One of the most important things I did in my early grief was deceptively simple: I walked. Every single day. Before the house woke up. In the cold, the rain, the snow. Whatever the weather was, I met it. I put my body in motion when my mind felt completely stuck. I listened to podcasts—especially Terrible, Thanks for Asking—hearing other grieving parents speak honestly about loss so I wouldn’t feel so alone in mine. I listened to every episode. It felt like companionship when isolation was heavy

We’re back at Big Sky—the place where my son William died. And I keep asking myself the same question: am I out of my mind for returning… or am I doing something profoundly brave? The truth is, I swing between both. There are moments I can’t believe I’ve set foot here again. Moments when the ground feels heavy with memory and loss. And then there are moments when I feel strong—almost powerful—watching my living children ski, watching them love the mountain their brother loved so much. I don’t kn