Woods Writes
In August 2020, my son Cooper died by suicide. I knew immediately that my world was forever changed. Not long after Cooper died, I read It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine. Then I read it again. Then I read certain chapters yet again.
Around that same time, I began journaling almost daily. I enjoy writing and find it cathartic in ordinary circumstances. In these heartbreaking weeks, it was far more than cathartic. It was healing on many levels.
In January 2021, the book and my journaling came together; I joined an online therapeutic writing group started by Megan Devine. The group lasted for 30 days, ending in early February. I just kept writing.
At this point, writing is the most helpful, soothing thing I can do for myself. Anyone can read my words; nobody has to. I can find some semblance of peace, temporary as it is, without always dragging friends and family into the messiness of my grief.
On Resting Places
Memorials. Resting places. Bodies. Ashes. What do we do? Where do we do it? How often do we visit? The “what to do” question was never a question for us; Coop left a handwritten note on top of his Bible in his bedroom, letting us know there should be enough money in his account to…
On Dessert Tables and Scars
When I was younger, the walnut drop-leaf table, better known as the dessert table, was stretched to capacity and turned diagonally in the small kitchen; it was the Christmas Eve dessert table at my grandparents’ house. The rest of the year, leaves removed or dropped, the table was just there, snugged up against the peninsula’s…
On a Dutch Oven and Apex Predator
August 24, 2020 “Will you please just put this pan in the basement?” That was my request to my husband, and the pan in question was Cooper’s Griswold No. 9 cast iron Dutch oven. Hours earlier, our world—our family—had imploded. Days earlier, Coop had made supper in that pan, but he’d neglected to clean up.…
On Huggers and Hug-ees
This week I’ll finish my fourth school year After. Four full school years. This is the first year I didn’t take a “Cooper” day to recover from a surge of grief. I had hard days and I had sick days (covid and pneumonia will do that), but no “Cooper” days. These realities—both the fact that…
On Coffee Club and Fixing It Yourself
“Life is short. Fix it yourself.” That’s the sentiment on the front of my most comfortable T-shirt. I love that shirt. It’s well-made, fits just right, goes perfectly with jeans—all the important T-shirt qualities. But those words . . . I sort of want to amend that saying. I can’t fix life myself. I can…
On Paint Splatters, Sawdust, and Weird Love
A year ago, the scene shop was pristine. Now, it has paint splatters on the floor, closets full of supplies and equipment, and sawdust in the cracks. And you know what? I love that space more now than I did when it was perfectly clean and hardly used. Somehow, the shop is more real now.…
On The Wild Child Welcoming Committee
Tonight, my heart breaks not for myself, but for a family I’ve known and loved for decades. Tonight, I usher in new members to this hideous club—Moms and Dads Who Know. It’s still so easy, more than three years later, to remember the earliest days of grief—the days of sorrow’s exhaustion and confusion and physical…
On Flipping Off the Pit
The auditorium went silent, holding its breath. I spoke, and at the mention of our (Cooper’s) experience with the mental health system, the room went silent. From my place in the audience, I answered the “what needs to change” question about the mental health system. I shared the short version of what happened in June…
On Itty Bitty Things
As our most recent Compassionate Friends meeting ended and The Friends began to leave, one mom reached toward me with her closed fist extended toward my hand. At first, I thought she was coming in for a hug, but it had been an emotional meeting—holidays are R.O.U.G.H. when you’ve outlived your kid—so a hug seemed…
On the Melancholy of Waking
I dreamt of Cooper last night and all day I carried with me the melancholy of waking. The dream was confusing—I still can’t make sense of it. I’d gone to the office at school to pick up something I’d printed. From a distance, I saw a shock of burnt sienna waves curling around a grungy…
On Hugs
“Hold on—I see someone I need to hug.” Me. I was the person she needed to hug. Hugs are her specialty; every time we see each other—and we seem to cross paths at freakishly opportune times—we hug long and full of love. We hold that hug in the middle of an aisle or parking lot…
On Big Steps, Baby Steps, and Backward Steps
A year and a half before Cooper died, I saw some flannel I thought would be perfect in a rag quilt for my uncle and aunt, L & J. They have a small building in the woods that family dubbed “the lodge.” The perfect fabric was woodsy and boasted the phrase “Welcome to the Lodge.”…
On Casseroles and Back to School
Starting a new school year is always an emotional casserole. Am I excited to meet new students and reconnect with returning students? Yes. Do I love staying up late and sleeping in? Also yes. I mostly-jokingly whine about getting up early (and early is relative); I know it’ll only take a few days to adjust.…
On Closets and Countdowns
My craft room is a disaster. I’ve been working on the room all week, adding shelves to the closet and organizing my collection of craft supplies. No big deal, right? It’s probably taking me days longer than it should because I’m a flibbertigibbet, because I’ve probably been running around too much, and because the ridiculous…
On Peaceful Valleys and Mayhem Gulches
It was two trips in one. The Compassionate Friends national conference and a Cooper trip. Of course, without Cooper’s death, I wouldn’t even know about the conference and I certainly wouldn’t be driving through mountains with a jar of ashes. I’d choose Alive Cooper every time, but I didn’t get to choose. Instead, I’m living…
On Presentations & Pilgrimages
This one gets a little graphic, I guess. Not bad, I don’t think, but my graphic-o-meter is busted. I’m feeling a bit Kermit-the-Frog-ish right now. I’m not green, but I’m me, and being green and being me are in the same “It’s not easy” category. It’s been a long time—months and months—since I’ve had a…
My Compassionate Friends
I submitted this article to The Compassionate Friends quarterly online publication. It will be in the Summer 2023 edition. My Compassionate Friends They call themselves the Tuesday Tinkerbells, my mom’s Tuesday afternoon card group. The women are all at least semi-retired and consider their weekly game therapy. They are wise and not wrong. In the…
On a Monochrome Sunset
I spend dozens of evening hours each year prowling the backroads, chasing the sunset. You know the one—the vibrant, glowing, purple and pink and orange sunset of postcards and prints. The. Sunset. This afternoon, I noticed the tree pictured above and thought it would be interesting with The Sunset in the background. The contrast would…
On Good Days
Easter was a Good Day. Period. No qualifiers, just a Good Day. *I’m taking grammatical liberties and capitalizing “Good Day” because it felt like a holiday. I know the rules; I’m breaking them.* Honestly, it took me by surprise. I got to the end of the day, and didn’t feel thoroughly clobbered by the day.…
On Gardening Grace
I’ve written many times about the bloodroot that grows in my yard. My late-March Facebook memories are almost daily reminders of my love for the tenacious wildflower. Why do I love bloodroot? So many reasons. How could I not love something so delicate and fragile, enduring and strong? Wind or rain can strip the stem…
On Silver Sharpies and Secret Spots
I walked around with a silver Sharpie in my pocket for days. Around the stage, around the auditorium, around the catwalk. It took time and nerve and tears to finally write Cooper’s name in our new space, but it is done. The spring musical—our first production in the new performing arts center—wrapped a week ago.…
On Catwalk Autographs
It’s been a pretty good few days in my world. Logan, Son #1, moved back to Illinois after almost nine years in Michigan. Now he and Cass are in a tidy three-hour line; he is the halfway point. I foresee birthday lunches and just-because visits instead of twice-or-thrice-yearly visits. He and Cass can overlap lives.…
On Sunset Rainbows
Valentine’s Day. Sugar-fueled teenagers. Weird weather. Construction delays. Formal evaluation. Rehearsal. Equipment scavenger hunt. Rush, rush, rush. Adulting seems extreme, doesn’t it? I left rehearsal as soon as notes finished, and hustled (as much as Tonya hustles) through the hallways and back to my classroom to collect what I needed to bring home and leave…
On Stage
I had to do a TV interview this week. I love the reason for the interview—showing off our nearly-finished auditorium—but I didn’t love the interview itself. If you know me, you already know I’m thoroughly uncomfortable in front of the camera. I prefer to submit my answers in writing and avoid video altogether. Alas, that…
On Broccoli and Bedtime
Apparently, it’s only Tuesday evening—not even bedtime for the above-toddler crowd. It feels later in the day and in the week. Thursday, at least. We all have days that just don’t go right. Nothing horribly wrong (until supper, but that’s later), but nothing super-duper right, either. And, if you’re living in a skin like mine,…
On Birthday Concussions and Pussyfooting
On her fifth birthday, dripping wet from playing in the sprinkler, my always-running daughter slipped and fell, bounced her head off the kitchen floor, knocked herself out, and had a seizure. It was terrifying. Cass is the youngest of three kids; by the time she turned five, everyone had been stitched up by our beloved…
On Polar Bears and Pajamas
Christmas morning more than 20 years ago: Cooper is trying out his new hunting/wilderness PlayStation game when he begins shouting, “Polar bear, polar bear, POLAR BEAR!” at the TV and belly crawling backward across the living room floor. He keeps playing the game until he reaches the limit of the controller’s cord. From that moment…
On A New Year
I see the posts—the hopeful, joyful, optimistic posts—filling my Facebook feed. I see the well-wishes and promises, the goals and memories, the lingering warm-fuzzies of the holiday season mixed with the possibilities of another January 1st. I see it all, but I feel very little. Instead, I find myself wondering. I wonder . . .…
On Wanting To Want To
Please read this post as an explanation—a plea for understanding—and not a pity party. This time of year is so difficult for so many. I speak only for myself, yet I know I’m not alone in my feelings. Last night . . . Tonight, I’m sequestered in what is now My Craft Room. It was…
On This Rough Day and Some Great Kids
Most of my high school friends can still remember where they were the morning of Saturday, March 21, 1987. I was at an early-morning babysitting job and had gone back to sleep; my charges weren’t yet awake. Thirty-five years later, I can hear my mom’s murmurs downstairs—something was clearly wrong for her to have shown…
On Asterisks*
November. “Thankful, Grateful, Blessed” clothing and decor everywhere, the pumpkin spice of hard goods. Barf. Maybe I’m a happiness scrooge, but I don’t really think so. It’s more that I need an asterisk after every thankful, grateful, and blessed. I’m certainly thankful* for the good in my life. I’m thankful for my family, my friends,…
On Crying in Class
I cried in class this week. I’m not proud of it. I’m not happy about it. I hope I don’t do it again. But, it happened. There was no sobbing, just some tears and an inability to read aloud for a couple minutes. Not my finest moment. Here’s what happened. I was reading the last…
On Thorns and Forts
What’s it like, a little more than two years into this unrequested life? Well . . . My body has this quirk. Actually, it has several, but I’ll focus on one. Several years ago, I got a thorn in my left knee. I did the appropriate digging and squeezing and tweezing, then forgot about the…
On Wild and Free, Soft and Secret
The instant I felt the air shift toward cooler and darker, I knew I’d write about it. A week later, and I’m still processing. If you know me, you know I love to ride my four-wheeler. There’s a wild freedom, an escape, a transformation that I only feel as I work my way up through…
On A Rainy Drive
On my way home from Springfield yesterday, I drove into, through, and out of heavy rain. Eventually, I was driving directly into the bright sunshine, even though rain was still falling. The sunshine was both beautiful and harsh; a welcome warm glow that hurt my eyes. And yes, behind me was a vibrant double rainbow.…
On the Eighth Commandment and Progress
Last week, some jackwagon(s) helped themselves to the contents of my car, specifically my purse and wallet as well as two cameras, several lenses, flashes, and other accessories. While the thieves were probably after money or things that could be turned into money, their actions have affected me in ways they can’t comprehend. The most…
A Summer of Grace
When I was young, I spent summer days pretending. Pretending my banana-seat bike was my faithful steed, pretending I was (in the vernacular of the day) an Indian scout, pretending the secret space beneath the boughs of two evergreen trees was a fort, pretending I was a spy as I perched in a treetop with…
On Restoration
I don’t even remember where I bought this old table—that’s how old it is. Probably a Labor Day flea market, but I couldn’t swear to it. For over 20 years, this table has worked its way through various rooms in my house, serving as a microwave or TV stand, a desk, a vanity, and finally,…
For My Seniors
It’s normal, as a teacher, to get attached to students, but there’s been nothing normal since Covid descended on our school, our lives, our world in early 2020. Then, in August of 2020, my personal world shattered. My son took his own life. There are days I’m still reeling from his death. I came back…
On Life Moving Along
Life will move along. I’ve always loved spring, but the past two springs were brutal. 2020 brought Covid shutdowns and the beginning of Cooper’s descent. Last spring, 2021, the first spring since Cooper’s death, mushrooming was an exercise in heartbreak. I walked the timber paths, my eyes blurry with tears, and missed him with each…
On Sacred Space and a Full Heart
As I was leaving our local Out of the Darkness walk in September, my first walk, I thanked the organizer for her work. Her response? “My heart is full.” She’s a fellow survivor mom; she organized the first walk shortly after her son’s death by suicide. I didn’t really understand how she could be content…
On Redbud Branches and the Long Way Home
In the grand scheme of church traditions, this “living cross” of Easter morning is relatively new, but it’s one of my favorites. This is one tradition that isn’t more painful after Cooper’s death; I loved it before and I love it now. Period. Here’s how it works: congregants bring flowers and we decorate a bare…
On a Good Monday and Red Hairs
Today was a good Monday. Today was a good day. I’ve been planning to form a local chapter of The Compassionate Friends (TCF) since last year and have been actively working toward that goal since February, when I met TCF’s time-removed-from-loss requirement of 18 months. The process stalled for over a month, but last week’s…
On Doing Something
So often since Cooper’s death, and more frequently in recent months, I’ve felt I should do something–anything–to eke some good from our tragedy. Nothing will make his death good; that’s an absurd thought. But can I use his death for good? Working on it. An overwhelming number of people donated to memorials, either to our…
On Searching
SO BREATHE, MAMA,Keep breathingBELIEVE, MAMAKeep believingFIGHT, MAMAKeep fighting for this truth to uprootthe lies in yourheart — you didn’tfail.Not even a little.From You are the Mother of All Mothers, by Angela Miller Last fall, near the first anniversary of Cooper’s death, a friend gifted me the book You are the Mother of All Mothers, by…
On Doodles, Notes, and Honesty
I knew the training could be tough—the topic was “Common Mental Health Disorders in Schools.” So yes, there was potential. The day’s speaker had presented to our teachers earlier in the year and I’d benefited from what he had to say, so I talked myself up, stocked a pencil bag with colored pens (yes, really),…
On Caps
A royal blue cap from a cheap water bottle. Trash, really. But last week, that bottle cap sent me into a panic; I thought I knew where it was, but I was wrong. After a brief-but-chaotic search, I found the cap in a perfectly safe, moderately reasonable location. A water bottle cap. Big whoop. Those…
On School Years and Questions
Most of my life has been measured in school years, whether as a student, parent, college student and parent at the same time, or teacher. In that one way, I suppose this year is no different. We are entering 4th quarter of a year that has managed to trudge by in a blur. I’m no…
On Nests
This week will be 18 months of After. For most, Thursday will be just another day, and I suppose in some ways, it’ll be just another day for me, too. I’ll go to work (lacking a snow day) and I’ll go to rehearsal. We will have class discussions, vocab practice, and all the business of…
On Sympathy & Swimming
There’s a meme that keeps surfacing in some online groups that says “Grief lasts longer than sympathy.” Maybe I’m misunderstanding the sentiment, but it feels like the author would like sympathy to last longer. Not me. Not sympathy. Empathy? Yes. Acceptance? Yes. Patience? If you have it to spare. Not sympathy, though. In my world…
On Stretcher Bearers and Sneaky Angels
Last night, a friend sent a video from her son’s church. The video dealt with questions of faith congregants had submitted. I connected with each question, but kept going back to one concept or phrase in particular. When I say “kept going back,” I mean I watched that part at least three times. Several questions…
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On 17 Months
Tomorrow, January 24, 2022, will be 17 months. Seventeen months since the world tilted. Seventeen months since our family came undone. Seventeen months since I last believed everything could be alright. Seventeen months since I felt joy untainted by sadness. Seventeen months since I could hug all of my children. Seventeen months. That’s a good…
On Emerging Nuances
It’s been a weird week, full of reading, processing, hoping, praying, thanking, and processing some more. Some weeks are heavier than others. A few days ago, I shared a link to an article/essay, but really a letter. This letter is to the “Friend of a Bereaved Parent” and asks for time, patience, and understanding as…
On Compassionate Friends
For over a year now, I’ve planned to start some form of support group for bereaved parents in my area. Initially, I thought I’d try to start a local church-based group. I went through that program, starting about two months after Cooper died, and it was mostly helpful. I’m aware, though, that the label Bible-based…
On Paint, Hand Planes, and a Bit of Wood Filler
Solidly into winter here—mind, body, dark and twisty mood, and freeze-your-nose-hair cold outside—I’m trying to keep myself entertained. I’ve been puttering in the room that cannot be named. It’s weird. For most of the time we’ve lived here, that room was Cassidy’s room. After she moved out, her bed stayed but the room turned into…
On Snarky Shirts and Christmas Totes
My living room is a wreck—the kind of wreck you’d get if Hobby Lobby, Joann, and Michaels all vomited in the same room. It started Monday, a rough day in a rough week in a rough season. So rough that I watched Monday Night Football alone, knowing I’d be terrible company even with my football…
On Wreaths, Glue, and Extras
A tiny willow branch wreath. That’s what I can give my son today. I’ve helped make several of these little wreaths, about the size of a bangle bracelet, with treasures harvested from family and friends and strangers. This one, though, is special. It’s for my boy. Some of the components are left over from a…
Woods Writes 