Dear Mom

This is Us

This is Us


Two Years Later

I still can't believe you're gone. I wanted to write something last year to mark the 1 year occasion, but I couldn't, it was too hard, too painful. It still is. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough last year, I'm sorry I'm still not strong enough now. I should have done more. I should have visited more. I didn't know. I'm not blaming you, I never could. I just didn't know that our time would be so short. I'm sorry. Let me tell you about what I've been up to.

I went back to work, fast. I went back to work too fast. I used work as a distraction and it worked... Until it didn't. I found that by neglecting my own personal issues with what happened. I would never move on and be stuck in my own personal hell. I also realized that if I stayed on my current track, I would be working for a company that I hate and partially blame for keeping me from seeing you more. I rounded up my time off, put in my notice and felt free for the first time in a long time.

I took a year off from work. I focused on the things that brought me joy and then looked to find more. I visited Seattle! Took the train up and flew back. I watched Hamilton and fell in love with the story so much I read the book. You would have loved it, if only for the West Wing references. I re-watched the West Wing entirely TWICE. I got my passport and flew to London! I stayed for a week and a half, visiting Brighton and Liverpool. You would have loved to hear about the trip and see the pictures. I took a week in Hawaii and let me tell there's nothing like spending a week relaxing and watching each sunset on a beach. I visited Paris for 3 days, went to the Eiffel Tower! Notre Dame! Sacré-Coeur Basilica! I ate snails and foie gras!

I guess I just want to tell you that your little boy is doing fine and I've opened my eyes to more than just sporting events (but I still go to A LOT of those). This website is a bit of that, my desire to share with you, wherever you are, tell my story and yours (if i ever get around to writing up my trips).

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

E. Lowe