The Post I Am Glad I Wrote

Last week, I published “The Post I Never Wanted to Write.” As I was preparing to publish it, Carmen and I read through it several times, bawling our eyes out each time. When I hit “publish,” we didn’t know what would happen, but we wanted her story “out there.” We hoped the post would land gently. We anticipated some who read it to reach out. 

We received countless messages of kind, supportive words, of virtual hugs, and of offered prayers. What we didn’t expect was for the post to gather people. Many people shared their own stories of caregiving, of long-held grief and pain watching a loved one struggle, of gratitude for sharing our story so they did not feel so alone. 

The image that kept coming to me was that of a campfire. Let me explain. In Uncharted Moments, I retell the stories of Carmen and me as we traveled the Lewis & Clark Trail. Many days, in fact, most days ended with us sitting beside a campfire. There we would quietly reflect on our day, on trials and the joys. To this day, we still do this at the end of each day. 

I think about Lewis and Clark and the people of the expedition. Every day was filled with toil, challenges, and hardship. But also new sights, sounds, and experiences. Each night, they would build a campfire and gather around. It was more than warmth to dry their wet clothing and warm their tired bodies. They told stories of the day, the fear of facing a grizzly, the pain of prickly pear cactus piercing their moccasins,the wonder of seeing thousands of bison, or the waterfalls, and the mountains. Those who could would journal. 

The river demanded everything by day. The fire gave something back at night. 

That’s what this week felt like. Not progress. Not answers. Just presence. 

What I thought was a single story became a shared fire.

Caregivers found each other. People told stories they’d been carrying alone. Some grief was new; some was decades old. 

The common thread wasn’t disease. It was love that refuses to leave. 

Resilience isn’t built by powering through. It is build by stopping long enough to be seen. 

Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t paddling harder. It’s sitting by the fire and telling the truth about the day. 

I’m glad I wrote the post. Not because it was easy. But because it reminded me that none of us are meant to carry these stretches alone.

The river keeps moving.

The fires keeps burning. 

For now, that’s enough. 

We proceed on — together.