it. And the line between that and autism is so very gray. Most days I don’t even consider them as separate. They are two realities of his life that he will never escape… nor does he need to.

As much as I have grown to better understand Jacob over the years… as much as I have equipped myself with knowledge shared from a variety of experts and other sources… as much as I have done… there’s still so much that I do not understand.

I don’t understand what causes his sterotypies… the involuntary, repetitive, rhythmic and purposeless movements he makes.

I don’t understand what causes his mood to change as quickly as I can snap my fingers. One second he’s laughing that incredible laugh. The next minute he’s trying to dig his fingernails… or teeth… into my skin, or clearing everything off the kitchen counter onto the floor.

I don’t understand what causes him to force his body to vomit once he goes to bed. Is it sensory? Is it attention seeking? If that’s the case… well-played, you got what you were seeking.

I don’t understand what causes him to beat his chest, his stomach, his hips so hard that I have to keep checking to make sure he’s not truly injuring himself. (And not leaving marks… “honestly, Ms. Social Worker… he did it to himself.”)

I don’t understand what causes him to be so fixated on pulling the stitching out of his clothing.

I don’t understand what causes him to roam the house in the middle of the night.

I don’t understand what causes him to jump up and down on his bed.

I don’t understand what causes him to not respond to the recent medication changes… or the previous one… or the one(s) before that.

I don’t understand what causes him to walk repeated laps through our living room, hallway, kitchen, and dining room… head leaning just a bit to the left and his eyes and mind zoned out elsewhere.

I don’t understand what causes him to tap each piece of furniture he passes.

I don’t understand so much about him.

What I do understand is that I love him.

I understand that he will never live independently.

I understand that he will have to transition to some sort of living situation where I can only hope and pray that the staff working with him are patient… and understanding.

I understand that it is going to rip my heart out when that decision is made.

I understand that a transition like that may have to come sooner rather than later.

I understand that I cannot care for him forever.

And I understand that I cannot live in fear.

And I understand that Jacob is doing his damndest at trying to be the best Jacob he can be.

And I understand how much it means to me to be able to be part of the life he is living.

I also understand that I am now rambling. I guess that’s what occurs when we have a night like we’ve had tonight. It’s good to get some words out, clear my mind, breathe a few breaths… so I can get some rest and then wake up to do it all again tomorrow.

This shit’s hard, ya’ll! At times I think I’m going to break. Tonight, I thought I was going to break. Maybe I did… a little.

And then I remember how much I love him, how much it means to me to be his Papa, how much it means to me to be able to provide for him, to protect him, to encourage him, to love him.

And then I remember how much easier this was when Peter was alive.

Tomorrow’s a new day!

Maybe I’ll understand a bit more then.

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When I began processing my grief after Peter’s death by emptying my mind of its thoughts onto digital paper, I honestly had no plan for what I was writing. I simply needed to get the words out.

I shared bits and pieces of the journey on Facebook initially and then here on Substack at the encouragement of others who were reading each piece I wrote. And several times, friends remarked in the comments on my entries a hope that I would do something with all of it… perhaps publish it somehow.

Well… that’s exactly what I’m doing. Who’d a thunk it? (In case you didn’t know what that first word was up top)

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I have signed a contract with Tehom Center Publishing, a press publishing feminist and queer authors, with a commitment to elevate BIPOC writers.

And I couldn’t be more excited!

I first came to know of Tehom Center through a winter cohort of their Ministry from the Margins Books program. And it was there that I truly saw the suggestion others have made about the future of my writing taking shape and aligning with a published work.

The book is titled; Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief, and includes a fair number of the essays I have written about Peter’s death and the widowed life I’ve led since then. And as a queer man grieving the death of my queer husband… well, the title says it all. I am grieving differently in many ways from our cultural understanding of what grief “should” look like.

The skeletal frame of the book relies heavily on the work of renowned psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and grief expert David Kessler. My work with their six stages of grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance, and Finding Meaning) comprises a good portion of the book as I present what it would be to queer each of them.

Now, for some of you the word “queer” may feel a bit out of context for what I’m talking about. Let me unpack it for you.

To queer something is to look at it from another angle, or as I say in the book… from the edges. It is to consider, in this case the standard stages of grief, as something worthy of being questioned. Who does the traditional model for grieving serve? Who isn’t being considered? And how might we broaden the understanding so that different experiences of grief are included?

I found that as I was moving through my own grief after Peter’s death, there were traditional understandings for the process that I embodied from previous eduction on them. And, having never really questioned them, I then felt as if Kübler-Ross’ and Kessler’s stages didn’t fit my experience. So I set out to queer them.

In the book, using some of the essays I’ve written, I show you what this looks like. And with each chapter’s accompanying reflection questions, I invite you to try it for yourself.

Now, what you didn’t hear me say is that this work, in some way, makes the stages more queer… whatever that might mean. I also didn’t say that this understanding of queering grief, or queer grief, is something unique to nor helps solely those in the queer community.

There is much for us all to learn in the effort to queer our grief. And of course, once the book comes out this October, you can see for yourself what I’m talking about.

And yes, that’s right… Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief is set to be published in early October of this year. Squeal!

I have to tell you, this has been such a wild ride. Having others find so much value in what I have written about my own grief journey and then hearing them share how it better informs their own has been a truly humbling experience. So many people have already told me that my words touch them in beautiful ways, and in some cases have helped people better navigate their own grief.

And that is my hope with this book. That is my hope in putting my reflections and my journey out there for more people to access. I hope that it somehow makes a difference in people’s lives.

I know the writing has made a difference in mine.

So… buckle up! Because these next six months are going to be filled with me gushing about the fact that I have a book being published. I’m going to be like that annoying expectant parent who keeps reminding you every time you see them that they have a child on the way. They show you ever ultrasound image they have and bore you to death with their stories and dreams for what is to come.

Yeah, that’s going to be me. I mean, I’ll try to not be too annoying. However… you’ve been warned. So let the gushing begin.

In fact, just yesterday I received the first endorsement for my book from a bestselling author. And I have three others who are interested in reading it and possibly endorsing it as well… one of which is a very well known author, therapist and grief expert. I’m so excited!

It’s all coming together. Whodathunkit?

In the meantime… between now and October, I invite you along for the ride. In large part because you have been so very instrumental in making this all happen. Your feedback. Your kind words. Your support. They all mean the world to me.

Thank you!

And since my book is not yet able to be acquired… may I invite you to consider books from other Tehom Center Publishing authors, some of whom I know personally, and others for which I am grateful for their work.

Check them out at TehomCenter.org… and tell ‘em Timoth sent you!

And stay tuned! More gushing to come

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Peter bought me the sewing machine years ago as an upgrade to one I already had. This one surpasses the original machine significantly… it also does embroidery. Though I’ve never used that feature in all these years.

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What I have done is pieced together many quilt tops. And on a few occasions, I’ve actually finished quilts on this machine. I say “on a few occasions” because I still have several quilt tops that I have created that have been waiting patiently for me to finish them.

As someone who leads from an Enneagram 7, I absolutely love the process of creating a quilt top. I love the visioning, choosing colors and fabrics to cut into pieces… and sew back together again.

I know, I know… some struggle to see the purpose in that… cutting up perfectly good cloth to just sew it back together again.

But I love it! I love sitting at the sewing machine, feeding it various elements of the quilt top. And I love even more seeing it all come together as piece after piece connects and brings the overall vision of the quilt into sight.

Peter’s mother taught me to quilt. And I have thoroughly enjoyed the hobby ever since.

I don’t get to spend much time at the sewing machine as of late… especially over this past year and a half. Rarely do I have time to spend alone… in the basement… at the sewing machine. And I miss it!

When I was not the one sitting at the sewing machine, Peter often would be.

Occasionally, he would create tote bags and wine bags and even worked on a quilt top for Baby Z. Don’t worry… it’s in good company with the other quilt tops I’ve not completed.

Though most often, at least over the past six or so years, Peter would use the sewing machine for other purposes.

I’ve shared previously the propensity our eldest son has to pull threads. He pulls them out of his clothing, backpacks, furniture, coats, bedding. You name it… if it is held together by threads, he’s probably destroyed one (or more) of them.

It’s incredibly frustrating!

Initially, when pulling threads from clothing, it was the stitching from his t-shirts. He’d stretch the fabric at the bottom of the shirt until the thread popped. Then he’d pick the thread out, breaking more off as he went.

The end product would be a shirt where the bottom and the arms were all devoid of stitching. And then, he moved to the sides of the shirts, pulling them apart at the seams.

He finds great joy in this activity. Peter and I have not.

We transitioned him to dress shirts at some point as they seemed to be less likely to have fabric that he could stretch in order to pop the stitching. And for the longest time… a couple of years, at least… it worked.

Until it didn’t.

And since that point, he has continued to destroy his shirts…

At home

At school

On his bus ride to or home from school

And when he would do this… while Peter was alive… I would hear the sewing machine humming downstairs as Peter worked to repair and reinforce the torn shirts.

It wasn’t enough to simply stitch the shirts back together. Peter began using filament thread made from nylon. It was much more durable than the standard threads. It’s the thread I would use when actually finishing one of my quilts. And our son had much greater difficulty snapping it.

Peter would sit at the machine, piece back together our son’s clothing, and hope that it would last… at least a day or two.

At some point over the past six months or so, the shirts no longer sufficed. Our son began destroying his pants as well… most often ripping them right up the seam. He’s done it to various types of pants including jeans… showing he’s quite strong in order to rip them apart.

Some of the pants split right up along the seam, simply popping the stitching used to hold them together. Unfortunately, many others veer from the seam and a rip from the hem to the crotch splits the fabric with an unmistakable sound that I can hear throughout the house… a sound that instantly makes my blood boil.

I don’t know how many pairs of pants I have thrown away.

Those that have been salvageable have been tossed onto a pile that has been growing since Peter died.

I’ve thrown the shirts and pants that I think might be salvageable onto the chair at the sewing table. Not thinking that Peter would once again be sitting there to fix them. Thinking there might come a day when I will.

That day has not come.

The pile continues to grow.

As does my frustration.

This morning I counted just shy of 40 articles of clothing on the chair… 9 pants and 29 shirts. His closet is getting pretty bare.

38 pieces of clothing… plus the countless others I’ve had to discard.

I caught a bit of a “spring cleaning” bug today. That’s what gave me the opportunity to count the clothes in the pile. It’s also what gave me the energy to get rid of some other things that I no longer need.

I could have chosen to use that time to sit down at the sewing machine, feed the filament thread into it, and repair clothing to restock our son’s closet. I chose not to.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. I’m guessing it comes from my grief. Because to sit at the sewing machine again and do as Peter so often did would mean I’d have to sit in that space reminded once again of his absence.

I’d have to face his death once more. And I’m honestly really tired of doing that. In large part because my grief has been stoked repeatedly these past few months as I have been completing the manuscript of a book born of Peter’s death.

The grief fog has returned. I’ve gone back on the medications I celebrated going off of. I’ve had the pit in my stomach, the tears in my eyes, the tightness in my chest as I’ve relived what I have had to endure these past eighteen months since Peter’s body was found.

And I’m not sure sitting at the sewing machine would be the best thing for me right now… not the best thing for my mental health.

So I ordered some new pants for our son… knowing full well that they too could end up on the pile in the next few days. Knowing full well that I don’t have the emotional energy right now to deal with it.

I’ll have to force myself to fix them all at some point. It’s ridiculous to keep spending more and more money on these things he’s just going to destroy.

And yet… I also can’t have him running around in just his underwear.

So I’ll build up the courage to go to the basement again… to sit at the sewing machine… and to do as Peter did while he was still alive.

I’m sure I’ll cry… at least at first. And that’s probably what is keeping me from doing it. I’m sure I’ll cry. I’m afraid I’ll cry.

Not like that’s something new. But this at least feels like I have some control over it. If I don’t sit at the sewing machine, I can avoid it all.

And the pile will continue to grow.

So… someday, sometime, I’ll face that fear, garner the courage, and do this hard thing. Just like I have done every other hard thing I’ve had to do since Peter died.

It’ll suck! And it’ll give me another opportunity to think of Peter. And that’s the positive I’ll have to cling to.

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.

I’ve let go. I’ve given over a piece of me. I’ve invited others to sit with a part of me that I had never imagined I would share… at least not publicly.

And yet, I’ve done it.

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Since Peter died, I have been using my words as a way of guiding my steps through this tumultuous grief journey.

I’ve written of how my heart broke when Peter’s stopped beating.

I’ve written of how little confidence I possessed when thinking of raising our boys without him.

I’ve written of how often I’ve cried.

How often I’ve sobbed.

How often I’ve struggled to breathe.

I’ve written of how hard it is to do this alone.

I’ve written of how brave I needed to be to ask for help.

I’ve written of how it feels to be medicated in hopes of burning off “the fog.”

I’ve written of how much I miss Peter… his laugh, his touch, his dimples… his life.

I’ve written of how I’ve fashioned together the pieces of Peter’s horrific, final moments.

I’ve written of how my dreams have been void of his presence.

I’ve written of how each birthday, each anniversary, each holiday hurts more than the last.

I’ve written of how I have breathed in the same air that once filled Peter’s lungs.

I’ve written of how painful it is to watch our boys navigate the death of a parent.

I’ve written of how difficult it is to be “the surviving spouse.”

And I’ve shared some of what I have written… in part to let it out, to release it from congesting the stockrooms of my heart.

And now, I’ve drawn it all together into a full manuscript… and asked five people to read it through and offer critique.

I feel so very vulnerable.

And yet, much of what is found within the manuscript’s pages has already been widely shared on social media. I’ve invited many to come alongside me as I grieve Peter’s death.

The writing has, at times been cathartic.

The sharing is, at times both humbling and scary as hell.

Grieving Differently: Queering the Stages of Grief is slated to be published in September of this year.

And I cannot wait to share it with you!

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CONGRATULATIONS on a finished manuscript! I hope you do something special to celebrate.

It was just over a year ago when I began my journey with Tehom Center Publishing as part of their Winter “Ministry from the Margins” Cohort. At the encouragement of many of you, I had decided to see what it would take to put the writing I had done since Peter’s death into some sort of published work.

Yes, I had “published” much of it already on my various social media platforms. And now I was looking to see what might come of it from there.

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I think I first learned of the Tehom Center on Facebook. They are a nonprofit press that publishes the works of marginalized voices… with an intentional uplifting of authors who are BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Color) as well as those who know themselves to be feminist and queer.

And with just a toe in those deep waters as a cis-gender, white male, I am honored to be working with them… and so very grateful for the guidance I am receiving along the way.

In the first session of our winter cohort I recall sharing an idea birthed from my grief journey. Relying heavily on the pieces I had already written about life since Peter’s death, I wondered what it would be to publish them in a book about queer grief. And having done an internet search for “queer grief,” I found that there was not very much out there as for resources specific to the queer experience in times of great loss.

I knew in my bones that the grief I am living is unique. I am the only one who was married to Peter. Well… I was the one married to him when he died. That first marriage of his… we’re not going to talk about.

My grief is unique because it was my husband who died. And my grief is also unique because I am queer. It is so very different to navigate the death of a spouse when not adhering to many of the culture’s neat little boxes for marriage and relationships.

And ultimately, that is what I set out to write about.

Working with the incredible Rev. Dr. Angela Yarber, the founder of Tehom Center, I moved step-by-step through the writing process that has now culminated in that glorious message of CONGRATULATIONS she shared with me recently.

And yes, I do, indeed, have a finished manuscript in my possession.

Well… there are still a few little things to add. For the most part, it is complete.

I have to add the Dedication. That ones easy. Because he would constantly insist that I am destine to do more than pastor local churches, this book is dedicated fully to Peter. He was my greatest support. My cheerleader. My advocate, encourager, and number one fan.

And he was… he is, my muse.

This book is for him. And it puts a knot in my stomach to acknowledge that this book is also because of him… because of his death. I obviously wouldn’t be writing about my own queer grief if he were still alive.

I also need to add my Acknowledgments to the manuscript, giving thanks for others who have been instrumental in this process. And this one is tough… only because there are so many people I want to thank. There have been so many people, so many of you who have walked alongside me and our boys this past year and a half. I know that I would not be where I am today, upright and taking nourishment, if it weren’t for you. You all have drawn me out of what was once a quivering, sniffling mess and shown me what it is to keep living.

I know I won’t be able to name you all. I do hope I have had opportunity along the way, as well as in the years to come, to make it known to you how much I appreciate you and your presence… even if your name doesn’t appear on the pages of the book. So as to not leave anyone out, I will probably keep the Acknowledgements more succinct by focusing primarily, if not solely, on those who have had a hand in making this book a reality.

In addition to these two pieces, I’ll be adding a “Note from the Author” as well as some summary thoughts. And then with that… the manuscript will be complete.

Well… it is still being proofed. And proofed again. And proofed a few more times… by me and others… before it is handed over to Tehom Center in preparations for publication and release in October.

Oh… let me tell you a bit more about the book itself. Yes, I stuck with “queer grief.” I focused the bulk of the book on what it was to navigate the well-known stages of grief made popular by renowned psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in addition to also including the work presented by grief expert, David Kessler in his book; “Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief.”

And I have birthed, from my own queer experience, one additional stage. “Coming Out” is the seventh stage presented in the book. And, not surprisingly, it is an incredibly meaningful section of the book for me.

To stay with “queer grief” and what that experience has been for me, I have leaned into the idea that I, and so many others, do not often grieve as expected or anticipated based on scholarly grief work. We queer our grief.

And so the book itself sets out what could be the choreography for a life-giving dance through grief’s various (non-linear) stages as I detail what it is for any of us (queer or not) to “Queer the Stages of Grief.”

I cannot be more excited than I am in this very moment for what this has become. And yes, I hate that it is only possible because of Peter’s death. And I also know that in this book’s publication, and in the sharing of our story, Peter’s memory will live on as a blessing to all who move through its pages.

The process of putting it together has proven that for me. I hope it will be the same for others.

So… the manuscript is (nearly) complete. The process that leads to publication is well underway. And this October, what I am calling “Grieving Differently” will make its way into the hands and hearts of others whom I can only hope will find worth within its pages.

I look forward to that day!

Hey… if you’ve read this far, be sure to check out Tehom Center Publishing at tehomcenter.org. Perhaps you or someone you know who finds themselves in a marginalized community could be one of Tehom Center’s next published authors. I’d be excited to read what you share

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18 months

78 weeks

547 nights

And not a moment passes without an image of Peter or the life we shared filling space in my mind.

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Yesterday, Friday, February 13, I sat for the third of what will be six sessions to complete a tattoo sleeve on my left arm.

6 sessions

Over the course of 6 months

40+ hours

Lots of pain… and blood… (and money)

And a finished product, a stunning piece of art that will be with me for the rest of my life.

The full sleeve is inspired by images that Peter captures with his camera… photographs of various flowers that he loved…

sunflowers

allium

phlox

clematis

In addition, I’ve asked the artist to incorporate daisies into the overall design (my favorite flower) as well as alstroemeria, the flowers Peter and I always kept in our home - and I still do.

And attending a few of the various flowers are bumblebees created from those also photographed by Peter.

The sleeve is built around an existing tattoo on my forearm which I acquired last spring. It says; “I love you, Blub!” in Peter’s handwriting. And as of yesterday, the new sleeve is covering up an old tattoo with which I’ve long been less-than-pleased... a tribal profile image of Jesus.

Yes… I said goodbye to Jesus yesterday.

The entire process has been cathartic. And it is a process I am beyond pleased to have taken on.

A year and a half in to this wilderness journey has me in a very different place than when Peter’s body was first found.

The boys and I have found a rhythm for life that allows us to thrive even without Peter by our side.

I’ve learned how to balance the parenting split personality of “good cop/bad cop.”

I’ve found ways to maintain routines…

For our boys

For me

For our two homes

I’ve learned how to cook… and how to plan for meals accordingly

And as I have often remarked with a hint of surprise… I’ve been able to keep our boys alive this entire time.

Life has changed drastically since Peter died. I almost feel guilty when I recognize how well we have been able to adapt to his absence.

And than I recognize… we didn’t have any other option. Peter’s sudden death launched us into a way of being that none of us would have chosen. And even though it was forced upon us, we have learned to live differently.

I’ve continued in my work and ministry.

Our boys have continued to thrive in their educational journeys.

In many ways, it’s as if some things haven’t changed at all. And yet EVERYTHING has changed.

And despite all that has changed… I’ve somehow found a way to live.

The tattoo memorializing Peter is bringing me new life.

Watching our boys mature and succeed is bringing me new life.

Leaning into my own self-awareness is bringing me new life.

Carving out time for myself… often with a cigar and a good book… is bringing me new life.

And speaking of books… the effort I have been undertaking, capturing the whole of my grieving experience in words, and the prospect of publishing my first book based on that work, is bringing me new life.

I’ve found a way forward.

I’ve found a way of being without Peter by my side.

I’ve found a way to carry on with all that he has given me.

I’ve found a new life…

And not life void of Peter’s memory or recognition of his immense impact on the entirety of who I know myself to be.

I’ve found a new life… a new way of living… built on what we had… now without him.

And I’ve not done it alone. Peter is still a huge part of my days, my decisions, my moving forward… his love will forever be with me.

In my heart,

my mind,

… my skin.

And… (drumroll, please)

New love has been found.

Love that is giving me new life.

Love that will never replace Peter.

Love that builds on all that he gave me.

Love that meets me where I am… and holds me gently.

Love that is helping me to grow.

Love that…

celebrates my successes,

makes room for my mistakes,

puts up with my quirkiness,

embraces our boys,

Love that welcomes having Peter as part of the journey… and shows me once again what it is to be loved.

Today is Valentine’s Day… one day shy of marking the year and a half since Peter died.

A “holiday” forever acknowledging the love I have for Peter, the life we had together…

and now the new love I have found.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

More to come…

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