There’s a kind of silence no one really prepares you for. Not the kind where the room is quiet.Not the kind you can fill with music, or TV, or noise. Something deeper than that. A silence that sits underneath everything. Recently I lost my dad who was my best friend. Now my mom is fading in a way that feels harder to explain than death itself. She’s still here.But not really. Dementia sucks. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I’ve started to feel something I didn’t e

This isn’t how I usually write. But if you step out side the mental health system for just a minute…and look at some of what we do as if you were seeing it for the first time… It gets hard to ignore how little sense some of it makes.   Start with something simple. "You become like the people you surround yourself with." Everyone preaches that. But if you told someone outside the system that we put people trying to rebuild their lives in rooms where everyone else is also strug

No one really warns you. Not in a way that sticks. You hear it, of course - “Time goes fast. ”“Enjoy it while you can.” “They won’t be here forever.” But it never feels real. Because your parents are just… there. They’ve always been there. They always will be. You don’t think about a world where they aren’t. At some point, without realizing it, you start to assume something quietly: That they’ll always be available. That you’ll always have time. That whatever you didn’t say o

My parents did everything the way you’re told to. They had excellent credit scores. They paid their bills on time. They owned their homes. They worked for decades - teaching, contributing, doing what “responsible adults” are supposed to do. They weren’t reckless. They weren’t irresponsible. They didn’t “fall through the cracks.” And yet—when my dad got sick and needed long-term care… We lost everything. The house. The annuity. The financial stability he spent a lifetime build