I had a plan. At least a loose idea of one.
Occasionally I’ve found myself mentioning to Joe that I miss writing. That I miss photography. That I miss engaging in my old once-comfortable online spaces.
At the same time, I feel like I’ve lost my spark. It’s been years since I’ve readily found words that feel worthy of sharing. My creativity well seems to have dried up.
Like an atrophied muscle, I knew it would require time, patience, and some fumbled attempts to start regaining what I’d lost. So I concocted a plan. A plan that was as much procrastination as it was a strategy.
I’d wait till February and then start dipping my toes back in.
Our first wedding anniversary seemed like a fitting time to finally share about my amazing husband and our incredible family. I would post pictures and muster up words that I already knew would be inadequate, but would nonetheless be my humble attempt to capture the essence of the Pelzinos.
February. That was my plan. Maybe by then I’d be able to summon the words as well as the courage to start writing again.
But then the unthinkable happened.
And the immense highs of this year were eclipsed by the unimaginable.
February 2023. I married the love of my life on an empty beach in Costa Rica. Joe and his three children had come into my life in the most unexpected of ways and times. My new family — imperfectly perfect — are worth every bit of struggle and the years of waiting…
August 2023. Adopting our youngest came together so quickly and sweetly. Eli and I already had such a beautiful and strong relationship — the legalities were certainly not what created or even fortified that. But they demonstrated it loudly and magnificently.
October 2023. Life stopped and our world was shattered when our 21 year old son, Logan, passed away in an accident. The grief swallowed our family like a rogue wave, and we are still working on regaining our footing. This holiday season has been painfully hard — all the firsts are, really — and I’m grateful for the life preservers we have to cling to. Friends and family have shown up for us in significant ways, carrying us when we haven’t felt able to hold ourselves up. And therapy is keeping our heads above water as we try our damndest to move through this incomprehensible loss in the healthiest way possible.
I wrestle with how to hold space for the bests and the worsts of our lives occurring in a short nine-month span. The juxtaposition of joy and grief — and giving ourselves permission to feel both, oftentimes simultaneously — is more challenging than words could possibly convey.
But this year can’t end without me finding and using some words. So here they are.
Logan, you are loved. You are missed. And nothing is the same without you here.
