This year, I’m thankful for you, Allysse. I’m thankful for all the time we got to spend together, for the best moments of my life that we got to share. I’m grateful for our secret language, our inside jokes, our unspoken understandings, and all the times we made each other laugh until we cried. I’m thankful that you’re my best friend and my partner in the journey of life. For all the challenges that we met and overcame together, for all the ways you encouraged me to grow and become a better, more empathetic human. For encouraging me through self-doubt and depression to stay curious and to not be afraid to fail. It will always feel unfair that our time together was so much shorter than we anticipated, but today I’m thankful for every single precious second we _did_ have. I love you, Allysse, and I miss you so goddamn much.

The NBA season is upon us, and our collective mental health has improved at least 33%. Who are our boys this year? Are they championship bound? Yes, they're perfect. And if not, it's probably because of some bullshit. ## Nikola Jokić Big Honey. Big Yolk. Chief Executive Eggman. The best basketball player on the planet, one of the best to ever play the game, and he doesn't show any signs of slowing down. Our horseboy needs no introduction. He's an MVP frontrunner to right the wrong of SGA winning in the 2024-2025 season. ## Jamal Murray Fat. Canadian. Curmudgeon. Basketball's greatest playoff riser. Despite his UFC fandom, he was Allysse's favorite player. He has ice in his veins, and the most consistently underrated clutch players in the league. He's played well in preseason, and he looks like a guy who wants to get to the All-Star Game. I sense Mal cementing a legacy for himself this year. ## Aaron Gordon Mr. Nugget. Unbelievable drip. The absolute coolest guy in the league. Humble, hard working, and incredibly chill, he may look like he's perma-stoned until he dominates the dunker spot. His jumpshot looks even improved from the giant leap it took last year. AG could bring the war in Ukraine to an end with nothing more than his immaculate vibes, but he'll be too busy winning another championship in Denver. ## Christian Braun Brauntown. CB. Little buddy. One of the most punchable faces in the league. He may look like a bit of a dick, but he's _our_ dick, and he's earned his new $25m/year contract and his place in Nuggets fans's hearts. He's got incessant energy, he's our hype-man, and he just doesn't know how to lose. Watch out James Harden, he knows how to get in your head now. ## Cam Johnson The newcomer from Brooklyn, we all love him already if for no other reason than him replacing the gigantic weirdo MPJ. He's got not-so-big shoes to fill, and Nuggies faithful are excited to embrace him in this city. ## Peyton Watson Swatson. PWat. The LA Stuffer. King of Kings. Absolute icon. What can you even say about this guy? His family is so sweet: when I used to be on Twitter, his mom and grandmother would like every tweet I posted praising him. I love this man, and I hope we find a way to give him a contract during the next offseason. But if not, nobody deserves a bag like PWat. ## Bruce Brown Bruuuuuce. The cowboy. Jokić's horse pal. He's one of the most beloved athletes in Denver sports history, despite only being here for one year during the championship run. He's got a ranch in Eastern Colorado, wore Avalanche gear even when he was in Indianapolis, Toronto, and New Orleans, and has become a fixture at the National Western Stock Show. He's back in the town he loves, and hopefully enjoying the embrace from the town that loves him. ## Jonas Valančiūnas The Lumbering Lithuanian. The _other_ beard. Big Val. Despite some drama in the offseason of him wanting to compete in the European league instead of the NBA, now he's here, and for the first time in his career, Jokić has a backup who could be a starter on most other teams. Let's fuckin go, boys. And thank you in advance for giving all of us something to focus on besides the arrival (or deepening) of fascism in America.

Between the death of my wife, an emergency surgery, a whole ass tree falling on my house, and the arrival of fascism in the United States, it's been a difficult year. Last night, I found a dirt cheap ticket for the Chicago Bulls at the Denver Nuggets preseason game. I sat second row, by far the best seats I've ever had. It was hard. Allysse would've loved it. I missed having her with me, getting excited with me for a Jokić dunk or a Murray three. A little girl who couldn't have been more than 3 or 4 came up to me and gave me a fist bump before the game started, and my heart melted. Allysse would've lost it. I heard the folks behind me speaking Spanish, and it made me worry for their safety when ICE inevitably sets their sights on Denver. The National Anthem was performed beautifully, but it's still not a tradition I particularly enjoy given the state of the union. It was a bit lonely, although I did get to meet an internet friend from Nuggets Twitter/Bluesky at halftime, which was great. Despite all of that, I had fun. I had a lot of fun. I was able to forget about all the heaviness in my heart for long stretches of time and lose myself in the game. It felt so fucking good to be able to let go of the pain and anxiety, even if it was just for a little bit. A common refrain I see from empathetic people is "it's OK to not be OK." The other side of that coin can be just as important sometimes. It's OK to be OK.

The second edition of my newsletter _**The Jefff Report**_. _The extra "f" is for fun!_ Unable to display PDF. download it instead If the embedded PDF isn't working, download it here!

Silas Soule, born 1838, was an abolitionist, Jayhawker, US Army Captain, whistleblower, and weirdo in all the best ways1. The amount of life that he lived before dying at age 26 in 1865 was enviable. He was penpals with Walt Whitman, a founder of Lawrence, Kansas, two-fisted drinker and drunken scraper, and practical joker. Legend has it that he and his wife, Hersa Coberly, chose to get married on April Fools Day so nobody would know if they were actually married2. Before I continue, I'd like to make a short preface to this post. This is not intended to be a story about a white savior. This is about a man who used his voice, position, and privilege to stand up for those who lacked those things. This is about a person who had a "willingness to sacrifice himself for vulnerable humans everywhere he encountered them3." This is also about how that man was perceived at the time, and the consequences he faced for taking the stands he did. His story is especially relevant now in the year of our lord 2025. ## Bleeding Kansas Silas was born to an abolitionist family in Maine. The Soule's moved to Lawrence, Kansas when Silas was a teenager in response to the Kansas-Nebraska Act to help settle Kansas Territory and establish it as a free state. This period was known as Bleeding Kansas, as pro-slavery and anti-slavery militias would often clash. The Soule house was set up as a stop on the Underground Railroad2, and as Silas grew older, he joined the Jayhawkers and the Immortal Ten4. He broke into a Missouri prison and freed an Underground Railroad conductor, John Doy, and even broke into the prison that held John Brown and attempted to free him after he was arrested for his attempted slave rebellion and raid on Harper's Ferry (Brown refused to be rescued, preferring to die a martyr). ## The Sand Creek Massacre Silas eventually moved to Colorado and worked in gold mines before joining the Union Army at the start of the Civil War. While in the army, Silas became an advocate for Native American rights, and, along with one of the founders of Denver Edward Wynkoop, helped draft treaties with the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes. However, the governor of Colorado territory, John Evans, and US Army Colonel Chivington believed Native Americans were a dire threat to settlers coming west, and popular opinion was on their side. After a peace summit in September 1864, the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes felt that peace had been achieved. It appears Evans and Chivington never intended to comply with the treaties. A few months later, in late November, Chivington started circulating a false narrative that the Cheyenne - Arapaho village at Sand Creek was mounting for war. Soule and Wynkoop battled against the narrative, arguing that the residents of Sand Creek were unarmed and peaceful. Chivington threatened to hang Soule and take control of his men, but Soule didn't back down. He told officers "any man who would take part in [such] murders, knowing the circumstances as we did, was a low lived cowardly son of a bitch."5 On November 29, 1864, gave the order to attack. Soule, meanwhile, ordered his men to stand between Chivington's men and the village residents as a human shield, and threatened to shoot any of his men who obeyed Chivington's order. ## Aftermath Despite Silas Soule's efforts, it's called a massacre for a couple reasons. First, Chivington's men murdered roughly 150 people, roughly 2/3s of whom were women and children. It will always be a stain on the American story, and ought to be a warning for future generations to not let the "fear of others" dictate our policies and actions. Second, because Soule later testified to congress, providing testimony that Sand Creek was a massacre and an act of genocide, not a battle. His testimony lead to John Evans's removal as governor and trepidation by congress to declare war on Plains Indian tribes, and set the record straight on what exactly happened that day. Silas Soule's whistleblowing upset some powerful people, of course. Two months after his testimony, Soule was assassinated in Downtown Denver at 15th and Arapahoe. Silas Soule's grave is in the industrially ravaged, overgrown Riverside Cemetery in North Denver, under the looming smokestacks of the Suncor refinery. It fills my heart with joy that there are _always_ trinkets, flowers, poems, and ornaments adorning his grave every time I visit. ## Legacy Silas Soule was not considered a hero during his time. With the benefit of hindsight it seems absurd, but the popular belief amongst white settlers was that the Native American tribes needed to be genocided. The Rocky Mountain News, one of Colorado's two main newspapers up until the 1990s, called for the "active extermination against the red devils." The governor, John Evans, openly called for the slaughter of indigenous people. Evans and Chivington were seen as heroes for Sand Creek, and Silas Soule was seen as a traitor3. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it's not only unpopular, but dangerous, to take a stand for marginalized folks during times of escalated tensions. Those who do may even be labeled terrorists. But as Simon Maghakyan put it in his Denver Post Op-Ed that I've referenced several times3, "principle, not populism, is desperately scarce today." Take care of each other. * * * 1. Not to mention one of my late wife Allysse's favorite historical figure.↩ 2. Silas Soule (1838 - 1865), Denver Public Library↩ 3. Opinion: This unsung Colorado hero is actually worthy of memorializing, The Denver Post Archived↩ 4. John Doy and Rescue Party, Kansas Memory↩ 5. The Life of Silas Soule, US National Park Service↩

The debut volume of my newsletter _**The Jefff Report**_. _The extra "f" is for friendship!_ Unable to display PDF. download it instead If the embedded PDF isn't working, download it here!

Happy anniversary, cutie. You never failed to make my heart feel so full. Today should be as joyous and sweet as our love, so I'm going to try my best to make it a good day and focus on the moments that made us smile and laugh together, both big and small. But I miss you, and it's still so hard. I will love you forever. Your travel companion, Jeff

There's an impulse to hide from the world and beg it to stop spinning during times of great pain and sorrow, to wait for the hurt to pass. It's tempting to believe that the time spent hiding doesn't count. that the world has stopped too, and wear that like a warm blanket. It gets easier and easier to accept the passivity of mind and avoidance of pain as normal. It's tempting to slip deeper and deeper into the belief that it's just what life is like after a great loss. It does count, though. It all counts. Today's actions shape who we become tomorrow. The hours, days, weeks, months keep marching on. The world will not stop, and neither will the hurt if it's not actively acknowledged and faced head on. Patience and grace are absolutely needed, but they can become a crutch when they get in the way of trying to find out what life might still hold in store. * * * > How does a part of the world leave the world? > How does wetness leave water? > > Dont' try to put out fire by throwing on > more fire! Don't wash a wound with blood. > > No matter how fast you run, your shadow > keeps up. Sometimes it's in front! > > Only full overhead sun diminishes your shadow. > But that shadow has been serving you. > > What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is > your candle. Your boundaries are your quest. > > I could explain this, but it will break the > glass cover on your heart, and there's no > fixing that. > > You must have shadow and light source both. > Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe. > > When from that tree feathers and wings sprout on you, > be quieter than a dove. Don't even open your mouth for > even a coo. > -Jalal al-Din Rumi, Shadow and Light Source Both

I think I'm going to take a break from being online. I'm looking for validation in the wrong places, and it's shaping the way I'm thinking about and interacting with the world in ways I don't like. The last 155 days have been nightmarish, and although posting through it seemed to help at first, it's become counterproductive over time. Take care of each other, smell ya later.

> All my grief says the same thing – > **this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.** > **this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.** > And the world laughs, > holds my hope by the throat, > says: > **but this is how it is.** - Fortesa Latifi, The Truth About Grief Allysse died 150 days ago today. Five months ago this morning, I was in shock, alternating between calling friends and family, sobbing, and asking the cops and paramedics if I could get them a drink. I remember thinking that my life would be changed forever, but the weight of what that meant took months to reveal itself. My rational mind knew that I would struggle with the destruction of identity and the future we imagined together, the psychological and physiological effects of the abrupt absence of the main character in my life, the horrible placidity and quietness of day-to-day life, the completely dominating and irrational survivor's guilt, &c.; But knowing all of this is not the same as accepting it, and my emotional mind flailed and screamed at any attempt to internalize these struggles that I had so arrogantly anticipated. It wasn't just that morning that changed everything, but everything that came after as well. The bad electricity in my head that simultaneously pushes to accept reality while steadfastly refusing it is a powerful force. The process of grieving itself is shaping me into who I'll be tomorrow, and roots me in who I am today. I didn't anticipate that. There's a fine line between giving myself grace and allowing myself to grieve, and giving up. I'm self-isolating more. I'm falling back into bad habits that I had shed through the sheer trauma, confusion, and upheaval of what happened 150 days ago. I'm letting cynical, bitter thoughts linger without actively recognizing and checking them. I know these things are natural, and I need to allow myself to grieve, but that's not the person I want to be tomorrow. Giving myself grace can't be used as an excuse to give up. It's a balancing act that I haven't figured out yet, but what I do know is that I won't allow myself to turn into someone with bitterness in his heart, full of impotent rage and resentment. So I'll keep working at it. I'll figure out where I want to go and keep trying to put one foot in front of the other with the understanding that what I do today matters. I should start making outlines for these posts, that took a turn I didn't expect, but I don't hate it. Take care of each other, and as always, go Nuggets. > We didn't talk and silently we both felt powerful > Like the moon, my chest was full > Because we both knew we're just floating in space over molten rock > And we felt safe and we discovered that our skin is soft > There's nothing left except certain death > And that was comforting at night out under the moon > The Microphones, The Moon

There I was, minding my own business, probably staring at a wall, and I saw a text message from my sister. She sent me a video of her son and Allysse that I hadn't seen before. I put the phone down and sobbed for a long time. It must've been half an hour or so. I wasn't sure why I was crying, but I've learned enough to go through it before analyzing it. As the tears slowed, I realized I felt quite a bit better. I did a few chores and turned it over in my head, and I think I found an explanation. The initial reaction was just that tidal wave of loss. She looked so loose and carefree. I don't want to go into much detail here, but this was within a month of her coming out on the other side of a _**major**_ mental health crisis. She looked like she wasn't questioning whether or not she belonged in my side of the family (which was a constant source of anxiety). She just looked _happy_. And it just made me miss her so much. I wanted to scream at the universe again, an urge I haven't had often since March or April. But then why did it make me feel good? It must've been a happy memory for her, and the video is just delightful, but those things don't have the same impact on me that they used to. But this seven-second video reminded me in the purest of terms that Allysse was just a genuinely happy person who was, despite everything, living a good and fulfilling life. I mentioned this in her eulogy, that despite going through incredible challenges that nobody should ever have to go through, she never missed an opportunity to laugh and smile. And she lit up like I've never seen her when she got to spend time playing with the nephews. I've been in a very dark space recently, as I've mentioned. I feel like I should've been able to save her. I feel like I broke a promise to her, that I'd keep her safe, no matter what. I got the death certificate with the final cause of death two weeks ago, and I slumped farther. Meanwhile, I'm talking to my therapist a lot about her mental illness. I never properly processed that period in our lives. I work from home and never really leave the house, and I've spiraled. The fog hanging over my head is that I failed her, and she lived such a miserable life, and was taken just as she was making significant strides towards getting her disease into a manageable position. What kind of life was I able to give her? And that video, her carefree laughter and her face, just beaming happiness, but through all of that fog. She didn't live a miserable life! She certainly had some miserable times in her life, but it was nothing she couldn't overcome, and not letting those times of suffering drag her down was one of her greatest qualities. I spiraled and convinced myself of horrible things, and they just weren't true. And of course seeing her is what made that clear to me, and in such a gentle way. She was always the only one who knew exactly how to help me. I don't believe in this stuff, but it makes me feel good to imagine that she convinced my sister to send me that video. There was another aspect that helped in that moment. The very idea that my sister sent me that text. She must've been on the fence, wondering how it would affect me, and I'm so glad she did. Not only is she reaching out (which she's done since the beginning and tries to arrange at least one get-together or dinner a week), but that she reached out without avoiding the topic of Allysse. That stuff helps me so much, to a large extent that it's concrete proof that I'm not the only one thinking about her. I'm still not sure why I care so much about that; it's been a consistent urge I've felt since I wrote that post on the Denver Nuggets subreddit. I know "misery loves company," but this feels much deeper than that. Anyway, I actually felt good enough that I bought tickets to go see the worst team on Earth - the Colorado Rockies. I felt comfortable, and it felt really good that I was allowing myself a distraction. As I was walking up to the stadium, I got a text from my brother - we've invaded Iran. So that caused a step or two back as far as my emotional health and just in general pissed in my cornflakes. Not just me; all of our cornflakes are covered in piss now. So, we're all in for a horrific ride. And while I still have a long way to go before I become an actual human being again, my heart just fucking breaks for all the people getting caught up in all this senseless violence, including Palestinians and, now, Iranians and our teenagers who thought they were just getting some cash so they could go to college. The world's on fire, and there's no driver at the wheel.

I first met Allysse 20 years ago. She briefly dated my roommate in 2005, and I’d see her around the house occasionally, but I didn’t really have a conversation with her for a few years. She was intimidating with her punk clothing and razor sharp wit, and I was sad and uncomfortable in my own skin, as 19 year olds are. A year or so later, we had a party at my house. That night is fuzzy, I must’ve partied a little too hard, but I remember that she brought me a gift for no apparent reason: The Pop Up Book of Phobias. I think I was somewhere between flattered and confused. We ended up moving the party out to a bar on account of a neighbor calling in a noise complaint. The only really vivid memory I have from that night is that Allysse and I held hands for the entire 20 minute walk. Obviously, we both just pretended it didn't happen, and I don't think I saw her again for a few months. Again, a few years passed, and we ended up hanging out at the Westword Music Showcase, a one-day multi-venue annual festival in Denver, with a bunch of friends. Built to Spill and Cursive were headlining, and once again, my memories are hazy. I had just gotten my first DSLR and I took a ton of photos, but that hard drive crashed a long time ago. I just remember having so much fun, drinking too much, and getting way too much sun. By the end of the night, everyone was staying in Denver, but Allysse and I had to catch the bus to Boulder. We were running late and had to run the whole mile to the bus station, except she had to stop and take a breather a few times because she had asthma. Again, we held hands the whole way. She fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus ride. I guess were scared of rejection or something, and we both just pretended like it didn't happen. I remember my heart racing, and I wasn't sure if it was something or nothing, but I loved it. These things kept happening. Whenever we'd see each other, it would end up in some extremely innocent, quasi-affectionate situation that we were both too scared to acknowledge or think about. Then I moved to Minnesota for a year and a half. When I moved back, I went to go see Audacity at Lost Lake with a friend, and he invited Allysse. She had cut way back on her drinking by this point, and had enrolled in college (despite not having her GED) and was about a year into her bachelor's at this point. God, she made me laugh that night. She kept making up absurd "cocktails" that she wanted to ask for at the bar. The "Pool Noodle" stands out the. most, which was cold spaghetti with Malibu rum poured over it. At the end of the night, as we were parting ways, she haded me a note. I was so excited and nervous, I didn't open it until I got home, an hour-long bus ride later. I pulled it out of my pocket with so much anticipation, and - it was just scrap paper. Notes from a class she was enrolled in. She had just handed me a piece of garbage, and although I couldn't help but be a little disappointed, I also just found it so endearing. That was the moment when I realized I had a crush on her, and I wanted her to be a bigger part of my life. These stories make my heart feel warm when I think about them, but then the hurt sets in again. I miss her so much.

I find it very difficult to focus on politics, or anything outside of the suffocating pit of personal grief and despair that I live in now. However, the immigration raids and protests against them have managed to cut through the grief, at least briefly. I wonder what we can do about it. I was wondering if it'd be possible to build a AI bot army to scrape social media and news websites, find reports of ICE being spotted, and perhaps the names and faces of ICE agents, and publish them in one place. The fact that most social media sites require logins is a significant roadblock, but maybe it's still possible. It'd be a really cool project to work on, and it'd be so satisfying to turn AI around and use it against the wealthy and powerful. The site could be called "The Friends of Silas Soule" He wouldn't have just sat passively, wringing his hands. He would've protected the vulnerable and fucked up the fascists.

I wish I could write about something else. I wish I could think about something else. I wish I could talk about something else. But I'm not there yet. It's been 127 days, and the grief feels deeper than ever. It's a swamp, and I'm up to my waist in mud. Every movement is difficult, and every struggle sinks me a little further down. I occasionally get poked by something I can't see under the black surface, and the pain is _always_ devastating. I don't know where I am or where I'm going because everything looks the same. I have some impulse inside of me to keep moving, but it's difficult and painful and I have no idea if I'm getting any closer to where ever it is that I'm going. I want a tow line, or an airboat, or just a minute to get up out of the muck and lay on solid ground. But none of that exists. There is no respite or relief, and thinking about it just makes the hopelessness set in deeper. Maybe the destination is ego death. Maybe it's a deeper understanding of how life and death are one and the same, and an appreciation for the death's inevitability. Maybe it's a different life. Maybe it's joy, maybe it's brittleness. Whatever it is, Jia's words offer a glimmer of hope: > You are being carried forward by something older and wilder than sorrow. > You are being stitched back together by hands you cannot see. > You are becoming someone you have not yet met. > And someday—not today, but someday— > you will realize that you survived what you thought would break you. I'm not sure I believe it, but it's something to hold on to for now.

About two weeks ago, when I was trying to go to sleep, a mild stomach ache gradually grew into the worst gut pain I've ever experienced. I was up writhing in bed, screaming until 7 or 8 in the morning. I had lunch with my family the day before, and my sister had mentioned she wasn't feeling well either, so I figured it must've been food poisoning. Until, of course, it returned a week later. Initially, I was confident that it was my deep disappointment in the Denver Nuggets organization, but again, it started growing. There was no chance I was going to go through that kind of night again, so I drove myself to the ER. Anyway, 8 hours later, I was waking up from emergency surgery. Seriously, _**fuck you**_ , gallbladder. I don't even know why you were in there in the first place. So I've been sore, but to be honest, binging Stranger Things and The Last of Us in between dozing off in a giant recliner for a week was so badly needed. I feel refreshed, relaxed, and grateful (both that I caught it in time before it wrecked havoc on my liver, and that this didn't happen last year when I didn't have insurance). The grief backlog1 had built up significantly over these past few weeks. Work has been extraordinarily stressful, people aren't reaching out as much (and neither have I, on account of the aforementioned work stress), and the stupid Nuggets lost. I'm simply not yet equipped to process the confluence of just normal life stuff in a healthy, productive way. It starting to weigh heavier and heavier on me. I could feel my emotional state becoming more unstable, and I could see myself overreact and spiral to minor obstacles. That night two weeks ago, struggling with massive gut pain without Allysse there to lean on felt like it was close to being the straw that broke that backlog wide open. It's a bit unexpected that I'm so glad I had an infected organ removed, but this past week has shown me that I need to take it easier on myself. This level of stress wouldn't have phased me five months ago, but pretending that I'm capable now of managing it in the same way will certainly lead to a collapse. * * * I've started taking some more photos again, and I'm enjoying it. I hadn't really wanted to document or remember anything about this period of my life until recently, so I'm grateful for small steps. I just got an Olympus 35 SP, my first rangefinder, and I'm excited to get some film developed. I went back to the Rocky Mountain Arsenal for the first time since Allysse died. That place meant a lot to us, it was our escape from stress and anxiety, and I'm glad that I can go back without feeling too overwhelmed, at least for now. Unfortunately, I did not see any of the ~40 baby bison that have been born in the past few weeks, but that's just all the more reason to go back soon. Lastly, I just stumbled across this post reflecting on grief, and how the unyielding cruelty of time is actually vital to healing. I feel like that was one of the points I was circling around but couldn't really arrive at with any sort of clarity in my last post. Or maybe I give myself too much credit. Either way, it's a quick read, and I'd highly recommend it. * * * 1. I could've sworn I had written about this previously, but I can't find it and my memory's wrecked, so apologies if I'm repeating myself. Early on, when I first started trying to work a couple hours at a time after Allysse's death, I quickly discovered the "grief backlog." Initially, working actually felt pretty good, it took my mind off of the all consuming pain and utter despair of losing her, even if just for a little bit. By the end of the day, though, if I worked too much and didn't take the time to process the grief as it arose, I would emotionally collapse. It would manifest in symptoms similar to a panic attack and leave me struggling to dig myself out of a massive, dark hole.↩

This is all just part of it. We get a little bit of time to experience this bizarre, improbable thing called consciousness. We've been afforded a brief peek into _somethingness_ before nothingness. We all know it's inevitable. We're "participants" in the spectacle that is the universe and life and being in the same way that fruit flies are participants in our homes for a few days at a time. And we're all aware of this, but can't really **know** it being trapped in the perspective of our own consciousness. Fuck yes we got cocky. We were young and dumb and in love, why wouldn't we be? We'd always be 20 years old and drunk, holding hands on the bus back to Boulder. There'd always be another dumb punk show where she'd catch an elbow and get her front teeth knocked out, and we'd never stop laughing about it. We had _the rest of our lives_ together—an inconceivable amount of time. This is still that same experience—the same far-fetched phenomenon of being. We love and then we lose. We're in motion and then we're not. A wave breaks on the shore and the energy and particles that created it are indistinguishable from the rest of the ocean. The universe, our experience, and everything else is transitory and impermanent on its path towards entropy. Time relentlessly lumbers on towards that inevitability, and we find ourselves farther and farther from where we were. It's been 101 days since Allysse died. We knew where we thought we'd be, but not where we'd end up.

It’s been 96 days without holding Allysse’s hand. My latest obsession is Orchestra Baobob - Xarit. I finished _The Stranger_ by Jean-Paul Sartre a couple of weeks ago. I saw Godspeed You! Black Emperor perform last week, and it was akin to a religious experience. By far the best show I’ve seen since the before times, at the very least. I just read Emily Moran Barwick’s latest post, With Every Choice We Die a Million Deaths, and I have lots of thoughts, but I’m going to let myself digest it for a bit before writing about it. For now, though, I’ll just say that I highly recommend it. ## Long time, no see It’s been almost a month since my last post. Some of that is for practical reasons, like work and travel eating up time. But I also have a distinct sense of diminishing returns when posting here. Writing here was massively helpful at first. It helped convince me that I wasn’t the only one carrying Allysse’s torch—that there were others out there thinking of her, talking about her, mourning the sudden disappearance of someone who _fucking mattered_ , even if they didn’t know her personally. But the emails, posts, and DMs started slowing down over time. It was inevitable. I don’t post often enough to hold people’s attention, I don’t have anything particularly insightful to say, and it’s also just difficult subject matter to engage with on a consistent basis. I don’t think I would if I weren’t trapped in a cage with it. Regardless, the impetus is on me to reach out for support, or even just conversation, if I need it. That’s something I’ve never been good at. I have irrational anxiety that I’m bothering people when I do that kind of thing. It was something I actively worked on in the immediate aftermath of Allysse’s death, but I’ve been slipping recently1. Over time, I started to experience some cognitive dissonance over the whole dynamic—some bad electricity in my head. Am I writing to honor my wife, to tell parts of her story and make sure the world doesn’t forget? Am I writing to help the unfortunate souls who join this awful fucking club feel less alone? Or am I writing to get the dopamine hit of people paying attention? Am I using the death of the love of my life, desperately flailing for attention from _someone_ , _anyone_? This is irrational. Seeking human connection and celebrating Allysse’s legacy are not mutually exclusive. And yet, the idea of seeking internet points because my wife died is nauseating, and I haven’t been able to shake that napping anxiety chirping “are you sure that’s not what _you’re_ doing?” at me. Although the anxiety around this dynamic may be irrational, there may be something real at the core. From an Internal Family Systems perspective, maybe a part of me is trying to protect me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an overactive fear of rejection. Maybe a part of me is creating this anxiety in an attempt to save me from an outcome that it thinks is worse: seeking connection or support and being rejected. Thanks for trying to protect me, bud, but I think it’s OK to put myself out there. All that said, I’m beginning to realize that writing on this blog, on Bluesky, or on Reddit aren’t especially effective methods of seeking that support. They can be good for other things, like sorting through my own thoughts or letting myself get distracted by other people’s thoughts. If I’m explicitly seeking support, though, there are more effective ways to do that. I signed up for a young widows support group that starts in a week and a half, and I’ll give that a few tries to see if it helps. I also need to recommit myself to actively reaching out to family and friends when I’m struggling. Speaking of struggling... ## Waves or floods? These past few weeks might be the most difficult yet, albeit in a very different way than the early days. If the first several weeks were waves of pain and desperation thrashing me around before receding, the past few weeks have felt like the sea level has risen. I’m just gutted all the time. I’ll be wrapping up my workday and I’ll think to myself “oh, Allysse should be home soon.” I know she won’t be, of course, but I’ve stopped trying to correct myself. I just sit with that for a while before I get up and try to figure out how to fill the space between work and sleep. I just wander around the house and stare at random objects and think about how she interacted with them, and I wonder why she can’t still be, and what I’m even supposed to do. Some of her crafting supplies are sitting on the stairs, for example. She meant to bring them upstairs, but never got around to it. Every time I walk past them, I just stop and think “maybe she will use them again someday,” then I whisper “fuck” and shuffle away, wondering if I’ll ever be able to move them, or if I should even bother. After three months, I’m more paralyzed than ever. I have no idea what to do in the short, medium, or long term, or what I even want out of life anymore. The feeling of struggling to keep up with the world has been a constant since February 2, until now. A part of me has stopped trying to keep up. A part of me has resigned to being left behind. _Everything_ is hard now. I went to Florida for a family vacation, and being there with my brother and sister-in-law, and my sister and brother-in-law, and watching them figure out plans, or problem solve together, or make each other laugh with an inside joke, fucking tore me apart. I never thought I’d be on a trip like that alone again, and seeing what I’ve lost so starkly wrecked me. I was watching a reality TV show, some bottom-of-the-barrel dumb bullshit, and a cast member got injured. A medic showed up and said “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let anything happen to you” and I fucking lost it. Why couldn’t _I_ have done that? I keep wanting to laugh with her. I don’t remember what specifically, but something I read reminded me of an inside joke we had, and my immediate reaction was to text her. There was nobody else I could tell, nobody else knew our weird little world. Fuck. That specifically made me realize that one aspect of grief is being in sole possession of a shared vocabulary. I had a plan for this post, something I was trying to get to, but I fully derailed myself. I know that this too shall pass, and in the meantime, I’m just trying to be gentle with myself and let myself hurt. But I do think that writing all this has made me realize that I’d like to refocus on being more active in reaching out to friends and family again. Tell your loved ones that you love them for me and, as always, go Nuggets. * * * 1. It’s not just the habit of letting people know what I need and how they can help—I’ve been slipping on many of the good habits I started building early on. As the routines have piled up again from work, chores, and other mundane responsibilities, the old habits and patterns of thought have returned as well.↩

It's been 68 days since Allysse passed. Lately, I've been listening to Ultimate Spinach - Visions of Your Reality and Widowspeak - Plum. The title of this post is taken from the great Rob McElwee documentary. This might be a little meandering—there's a lot on my mind, but nothing that seems more important than the rest. ## The Illusion of Control Brandon recently posted about how the lack of control over one's life manifests in anxiety, and it got me thinking about the first time I learned that lesson. I wrote about it a few years ago but deleted it because it felt too personal. At this point, who cares—and the internet never forgets, so here it is. Be forewarned, it's heavy and might be difficult for people who've struggled with mental illness. Brandon mentions he's not sure what to do about the realization that his anxiety is caused by a lack of control over his situation. In my older post, I suggested an answer: just relinquish it. Throw your hands up, accept you can't control it, and go along for the ride. I mentioned that trying to hold on to the illusion of control leads not just to anxiety, but is the definition of anguish. I still think that's generally a good approach, but it's not nuanced enough. I've experienced a different kind of lack of control since February 2. Not the lack of control over an ongoing situation or someone else's suffering—but powerlessness over my own mind and the past. It's a desperation to change events that have already happened, and a fear of my own intense mood swings and pain. I've mentioned many of these things in my past posts—why didn’t I hold her hand that night? Why didn’t I notice she wasn’t breathing? Why didn’t I value our time more? Why didn’t we ever take the trips we had been planning for years? I’ve talked about these things extensively in therapy, and it’s been massively helpful. Accepting that I am powerless and letting go of the illusion of control is part of it—but not all of it. These thoughts are irrational, but the feelings are important. Don’t try to rationalize them. Instead, separate the irrational thoughts from the feelings, and try to figure out where that feeling is coming from. What does that feeling need to be at peace? Separating the facts of a situation from the feeling can be helpful. Actually writing down what the facts are—and whether or not they support the anxious feeling—can help me realize that the facts don’t support the feeling. Trying to catch those feelings early on, before they make me spiral, can be really helpful too. I’ve been doing some mindfulness exercises so I can more easily recognize irrational feelings as they arise—not after they’ve triggered a panic attack. The earlier I recognize those feelings, the easier it is to remind myself that they’re not helpful or productive, and let go of them. Obviously, it’s still a struggle. And anxiety is something that everyone lives with, even in the best of circumstances. The goal isn’t to remove anxiety from my life, just to prevent it from sending me into a bad place. ## The Beat Goes On The relationship between time and grief is an interesting one. Time helps, undoubtedly, dull the sharpness of the pain. But its unrelenting persistence also leads to a feeling of being left behind. The season changing and the weather warming up just reminds me how long Allysse has been gone. People have stopped reaching out. Work has stopped asking if I need time off. It’s stressful. It feels like it’s less acceptable to have bad moments or bad days. That grief backlog that plagued me early on—when I’d distract myself with work and then fall apart in the evenings—has come back. It's because I’m dealing with deadlines at work and putting in much longer hours. I’m trying to find good ways of handling that, but I haven’t made much progress yet. At the same time, it makes me feel like Allysse is being left behind. Our house is a memorial to her. But bit by bit, piece by piece, it’s changing. I got a new refrigerator. I threw out some of the plants that died while I was staying with my parents. I boxed up her clothes and shoes. I got rid of some of the canned food we’d had for years and never ate. I love how much this house feels like her. She made this house—she loved making it comfortable and peaceful. It makes me so happy to see all the work she put into it, things I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. I sleep better here. I just feel at home here. But slowly, surely, like the Ship of Theseus, it’s becoming less and less hers, and that breaks my heart. I know it’s inevitable, but I don’t have to like it. She had just bought a planner for 2025. She had all of her classes written down, all her appointments. * Wednesday, January 29: Sewing 1–3, Pottery 3:30–7:30 * Thursday, January 30: Pottery 5–7 * Friday, January 31: Pottery 11–1 * Saturday, February 1: Candle making with her mother * Sunday, February 2: Exercise She never got to exercise that day. And it’s just blank after that. It’ll always be blank. The more time passes, the more blank pages there will be between that day and the present. Take care of each other, and give your loved ones a hug.

It's been 45 days since Allysse died. Today I've listening to Kurt Vile - Another good year for the roses and Amen Dunes - Lonely Richard. ## Hangers I forgot to mention it in my previous post, but something unexpected touched a nerve while cleaning the other day. It was obviously difficult to see all of her clothes in boxes sitting in the shed, where she'll never touch them again. It doesn't sit right that I need to remove her belongings from the house in order to feel peace there, but for whatever reason I do. I'm just trying to survive each day at this point, even if that does mean doing things that are uncomfortable. But what has stuck with me these past few days is that I have so many hangers now. My closet is half empty hangers, the rack by the washer is just empty hangers. It's a stark reminder of the void that's been left. They held her clothes that brought her joy and allowed her to imagine all the times she would wear them, and now they remind me of what was and is now gone. I was at my parents house a few days later and I saw some hangers in the guest room, and it threw me right back into thinking about the void. A fucking hanger apparently triggers me now to the extent that it can ruin my day, or at least my hour. Oof. ## Tragedy Plus Time My good friend Chris's birthday was yesterday, so a few of us went out to see comedy tonight to celebrate. It was overall very fun, and featured a bunch of very talented local comedians and a couple touring ones. The space is really well put together, and the crowd was great. The headliner was Georgia Comstock, who is very funny and I'd recommend in a heartbeat. That said, her set was tough for me. It centered almost entirely on death, funerals, and corpses. It really got to me when she told a joke about prying something out of a corpse's hand. I immediately flashed back to dragging Allysse off the bed and onto the floor, putting my hands on her chest, and feeling her ribs crack, crying and praying. I could feel the beginning of panic—flashbacks like that really fuck me up in a hurry—and I tried so hard to keep it together, and I was suddenly very far away from the show. Georgia pointed at me and asked if I had ever seen a corpse before. I honestly didn't parse the words until a few seconds later and by that time she had moved on to someone else. Or maybe she could tell I was about to bum some folks out. I'll say this: it's ballsy to do crowd work with topics that can so easily go wrong. I was impressed. I think you have to expect this stuff at a comedy show. Death is not an uncommon topic in standup. It's a risk I take going out into the world while I'm still so raw, but I think it's worth it. The benefit I get from being social, being around friends, and being active in the world can't be overstated. Not to mention, all's well that ends well. I may have been on the verge of falling apart, but I held it together somehow. ## Support from Family My Aunt sent me the sweetest email. People reaching out to check on me dried up really quickly after the funeral, so it means a lot when it does happen. > These days I find myself trying to hang out with [your uncle] more often even if it's in the family room together while he watches sports and I am on my computer working or studying. This, to me, feels much better than being in separate rooms in the evenings. I absolutely love this. It made me think about the time spent on the couch with Allysse, just watching basketball, Game of Thrones, 90 Day Fiance, literally whatever. We'd chat and riff and get excited and get sad, and it never felt like anything at all. I never would've guessed how tightly I hold on to those memories now. Those were times when we could set aside any sort of worry or fear and just enjoy each other's company, and it means so, so much to me now. Take my aunt's advice, and spend time with your loved ones. Literally just watching TV together is still time spent together, and you might cherish that someday. After all, death is cruel and random, and anyone could be next, at any time. Make memories and form bonds while you can.

It's been 43 days since Allysse died. My current playlist includes REEBA - Macrobrew and Foxygen - On Blue Mountain. I've started cleaning the house and boxing up some of Allysse's clothes. My sister and brother-in-law have been helping me, and I can't even express how grateful I am to them. We're not done, but it feels so much better already, enough so that I slept there last night for the first time in 44 days. It's difficult, of course, but feels healing in some ways as well. I didn't appreciate so much of what she did, and that makes me feel guilty. I was looking at the shed and the shelves she built to organize everything, and thinking about how much work she put into it. She never even asked me for help. She kept room in the shed for non-perishable food storage, and it feels like she's feeding me even now. There are stockpiles of toiletries, paper products, and cleaning supplies that she'd buy whenever she saw things on sale. Her jewelry is immaculately organized, and all of our shoes, hats, and accessories had a place carved set aside for them. She had set up the outbuilding to be an art studio, with easels, canvases, paint storage, and so on. It looks amazing, but she wasn't done, and she never had a chance to actually use it. It made me realize that I put too much emphasis on her struggles when I think back on her life and our lives together. She was always finding ways to make the house feel more like our home, and put _so much_ effort into it. She was so sentimental—she kept a lock of Uzi's hair above her side of the bed, which I completely forgot about. She loved showing gratitude for gifts—my sister was so touched that all the gifts she'd gotten throughout the years for Christmas or her birthday were all proudly displayed in our house. I thought I'd for sure want to sell the house, but now I'm not so sure. I love the way she made it feel. If I were to move, it'd be fucking barren, sterile, and deeply depressing. Seeing how much she never got to do continues to be really tough though. She had absolutely ridiculous 6" platform shoes that she never wore, but she loved them so much. The art studio I mentioned, never used. She wanted to start wearing joyful clothing instead of all black, as she did for most of her life. She had so many brightly colored floral print dresses and shirts that still had the tags on. Things had been tough the past few years, between mental health issues and an extended period of unemployment, we just didn't plan anything that would've given her a reason to wear them. It's hard not to feel guilty about that, but I need to not let myself go there. I was always there for her, and she knew that, and there was no way I could've known she'd be gone so soon. I feel like there's more to say, but this is enough for right now. I'm writing this over my lunch break, and I should try to get back to work. Part of me regrets telling family and friends about this blog, there are things I want to write about anonymously to avoid judgment, but it is what it is. Take care of each other. Don't forget to spend time sitting near your loved ones and just enjoying each other's company.

I read Taylor Troesh's latest post tonight, You'll never be ready for anything that matters, and it struck a nerve. It's well worth the quick read, but the gist is that he stepped up to challenges in life despite feeling unsure of his ability to handle them. He closes with this line: > You'll never be ready for such things. Do them anyway. This struck me in a way that perhaps he didn't intend. Sometimes we don't have a choice. Sometimes our world comes crashing down on us in ways that we can't control. Sometimes we can't possibly be ready for the next punch in the face life (or death) throws at us. We don't have a choice but to do them, despite our most desperate protests and prayers. These situations can also be opportunities for growth, although it can be painful to look at them that way. These situations can also break us. This wasn't the point of his post, and I'm sure he wanted to keep it punchy so I don't fault him for not mentioning this, but I want to point out that he couldn't have done these things alone. He didn't raise his child alone. His startup wasn't successful because of him alone. He (probably) didn't change his relationship to alcohol alone. And someone must've told him about the tire pressure on his bike trip, right? Facing difficult situations, whether joyful or mournful, voluntary or mandatory, can either empower us or destroy us, and we can improve the odds of the former outcome by surrounding ourselves with support and asking for help when we could use it. Lastly, the other way to look at that quote is from the perspective of the unrelenting regret we feel when we spend too long trying to get ready and time runs out. Allysse and I had _so many plans_ that will never come to fruition, and it devastates me every single day I spend without her. For god's sake, go do the thing you dream of. Take that trip to India, even if you have to do it on a budget. Go to the park and practice your jump shot. Go ask out your crush, get your degree, do something nice for your sister, or start your passion project, whatever it is—go do it. Because we don't like to think about it, but death is inevitable. Fuck it, I'll just go full _Dead Poet's Society_ : > I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately... I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Love you all. Take care of each other.

It's been a couple weeks since I've written anything, so let's get sad together. It's been 38 days since my wife died. I'm currently listening to Blake Mills - Hiroshima and, an excellent recommendation from a friend, Joanna Newsom - Baby Birch. I've been reading the great Adam Clayton-Holland's fantastic and heartbreaking memoir Tragedy + Time. ## Allysse's Extra Cog I thought I'd start by sharing more about Allysse. We used to joke about how her brain had a part that most people's didn't—her extra cog. It was always in the back of her head spinning, processing, writing jokes, being goofy, obsessing, analyzing, etc. We all have a subconscious, of course, but her's was so active, and there was very little filter between her cog and her body. For example, everytime she heard a rhythmic noise like a washing machine or a car alarm, she would start dancing. She absolutely couldn't help herself, it was completely unconscious and often subtle (at least until I'd point it out and she'd laugh and lean into it). Or when we were looking to move, and driving across town to look at a house. She was busy on her phone looking at the details of the place we were about to check out. Out of absolutely nowhere, without looking up from her phone, she started cooing the melody to "Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream like a pigeon. I looked at her for a few seconds and started laughing, but she was completely unaware that she was even doing it until I asked her "are you singing Cream like a pigeon!?" The extra cog also made her extrodinarily creative, and an amazing problem solver. We got married in September 2020, and were planning our wedding when Covid hit. Indoor venues were closed, and even outdoor venues had strict limits on the number of people allowed at once. We had rented out a bunch of cabins that circled a lawn area, and I was resigned to just having our wedding on that lawn. It wouldn't be ideal, but it was _fine_. Not for Allysse, though. That cog kept spinning until she thought of a solution: rent out a bunch of pontoon boats, one for each group or family in attendence, and get married in the middle of Grand Lake. It was brilliant—a stroke of genius. It never would've crossed my mind, and it ended up being absolutely perfect. That extra cog also swung the other way too, though. It could make her obsess over anxieties and spiral into panic attacks. When her bipolar disorder started to show up, it would make her obsess over paranoid delusions. It was a blessing and a curse, but it made her her. I loved that cog, even if it did lead to some dark times. ## Surviving I've been trying my best to stay busy, and to listen to her voice in my head tell me to accept the inviation when someone asks me if I want to do something. My psychiatrist did tell me to lean into distractions, but part of me worries that I'm leaning into them too hard, and not giving myself enough time to process the grief. I've been feeling suspiciously OK for the past week or two (given a new definition of OK). Not that I'm not devestated, and not that I'm not struggling, but the panic attacks have subsided, and the crippling pain of realizing she's gone over and over again has lessened. On one hand, it makes me worried that I'm not grieving right (which is absurd, but I can't stop the feeling from being there). On the other hand, I know grief comes in waves, and I'm embracing the OK days until the next shoe drops. I started therapy and that seems to help a lot too. I didn't realize how much negative self talk I have until I had a therapist there pointing it out every time I do it. Still, it's hard. I was playing with our nephew the other day, and he was laughing _sooo_ hard, and I just know she would've loved it so much. Or my sister trying to pick out summer clothes for our 6 month old niece, and I can't help but think about how good Allysse would've been at that, and how much joy it would've given her. I hate the idea that she's missing out. Or going to the comic book store with some friends (which I had never done before, and was super fun) and seeing all the rare Pokemon cards that she would've flipped her shit for. That comic book store is less than a 10 minutes drive from our house—why didn't we ever go? Why didn't she get to experience that? ## The Kindness of Strangers 3: The Return of the Nuggets Fans The Denver Nuggets subreddit has been an unbelievable source of support. It's just so incredible to me because I'm literally just a random sad man on the internet, and yet the care and love just keep coming. I recieved several incredibly thoughtful condolance cards from members of the community, which was unbelievable. And then last weekend, a couple guys who are moderators of the subreddit stopped by to drop this off. A bunch of members of the community pitched in to buy a Jamal Murray autographed basketball (Allysse's favorite player) as an honor to her, and as a reminder of how much fun we had watching and going to games over the years, and that there are people out there who care about her, and myself. I've been trying to find the right words to communicate just how much it means to me, and I'm not sure that I can. One of the biggest things I struggled with early on was feeling compelled to make sure she's remembered. The world wasn't going to just forget about my wife, and it was on me to make sure that didn't happen even if it meant that I need to spend the rest of my life missing her. But there is something about the hundreds of supportive comments and dozens of people pitching in for this that really drives it home: I am _not_ alone in carrying her candle. Sure, these folks didn't know her personally, but how many of them will think about her next time Murray has a big game? Or will remember how much their suppport meant to me when a distant cousin needs support? Or will have socks in their car because of Allysse next time they see someone cold on a street corner? Or how many other people will see a community band together to support someone and be inspired to do something similar? I feel such a wave of relief and gratitude that not only family and friends will carry her with them forever, but _so many_ other kind, caring, lovely people who didn't even know her. Not to mention, when we live in a world that seems broken, whether by grief or politics or whatever, the reminder that people are still good just means the world. Thank you, Nuggets Nation.

## Prologue Today seemed completely disconnected with anything before the funeral. I went to the office to try to work, but it was almost impossible to focus. I saw an open tab on my phone's browser with Allysse's obituary on it, and had to go outside for a parking lot cry. It's a cruel cycle where I somehow keep forgetting that she's gone and rediscovering it over and over. It felt like a panic attack today. As of Saturday after the funeral, I've started getting some mild flashbacks to the morning of February 2, and discovering her body. I can't get the image of her face out of my mind. All her airways clogged, her ears purple, her skin ice cold. I knew immediately she was gone. 911 told me to pull her off the bed and start CPR, so I did that. Her foot got caught behind the door. I was worried I was hurting her, then realizing she can't be hurt anymore. I felt her ribs crack under my hands during chest compressions, and I was grateful she couldn't feel it. I say "mild" because it's not like I think I'm there again, but it's more like an intrusive memory or something. I still can't believe she's gone. The funeral imparted a sense of finality, for sure, but my mind is still having a hard time accepting it. I have an appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow, which is good timing. I gotta find a therapist still. I realized I was pushing myself too hard and left work a bit early. Back to my parents house, where my dog keeps peeing inside despite how many times they let her out during the day. Back to feeling like I'm that 25 year old fuck up who has to move back in with his parents again. I know this is a completely different situation, but the feeling is there regardless. I think this is still the best place to be, despite the feeling of shame. I'm not sure I should be alone yet. My mom got home from work and looked just as emotionally drained as I felt, which honestly made me feel a little less alone. We watched the Nuggets play the Pacers, and that was a nice diversion, although it still hurts to watch the game without her. It made me think of the message I put out to fellow Nuggets fans a few days ago. ## Main Act: Nuggets Reddit: Full Post Edition The day before her funeral, I made a post on the Denver Nuggets subreddit. It told the story of how the Nuggets and our relationship were intertwined to a certain degree, and asked fans to help mourn my wife that weekend. The response was overwhelming. It took off immediately. It got a few hundred upvotes in the first few minutes, and the comments started pouring in. Hundreds of them, not a single one of them rude or cruel. I was half expecting to have to delete it within a couple minutes because some anti-vax weirdo would try to use her as a prop, but that didn't happen even once, as far as I saw. It was overwhelmingly supportive, empathetic, and kind. Soon enough, commenters were saying that the post showed up on the /r/popular feed, and they didn't care for basketball, but they'd be Nuggets fans that weekend. I had people DMing me offering help, telling me their stories of grief, and the resources that helped them, like local support groups, books, and articles. And I had people just reaching out offering a friendly ear. Hell, I had a local reporter asking if they could write an article about Allysse (which I still haven't decided on, but I'm leaning towards "no"). I was feeling scared about the weekend. I really hated the idea my family was gathering not for a celebration, but for the death of my wife. I hated the idea that I was going to be the center of attention. I hated the idea that people would tell me the service was beautiful, because it'll never be anything but ugly, horrific, and horrifically final to me. I hated the idea that she wouldn't be beside me to help me get through it, telling me "we got this" and rubbing my neck. I had texted my siblings/siblings-in-law the day before everyone arrived while I was panicking out back in the cold night: > holy shit i’m just now realizing this is happening, and this is the reason for the next big family gathering. i’m not ready for this. i’m gonna need you guys. It may just be comments on Reddit, it may be essentially the same sentiment said a hundred times: "I'm so sorry. Stay strong." But you know what? That shit helped. The idea that hundreds or thousands of people would be thinking about her while I delivered my eulogy helped give me courage. I think all I really want is to make sure the world takes note, realizes that someone important is gone, and remembers her, and those comments really made me feel like it had. The world did, in fact, take note. This weekend was still incredibly difficult. I feel completely lost now after completing the only clear and discrete goal I've had since she died. I have this feeling of needing to move forward, but not knowing where to move or what I'm supposed to do. And now these flashbacks have started. I'm not sure that massive outpouring of support will help all that much in the long term, but it helped get me through some of the worst few days of my life, and I'm so grateful for that. ## Epilogue The support of people IRL has meant so much as well. The way my family showed up means the world. So many cousins and aunts and uncles flew in for this, and those who didn't sent such nice messages and were there in spirit. I couldn't help but feel lonely, even with so many people around, because nobody _actually_ knows what I'm going through. Everyone knows it sucks, but they have no idea the depths of grief that come with this kind of a loss and the way it effects someone emotionally, mentally, and physically. I got frustrated because it felt too much like a celebration. Not many were telling me their stories and memories of Allysse, nor asking for my own. I knew immediately how unjustified and absurd that sense of anger was. I knew it was just me trying to find an outlet for my own anger at the universe. After all, these are the people who showed up, they just don't know what to say, just like I wouldn't have until a few weeks ago. After some reflection, I realized I had to let them know what I wanted. I started just steering conversations towards where I wanted them to go—Allysse. And it was great, it made me feel so much better. Why'd I waste the time being upset when I could've just asked for what I wanted, in so many words? Silly. I'll have to try to remember that lesson, I'm sure it won't be the last time that anger shows up. I'm trying to get out of the house a bit. On Saturday, I met up with some of my oldest friends at City, O'City in Cap Hill. That was heavy, and difficult, but I'm so glad I did. Some of my closest friends from high school and college, who I do a terrible job keeping up with, showed up and it meant to much, and I'm glad to have gotten some quieter time to talk. On Sunday, my _actual_ oldest friend, who I met on the bus in fourth grade, invited me to see her boyfriend perform at a comedy club. I really didn't want to, but I could hear Allysse in my head telling me that I absolutely should go, and it'd be so much more fun than being sad on the couch all night, so I did. Aside from some guilt that I was doing something fun and laughing without her, it felt good. I always feel like I don't have any friends. I look at my siblings and their massive social circles and feel like I fucked up somewhere along the way because I barely know anyone. But I'll tell you what, the friends I do have fucking show up. They'll be there no matter what, just like I would be (and have been) for them. It doesn't matter if it's been 5 or 10 years since I've texted, we pick up right where we left off. I'm so grateful to them. The importance of remaining social is starting to become apparent. I think I'd be in a much worse place today than I am (which is, as mentioned, already pretty fucking rough) if I had just been laying in my bed all weekend. This is too long and it's 2:30 AM. Here's a photo of Allysse and Uzi chatting it up in a cabin in Grand Lake. I so deeply hope they're doing the same thing right now: two best friends, shooting the shit all comfy next to the fireplace.

Thank you all for being here. We're all here because Allysse touched us in one way or another. We need to mourn the hole that's been left in all of us together, because grief shouldn't be carried alone. I want to celebrate Allysse and acknowledge those things that made her such a unicorn of a person, and I will. But first I have to acknowledge that there are no silver linings. This is dumb, and I sure wish the world were fair, but it's not. Those of you who know what we've been through over the past 4 years know just how unfair it is. The most generous, big hearted, hilarious, smart, beautiful, and caring person among us was torn away far too soon. She'll never be able to have the kids we wanted. She'll never be able to visit India, like we had planned for years. She won't get to see her nephews and niece who she loved with all of her soul grow up and start their own lives. There's no beauty here. It's awful and impossible to make sense of. Things will never be OK again. We'll move on, live our lives, the pain will dull, but it'll never be OK. The only lesson to be learned here is to tell your loved ones that you love them while you can. However, we can't let bitterness consume us. She wouldn't want that, and she didn't live life that way. So I'd like to tell you about my wife Allysse. She is the love of my life, my best friend, and the person I most admire in this world. I was so fortunate to get to spend so much of her time with her, and I learned so much along the way. I hope I live the rest of my life in a way that would make her proud. Allysse had an incredible lust for life. Everything she did, she did whole-heartedly. She would try any new food—the softer and stinkier the cheese, the better. She was endlessly curious, and took every opportunity to learn about something new. Just to name a few of the clubs or classes she actively participated in since last summer: guitar, ceramics, mushroom hunting, sewing, boxing, and sketching. We have an entire bookshelf full of travel books of places she wanted to visit. She never shied away from anything, regardless of how uncomfortable it made her. When a friend needed help, she wouldn't just give passive encouragement, she'd dive in with them and figure it out. She always preferred active over passive in all facets of life. She got so much joy out of playing with our nephews and niece, and she was always right in the middle of it, tearing up couches to build forts out of. She taught me how to live a better, more extraordinary life. Allysse's sense of compassion was at the core of who she was. It's one of the things that I fell in love with first about her. Easing suffering, in any form, was never an afterthought for her, it was subconscious and formed the basis of everything she did. Before we started dating, I went to dinner with her and a big group of folks. Afterwards, without drawing any attention to herself, she boxed up all the leftovers, and took everything that went unclaimed and started handing boxes out to the homeless on Pearl St. I knew I wanted her to be a bigger part of my life than just a casual acquaintance that night. The examples are endless. There was the time she made packs of hand warmers, wool socks, soap, food, and other necessities, and she and Sue walked down the Platte handing them out to the homeless. She always had extra socks and gloves in the car to hand out to people who looked cold. She's the only person I know who'd _**always**_ opt in to the surveys at the end of customer service calls so she could leave the person a good review. If someone helped her find something at the supermarket, she'd wander around until she found either a manager or a comment card to leave a nice remark. She loved finding good toys at thrift stores to stock up on and give to toy drives during the holidays. She was drawn to people who seemed uncomfortable so she could make them feel more included and loved. She was endlessly creative and was constantly creating art. I wanted to display some of it here, but I couldn't find much of it around our home. It took me a while to realize that was because she had given almost all of it away—she never created it for herself, it was always for others. Her tenacity, perseverance, and desire to improve herself was deep rooted, and might surprise people who didn't know her well. She presented herself as goofy and laid back, but she was incredibly driven. That was the other aspect of her I first fell in love with. When I first met her, she was 17. She was a high school dropout, and she partied too much. At some point in her early 20s, she realized she wasn't satisfied with that life, and made the decision to put herself through college and eventually earned herself a bachelor's degree. I think she might be embarrassed for me to bring that up here and now, but she also couldn’t bring herself to recognize just how many people she inspired. She inspired me to go back to school after dropping out of college, partying too much, and working jobs I hated. A few others in this room were inspired by her that I know of, and I'm sure there are plenty more who I don't. It wasn't just putting herself through college, though. She never gave up on _**any**_ desire she had to improve herself. We have three nephews and one niece. For each and every one of them, she tried to knit them a blanket while they were still in a crib. Most creative endeavors came easy to her, but knitting didn't. After she didn't finish a blanket for any of the nephews, instead of giving up, she decided to enroll in knitting class. She worked on it almost every night these past few months. Of course it had to be perfect, so she’d pull out every bad stitch and would dutifully start over. Through sheer determination, I guarantee you our niece Violet would've had her blanket in the next few weeks. In general, Allysse had a lot of challenges in life that came in many forms, but she would rise up and meet every single one of them no matter how daunting. I have such a great admiration of her for that, and it's something that I'm going to carry with me for the rest of my life. I don't think I could talk about Allysse without mentioning just how funny she was. She was the funniest person I've ever met. She was effortlessly quick witted. That said, when she did stand up, she worked just as hard as she worked on everything else. She would workshop each gag, each joke, each line with everyone around her, perfecting her set. I don't know if I've ever laughed harder than when she'd riff with other comics outside of open mics. I won't do her the disservice of butchering any of her jokes up here, but looking back, it occurs to me how remarkable her sense of humor was. Life was not always easy for Allysse. Life was work at times, but despite it all, she never passed up an opportunity to have fun, be silly, make people smile, or make light of otherwise dark times. It feels impossible to do her justice up here. I'm not eloquent enough for this. I wasn’t ready for this. It’s unfair that I’m even in this position. But my brother was kind enough to remind me that I don't need to sum her up. People will be telling stories about her and finding inspiration from her for years to come, my stories and words are just part of a larger work. And how could I not take the opportunity to sing the praises of the love of my life? So let me just say thank you, Allysse. My dark eyes. My tiniest horse. My cutie. My Esse. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'll love you until the end of time. As much as I don’t know how I could possibly move forward, I know I will, because that’s how I can do my part in ensuring your legacy lives on. Thank you.

First of all, thanks to those who reached out. It means a lot—it keeps me motivated to keep writing, and it makes me feel less alone. So thank you. It's been 16 days since my wife died. She died suddenly in her sleep, and the root cause is still unknown. It's been a few days since I wrote anything about it, I think I've been in a bit of the depression phase of grief. I've just felt empty, emotionally drained, like a husk of who I was. I haven't cried much the past few days, and that's kind of made me feel worse. Like, I owe her the tears, and if I'm not crying, how do I know someone else is? Cause someone needs to be. I think part of the depression has been caused by attempting to write her eulogy. It feels impossible to do her justice, to send her off right. My brother reminded me that this isn't the last thing anyone will ever say about her, and that people will be telling stories about her for years to come. That's helped a bit. But still, everything I write falls short. Everything feels trite. I finally wrote a complete draft, and that helped, but I still hate it. Maybe I'll rework it. I'll probably post it here when I'm deliver it, and it's finalized in that way. I've been feeling a lot of guilt recently, which I know isn't rational. But I just keep thinking "why didn't I notice she wasn't breathing?" and "why was that the one night I didn't hold her hand while she slept?" I don't even know what the cause was, and I have no idea if there's anything I even possibly could've done to save her. But how did I not notice until like 11:30 AM or whatever it was? It seems inexcusable. Like I failed her, like I wasn't watching out for her, like I didn't have her back. I stood with her through _**everything, always**_. I've posted here about her struggles with mental health in the past, but I'm not sure if those posts are still up. Regardless, in a lot of ways, I lost her twice. The first time, she was resurrected. And I know that's not the case this time. She's not coming back this time. That finality makes it simultaneously easier to process, and more difficult to accept. Did I stand by her, like I always have? Or did I fail to protect her from... whatever it is that killed her? I don't think thoughts like this are uncommon, but they're difficult to grapple with regardless. I have the distinct feeling of the world moving too fast too. My boss has been extremely supportive throughout all of this, and he didn't mean this in any way besides a very practical sense of what his expectations should be, but he asked me the other day "on Monday [after the funeral], you'll go back to normal?" It hit me like bad electricity in my head. How the fuck could I ever go back to "normal?" I'm not sure what "normal" is, I'm not sure where my home is or if I even have a home. I haven't even tried to sleep at the house we owned together since she died. It feels like my home was wherever she was, and that's gone. But how could I be normal without a home? And it scared me. What if I can't keep up? Not just with work, but just life in general? How do I stay here, make sure her legacy lives on, and still keep moving forward? It seems impossible. And it seems like the kind of question I just need to put out of my head. The important thing is what I do tomorrow. Like everyone who knows anything about grief has told me—baby steps. One day at a time. Grief is complex. It's so unpredictable, and that scares me. I don't know how I'm going to feel tomorrow. The same pain or a brand new one that hasn't even occurred to me yet? I wish I could get off this ride, but I can't. I feel like I'm bothering everyone in my life, even strangers on the internet, by being such a fucking bummer, but I'm sure that's just in my head. I just want her back so badly. I miss her so fucking much that it hurts, and that's the constant background noise behind all these feelings of anger and guilt. I think next time I want to just write about a few of the things I love about her. Try to keep my own agony to a minimum, and just celebrate her. In the mean time, here she is having just won a hot wing eating challenge at Fire on the Mountain in the Highlands, Denver. She loved spicy food, and had the highest tolerance for it of anyone I've ever met. The biggest challenge for her that day was that she didn't like meat very much, and she had to eat a lot of chicken to win that. Feel free to keep reaching out by email, or I'm on Bluesky often enough as well. I could use the company.