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Hullo, friends.

The last time I sat down to write to you, my daughter was about to go back for her second heart cath. I wrote to you about extreme pressure. I wrote about carbon, and diamonds, and finding the strength to sparkle anyway.

I told you that you weren't breaking; you were building.

Little did I know that just a few days later, on Tuesday, June 2nd, Kenna’s tired, beautiful heart would give out.

Since then, you haven't heard from me. And let’s be real. I wasn’t off trying to "sparkle." I was straight-up trying to survive.

There is a cold, exhausting "business of death" that immediately follows a loss. I was forced to make endless, heavy decisions when I could barely breathe, let alone think, leaving no room to process anything. It’s only when the paperwork is done, the service is over, and the quiet sets in that the real grieving begins. That is usually when people are left to figure it out on their own, alone.

Real talk. I was dreading that part, but that’s not what happened to me.

I am eternally grateful for my tribe, the people who held me together when I was falling apart, who cried with me so I wouldn't have to cry alone, and who kept me from being crushed under the weight of my loss. I’ve learned things in these six weeks I never wanted to know. For example, I didn’t know you could literally cry so hard you bruise your nose, or that your voice could drop an octave for weeks from the sheer force of sobbing.

For 14 years, Kenna was my whole life, my only plan. I never made a Plan B.

There were times over the last few weeks that I only held it together so my family and friends wouldn't worry about me. After all, Kenna worried plenty through the years in her sweet, caring way. It’s no wonder she has become the quiet voice in my head. Whenever she saw me struggling, while I balanced caring for her and managing my Hashimoto’s Kenna would say, "Mommy, I'm so worried about you." I never wanted her to worry then, and I don't want her to worry now. So, I carry on.

What started as a newsletter about intentionally seeking joy as a way to heal and build a new life is now about keeping my promises to my sweet, brave girl. I am going to chase the joy we promised each other. And maybe, when I’m done, I’ll look up and realize I’ve accidentally built the exact life we dreamed of together.

Grab your favorite beverage of choice, and let’s catch up.

🩷 Nicole

When I first started this space, it was designed as a shared adventure. It was supposed to be a chronicle of my daughter, Kenna, and me intentionally building a new, peaceful life together on the other side of a closed chapter. It was about travel, new recipes, and seeking joy as a team.

My last scheduled post went live right around the time of Kenna's heart catheterization. A few days later, everything changed. My sweet, brilliant, fighter of a girl passed away.

For the last six weeks, the world stopped. There was no joy to be found, and I refused to pretend there was. I didn’t want to fake a smile. I needed to simply carry the unfathomable weight of losing her, giving my grief the dignity and room it demanded.

The truth is, the neuroscience of grief is brutal. Your brain is literally wired to reach for the person you love in the places they should be, creating an endless loop of pain every time you remember they aren't there. Because of that, the plans I had to update my living space were put on steroids. I couldn't function in a space that was constantly triggering that loop.

But I didn't have to do it alone. The most overwhelming, beautiful part of these last six weeks has been the way people have absolutely shown up to hold me when I was in the dark, and gently guide me back toward the light when I felt guilty for even trying to breathe.

Jennie helped me navigate a soft launch back into the world. She took me to get a haircut, helped me pick out a dress and plan the service, and quietly insisted I take care of myself—making sure I finally got the annual doctor exams and mammogram I’d put off for two years because I was entirely focused on Kenna and lacked a real support system.

Then my sister, Allison, arrived full of energy and love, completely dedicating a week to me. "Pick two rooms," she said, "and let's paint them." We rearranged furniture, put together a new plant stand (so the beautiful plant from the cardiologist wouldn't kill my cat, Baby Kitty, and vice versa!), and hung a gorgeous mandala she made me right over the fireplace. We built in fun, too—pool time, shopping, introducing her to my kids and grandkids, and celebrating Holly’s first birthday. It was the most transformative, bonding week of my life. It gave me the confidence to make decisions again and allowed me to exist in this space without the constant, sharp edge of pain.

By the time you read this, another dear friend will be here with me, continuing to lift me up.

After so many years of feeling unloved, unappreciated, and minimized by someone who quiet quit our life and dumped the weight of the world on my shoulders, feeling this deeply held is staggering.

In 2022, I lost my foundation. In 2024, I realized I was never getting it back. In 2025, the door slammed shut on the life I had dreamed of. And in 2026, I lost Kenna. This has to be rock bottom, because I cannot imagine anything harder to come back from.

But the plan for this space hasn't changed; the "how" has. I am still going to take the trips we planned. I am still going to try the recipes and chase the beauty in this world. Only now, I won't be pushing Kenna in her wheelchair or cuddling her on the couch. I will be carrying her entirely inside my heart.

By chasing the joy we promised each other, I am keeping my promises to her. And maybe, in the course of trying to feel better and honoring her legacy, I'll look up one day and realize I accidentally built a life.

Thank you for being here, and thank you for holding space for both of us. Let's find the joy, even when it's hard.

Every month, I’m going to share a few things I accomplished, finished, replaced, upgraded, or checked off from my Wishlist.

Partly for accountability.

Partly because I’m training my brain to notice progress.

And partly because I hope it inspires you to start noticing your own.

The Wishlist isn’t just about big, dreamy someday things. It’s also about the tiny upgrades, practical fixes, comfort items, and little quality-of-life shifts that make real life feel softer.

Next Friday, I’ll dedicate a whole post to the wishlist because…as life has changed, so have my wishes.