My family’s story began the day I graduated from high school—or rather, the day I didn’t. I thought I missed graduation because of the flu, but it turned out the real reason was morning sickness. I was pregnant. After many conversations, our parents decided the best path forward was for us to get married. So I married my high school sweetheart, Kris, even though he was still in high school at the time.
We welcomed three children in less than four years. Kris joined the Army Reserve, which meant we spent a lot of time apart. He was always incredibly active, and despite enduring multiple knee surgeries, he never slowed down. Four years later, we added one more child, and our family felt complete. Life wasn’t perfect—we argued, we made up—but we faced everything together. We navigated health struggles, job loss, moves, school challenges with the kids, the death of loved ones, and countless other hardships life throws your way. Through it all, we learned what worked for us and what didn’t. We found our rhythm, and we were genuinely happy.
November 11, 2010, felt like just another ordinary night. Kris picked me up from work, and we headed home. The kids had transformed our basement into a cozy movie spot to watch a Harry Potter film in anticipation of the new movie’s release. I protested briefly—it was late and a school night—but Kris insisted. I gave in. We snacked, laughed, and eventually fell asleep together during the movie. Later, unable to stay asleep on the bean bag chair, I went to bed.
The next morning, I went downstairs to wake the kids and make sure Kris was up for work. Kris had been dealing with ongoing health issues, including Crohn’s disease, and pain often disrupted his sleep. When he finally slept well, I tried not to disturb him. He wasn’t waking easily, so I called his boss and explained that he was finally resting. After getting the kids off to school, I tried again to wake him. When he only snored loudly, I called my boss to say I’d come in once I got him up. I lay down beside him to rest for a few minutes.
The last thing he said to me the night before was that he loved me. I think, deep down, I knew something was wrong. I lay there replaying those words before falling asleep. At some point, I realized he was no longer breathing, and panic jolted me awake. As I struggled to process what was happening, my sister-in-law unexpectedly stopped by. We called 911 and were guided through CPR. When the responders arrived, they sent me out of the room. Kris was already gone. What I thought had been deep snoring was actually what they call the “death rattle,” a sound that still echoes in my memory.
There are moments of sharp clarity from that day and the week leading up to his funeral, but most of it is a blur. Loved ones surrounded us, wanting to help but unsure how. Friends and family stepped in to pick up my children from school and deliver the unimaginable news. I remember picking up the autopsy report and driving straight to my doctor’s office, demanding he explain every medical term. I needed to understand what happened to my husband and the father of our children. Kris had multiple prescription medications in his system, and I needed to know he hadn’t intended to die. My doctor assured me the amounts weren’t excessive—it was a tragic interaction of medications. An accidental overdose.
I poured what little strength I had into my children. That first year, I existed mostly curled up on the couch in a fog-like state. They call it “widow fog,” and it’s an accurate description. You function on autopilot, doing only what’s absolutely necessary. Eventually, I focused on how to support my family. I went back to school and earned my English Education degree, retaking classes and staying up late to finish assignments. I did homework while sitting at wrestling meets and drill competitions, determined to move forward.
My kids worried about the idea of me dating or remarrying. I had rules—very clear ones. Anyone I dated wouldn’t meet my children unless it was serious. I tried to date widowers who might better understand loss. I wanted to protect my kids from forming attachments only to experience another kind of grief. Dating, however, was what finally pulled me out of widow fog. It forced me—an extrovert by nature—out of the shell I had built around myself. I enjoyed meeting new people, even without expectations. It became part of my healing. I followed my rules carefully… until I met Mike.
On our first date, I told him I never intended to marry again. And yet, I immediately broke one of my biggest rules. I never got into a car with someone so early, but I went on a drive with him on that very first date—to the middle of nowhere—to “look for owls.” I later learned he was desperately trying to extend our time together, and as an avid bird watcher, this was his best idea. It worked.
Soon, I was turning down dates with everyone else. About three months in, he asked if I’d date him exclusively. I said yes instantly—and then panicked internally. When my kids met him, they seemed determined to scare him away. They were more obnoxious than I’d ever seen them. But he stayed. Mike had three children of his own. His son lived with his mom, and his two younger kids split time between households. Our kids began spending time together—playing games, going to the park, building something new.
After a year, we decided to move in together. Our youngest boys shared a room and got along about as well as expected. Our girls, the same age, became best friends. They supported each other through breakups, work stress, and school, becoming each other’s constant when others weren’t around. The older kids weren’t together as often, but they bonded better than I ever hoped. They showed up for one another—especially when my oldest daughter got married. Mike walked her down the aisle, and all the kids stood together when she welcomed her first daughter, our granddaughter.
One of the greatest surprises of our blended family is that I genuinely love my husband’s ex-wife. We attend birthdays together, carpool for celebrations, and even take family photos together. When Mike asked what traditions I wanted to start, I told him I wanted to invite Meredith over for Christmas morning. He didn’t understand at first—I explained that my kids couldn’t have both parents present, but his kids could. Why make them choose? We’ve spent every Christmas morning together since. Parenting is easier when you put the kids first, and my children gained an extra mom because of it.
Mike will never replace Kris, and none of us expect him to. I warned Mike that the kids might want him to step in but resent him for it. I was wrong. They have never resented him—only appreciated him. When my daughter married, he gave her away as her father, not her stepfather.
I never imagined having such a large family, but I love it deeply. What I love most is that it keeps growing. Our adult children have welcomed partners who feel at home with us. One of them even remained part of our family during a brief breakup because she knew our home was safe. That unconditional love matters.
Mike and I have been together for five years and married for two. We’ve learned from our past, and we continue learning as we go. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s as close as it’s ever been.
I love our big, beautiful, chaotic family. I love co-parenting these incredible kids who teach me daily. This is my family—made of many parts, stitched together by love, resilience, and grace. Every piece of the craziness is what makes it ours.
