August 15th: The Day Everything Changed

August 15th: The Day Everything Changed

August 15th will always be the day everything shifted for me. The line in the sand. The before and after. The date that split my life into two halves—the person I was before and the person I’ve been stumbling through becoming since. It’s the day I can trace back almost every ripple of who I am now—my exhaustion, my grief, the unraveling, and even the ways I’ve been forced to rebuild myself from scratch. It’s the moment the world broke, and somehow, I had to learn how to live inside the cracks.

My dad had always had health problems. It was almost like a second shadow that followed him everywhere. We begged him for years to take better care of himself, to listen to his doctors, etc. But he brushed it off the way dads so often do—saying he was fine. If you’d seen his medical chart, you’d probably think it belonged in its own three-ring binder. Retired Navy, years of hard living, decades of smoking and drinking and pushing his body past its limits finally caught up to him in retirement.

What he didn’t talk to us about much was his time in the service. Dad was quiet about that part of his life, like it lived in some locked room he rarely opened. Every now and then, though, a fragment would slip out. He’d joined right out of high school, barely eighteen, and before he could even figure out who he was, he was thrown onto a ship headed toward Desert Storm. I think about that sometimes—that he was still practically a kid, carrying the weight of a war he didn’t choose. One time, he told us about how, when word got around that their ship was headed into war, people actually jumped overboard. Jumped into the ocean rather than face what waited for them. I can’t even wrap my mind around what it must have felt like to be standing there, 19 years old, watching your peers choose the unknown of the waves over the certainty of combat. Dad never elaborated much after sharing that. Just a short silence, a shake of his head, and then he’d move on to another subject. But I think those images stuck with him. I think a lot of things did.

Looking back now, I wonder if some of the struggles he carried later—his health, his mental health, his battles with himself—were rooted in that time. Maybe even guilt. He spent years as a Navy recruiter after he came home, convincing young people to enlist. He never said it outright, but part of me believes he carried the weight of sending other people into the same storms he never fully escaped himself.

But that last Thanksgiving, though, something shifted. He actually admitted—out loud—that he needed to change. That he was ready to take better care of himself. For us, that was huge. If you’ve ever had a parent who was both stubborn and set in their ways, you know what a moment like that means. It felt like a corner we’d been trying to turn for years had finally come into view. We had hope.

And then, just a few months later, everything unraveled.

That Sunday, he told us he wasn’t feeling great. Nothing dramatic, nothing that sent up alarms. To be honest, he never "felt good." He just said he had a cough he couldn't shake. He had an appointment later that week for more tests. We all thought it was just another blip. Life was still moving forward. He was here one day, talking about results, about next steps. And then he was gone.

He was just gone.

Mom told me later how that Monday morning started just like every other. She got up at 4:30 and started her workout. That was her ritual—her sacred time before the day began. Somewhere in the middle of it, she realized she hadn’t heard Dad cough in a while. The silence was so unusual, it caught her attention. So she went to check on him. And there he was. In bed. Not breathing. Somehow, she pulled him off the bed and started CPR. The adrenaline must have surged through her body, because she managed it. My mom was strong, but my dad was 250 lbs. I have no idea how she managed to pull him off. That was my mom. Even in the middle of chaos, she was tough, practical, a little sarcastic. But the thought of her on that floor, all alone, trying desperately to save him? That image has never left me. I don’t think it ever will. Ironically enough, weeks later when she felt the bump in her stomach she thought she had re-tore a hernia she just had to have fixed. Little did we know that was actually her liver full of cancer.

Then came the phone call. “Don’t ask any questions. Three-way your sisters now,” Mom said.

It was 7 a.m. on a Monday. Just the day before, everyone had been at our house celebrating Mom and Dad’s birthdays. Everything was normal. I was planning out next house project, everyone was just hanging out. He left early, but that was the norm. He would typically just stand up and say bye to everyone, but this time he went around to each individual person to say bye. It was strange. Makes me wonder now what was going through he head when he did that and if he thought something might happen.

Something in me already knew. My body reacted before my brain caught up. And the trauma of that moment? It’s woven into me. To this day, if my phone rings early in the morning, or at some strange, unexpected time, my chest tightens, my heart races, my brain flashes straight back to that moment. Even certain people calling me unexpectedly at normal call times has my heart racing - waiting for the bad news. People don’t always realize how deep that kind of trauma embeds itself. It doesn’t just live in your memory. It lives in your body.

There were some red flags going into the hospital that I definitely should've read as a sign he was gone. The hospital they took him to wasn’t equipped for something like this. They stuck us in this little family room, and it felt like time just… stopped. It felt like hours passed, though it could’ve been minutes —I honestly couldn’t tell you. Finally, the doctor came in and told us his heart had just stopped. “COVID pneumonia,” they said. Which made no sense because he had literally just tested negative days before. None of it added up.

My sister was the first one to break the silence: “WHAT THE FUCK.”And my mom, almost in a whisper, said, “Why?..... His heart? He never had issues with his heart. The only thing he didn’t have issues with…” Her voice cracked.

And just like that, my world shattered.

The rest of that day is kind of a blur. I remember my mom going straight into action mode because that’s who she was—calling people, gathering paperwork, asking all the hard questions none of us were ready to face. But then there was this one moment when she turned around, eyes wide with panic, and asked, “Am I going to be able to afford the house?” That was the only time I saw her truly crack. They had been married over 30 years. They’d moved across seven states together. Built this whole life side by side. And in an instant, she was left standing in it alone.

People sometimes say maybe it happened this way because Dad couldn’t have survived Mom’s cancer. And I think they’re right. If she had gone first, he wouldn’t have lasted long. But I also know he would’ve been the most incredible caretaker for her. He would’ve made friends with every nurse on the floor, cracked jokes during the worst moments, made her feel safe. That was just who he was. He could make friends with anyone—literally anyone. He’d come home from a haircut with his barber’s cousin’s phone number “in case you ever need a roofer.” The gas station clerk knew him by name. Anytime we had a problem, he’d say, “Don’t worry, I know a guy.” And we’d all roll our eyes because of course you do, Dad.

And then, before we could even process losing him, not even three months later, Mom got her diagnosis. A terminal diagnosis. We hadn’t even caught our breath, and suddenly we were staring down the reality of losing her, too.

I wasn’t prepared. I don’t think anyone ever is, but I really wasn’t. I thought I had decades left with them. But the truth is, I never thought about losing them at all. Who does, until it actually happens?

That was three years ago. And the exhaustion hasn’t really left me since.

Losing my dad cracked something open in me that I’ve been trying to stitch back together ever since. Then, losing Mom just months later—it was like the ground I was standing on disappeared completely. Everything I thought I knew about stability, about safety, about who I was—it all collapsed.

People tell you the first year of grief is the hardest. And in many ways, it is. But the second & third year? For me, it was worse. The first year, we were too worried about mom and her treatment to even process dad being gone. It didn't fully hit me until mom was gone, too. I tried to outrun the pain and the emotions by never slowing down. And yet—the pain is still there. Just as sharp. Just as heavy. Only now, it’s lonelier. Every day that passes is another reminder that they're never coming back. Every day is another day further away from them. And the exhaustion? It multiplies. You’re tired from carrying it all. Tired from pretending you’re okay in rooms full of people who don’t see the ache behind your smile. Tired from trying to rebuild a version of yourself that feels unfamiliar, like a stranger wearing your skin. That’s something grief doesn’t get enough credit for—it’s not just sadness. It’s bone-deep exhaustion. It’s walking through life like a ghost, half here, half somewhere else. It’s losing yourself along with the people you loved most.

Some days, I feel like I’m starting to find my footing again. Like maybe I’m piecing together a version of myself I can live with. Other days, I feel like I’m back at square one—sitting in the rubble, staring at the emptiness, wondering how I’ll ever move forward. Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s waves. Sometimes they lap gently at your feet, other times they crash so hard you can’t catch your breath. And you never really get to choose which kind of wave hits you.

Three years later, I’m still here. Still piecing myself back together. Still exhausted, yes—but also still searching. Still trying. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe grief isn’t something you finish or overcome. Maybe it’s something you learn to carry, even when it’s heavy.

Because even when you don’t know who you are anymore, even when you feel like a stranger in your own skin—you keep going. You keep searching. You keep rising.

Even if all you can manage is one breath at a time