Grief Journey - Remembering my baby brother

Yesterday marked six years since my baby brother, Michael Fisher, passed away. Facebook reminded me first thing yesterday morning. Last year I was still on my social media hiatus, so I observed the anniversary quietly as we were just closing on our home here in Washington state. This year…I honestly didn’t know how to acknowledge it at all.

Grief is a strange companion on this journey. It never really leaves. Sometimes it shows up as joy when a memory catches the light just right. Sometimes it hits like a lightning bolt and suddenly you’re crying during Cheerio commercials for reasons you can’t even name. Most days, it’s just a small gnawing under the surface...always there, always digging.

And the older we get, the more grief becomes part of who we are. We keep losing people we love. We keep saying goodbye. My middle brother, Craig, and I are the only two left in our immediate family, and he’s dealing with some tough health issues right now. So when I felt myself starting to sink yesterday morning, realizing what day it was, I tried to shift my focus toward the joy Michael and I had shared over the years.

My baby brother and I had a strained relationship in the last few years of his life. But a few months before he died, we reconnected. We talked. We were honest with each other and I saw more of the Michael I grew up with than I had seen in years as he was battling liver cancer. That conversation is still fresh in my mind, and I’m grateful for it every single day.

The lesson grief keeps teaching me is simple: it’s proof that we have loved. My super-smart trophy husband always says that the more we love someone, the bigger the hole left behind when they're gone. And he’s right. 

Grief is hard, but imagine what a sh*thole world this would be without love at all.

So if you’re struggling to carry your own losses, I just want you to know that I see you. You’re not alone in this strange, tender, complicated thing we call grief. 

Maxxing Out Decency

I keep seeing all these “‑maxxing” trends online — looks‑maxxing, dopamine‑maxxing, productivity‑maxxing, gym‑maxxing, even fiber‑maxxing. Everybody’s trying to optimize something.

So I want to introduce a new trend: decency‑maxxing.

Decency‑maxxing is about learning to see each other as actual human beings again. It’s choosing dignity over cruelty, even when it’s easier to be dismissive. It’s respecting other religions and cultures without acting like someone else’s identity is a threat.

It’s remembering that politeness and courtesy aren’t weaknesses. They’re signs of strength — the kind that doesn’t need to tear someone down to feel tall.

It’s being willing to apologize when we’re wrong, even when our pride doesn’t want to. It’s showing empathy for people who are struggling — the poor, the sick, the folks living on the margins because society keeps telling them they’re “not enough.”

Decency‑maxxing means treating people as equals instead of deciding who’s “worthy” or “unworthy” based on how they look, how they vote, where they come from, or what they believe.

If we’re going to max out anything, maybe it should be our capacity to care for one another. That’s the kind of trend I’d love to see catch on.

A year???

One Year Later: A Little Life Update

A year ago this week, we were doing something absolutely wild: accepting an offer on our home in West Sacramento and preparing to move to Washington with no house lined up. Zero. None. Not even a “maybe.”

We booked an Airbnb for a month, packed everything we owned into pods, stuffed the Altima and Frontier with whatever personal items we could cram in, and hit the road around 8:30 a.m. on September 11th, 2025.

I still remember doing that final walkthrough of our West Sac home — the one we thought would be our forever home — and just losing it. Full tears. Life had other plans, apparently.

Fast forward to today: we’ve been in our mid‑century home on the Washington coast for ten months now, and yesterday (yes, yesterday) we finally finished our kitchen remodel. 

Add that to the electrical work, refinished floors, foundation repairs… honestly, at this point, the house should probably send us a thank‑you card. It’s been a journey, and it’s definitely not done, but we love it.

On the personal side, I’ve found a new church home and I’m studying to be a lay minister in the United Methodist Church — something I never would’ve predicted a few years ago, but it feels right.

Lucy, our 15‑year‑old pit bull, is happy, healthy, and living her best senior‑dog life. We’re so blessed to still have her with us.

And then this morning hit me with that weird time‑warp feeling: how has it already been a year? It doesn’t feel like a year. I still miss our old life sometimes — the familiar routines, the people, the comfort of knowing exactly where everything was. But I’m also loving this new chapter. It’s messy, unpredictable, and full of projects… but it’s ours.

Just wanted to share that today. Time flies. Life changes. And somehow, we keep finding our way.

Life Aligned to Purpose

 

I recently took part in a workshop at work called “Life Aligned to Purpose.” It was one of those rare sessions that holds up a mirror…sometimes uncomfortably. It asked us to look honestly at who we are, what we carry, and what we’re called to offer the world. As part of the process, we had to write a personal purpose statement.

 
What came out of me was a truth shaped by every moment I’ve been told to shrink, to quiet down, to blend in, to make myself easier for the world to digest. Because society punishes difference, and works so hard to dull the light in anyone who dares to shine differently.
 
This purpose statement is the result of that workshop… but it’s also the result of a lifetime of being told I'm of lesser worth:
 
My purpose is to be of service — to offer hope, courage, and a reminder of worth in a world that works overtime to convince people they have none.
 
We live in a society that increasingly trying to bully us into submission; that rewards conformity and punishes authenticity. It tells people to quiet down, blend in, stay small, and never shine too brightly. It shames difference. It mocks tenderness. It treats uniqueness like a flaw instead of the miracle it is.
 
But from this moment forward, I refuse to let my light be dimmed. I refuse to shrink so others can stay comfortable. I refuse to participate in the lie that any human being is “too much,” “not enough,” or “unwelcome.”
 
My purpose is to live openly, honestly, and without fear — not for attention, but as an act of resistance in a world that benefits when we doubt ourselves. I want my life to be a reminder that we were never meant to fit into the narrow boxes society builds for us. We were not meant to fit in. We're meant to stand out. To shine. To take up space. To be fully, beautifully ourselves.
 
I want to spend my remaining days lifting people up, reminding them that they are loved, that their story matters, and that their presence is a gift. If my voice, my courage, or my authenticity helps even one person feel less alone, then I am living my purpose.
 
Because hope is contagious. Courage is contagious. And when one person refuses to dim their light, it gives others permission to let theirs burn brighter too.
 
So, in the immortal words of Shrek: Let your freak flag fly, people!!