love

Dear Kairo, What If…

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If I could speak to my soul—if she were my twin sister—I would tell her stories of what ifs.

What if I had taken that road? What if I had bought that house by the river? What if I had taken a helicopter ride? What if I had taken that job? What if I had moved to Milan? What if I had not gotten married? What if I had not gone to the beach? What if I had written a play? What if I could read the footprint? What if I had changed lanes? What if I had driven a Mercedes? What if I had written a story? What if I had brought more joy? What if I had sung that song? What if I had stayed single? What if I had written a cookbook? What if I had gone to the movies? What if I had learned to dance tango? What if I had taken that trip? What if I had said yes when I said no? What if I had said no when I said yes? What if had learned how to play the guitar? What if I had started earlier? What if I had waited longer? What if I had followed my fear? What if I had followed my courage? What if I had learned German? What if I had planted a garden? What if I had bought that little café? What if I had called back? What if I had written more letters? What if I had forgiven sooner? What if I laughed less? What if I had loved louder? What if I had listened more? What if I had taken the long way home? What if I had watched more sunsets? What if I had danced when the music played?

Life can feel like a slew of “what if” buttons popping out of a refrigerator door, as if you could press one and see where it might lead. I don’t know where they would have taken me. But I do know that this is the path I have taken, and here I am.

Perhaps it isn’t the chimney I once dreamed of standing beneath, but it is the pot God intended for me to cook in—the perfect recipe, made with all the sauces and ingredients of my life.

Dear Kairo, My Text To Janet

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How are you, my love? What a question, right? The nerve of I asking you about your state of mind. I ask gently, knowing there are not words big enough to hold what you are feeling. There aren’t. I wish I could wrap you in the tightest embrace and let you rest there for as long as you need and tell you it is going to be ok but I can’t. No one journey is the same. There are many layers. The club comes with one distinguish membership card.
I know this road feels unfamiliar and heavy — gray, confusing, and painfully quiet. Grief changes everything. It stretches time. It makes ordinary moments feel impossible. It runs like an uncontrollable train. And yet, even here, even now, you are being held by the grace of the Almighty. When your strength feels gone, He is carrying you. Lean on HIm with gusto.
Please be so very gentle with yourself. Take all the time you need and not be apologetic for it. Cry until your tears run dry. Speak his name. Sit with the memories. Scream if you must. Run outside, go for a midnight walk — the therapy I needed. It worked that day. Breathe slowly through the waves when they come. There is no “right way” to walk through this. There is only your way — and that is enough; trust me. Lean on it.
The days may feel long and strenuous. Some will be frustrating, some confusing, some unbearably lonely, others atrocious but little by little, you will move forward one step at a time. There is that light at the end of the tunnel. One day the air will feel lighter. The grass will seem greener. The emptiness will give way to memories. You will smile and not feel guilty for it. You will find yourself again, joy — not unchanged, but still beautiful, still whole.
Until then, lean on me whenever you need to. If you need to talk, I will listen. If you need silence, I will sit with you in it. If you need someone who understands the ache, I am here. You do not have to be strong for me, no need to rewrite that script. I know it too well. You only have to be real. Remember, I have been there just a few months ago. It seems surreal.
A side note, I just want you to know I broke down for a second there when they played, I Can Only Imagine — it was the same one they played at my husband’s funeral.
I love you. I am holding you close in my heart and in my prayers. Sweet dreams.

Yours in soft lighting,
Eloi Ahoy

A Private Winter

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Suffering is an emblem of learning, a quiet recital of lessons earned. It is an omen of what is yet to come—a corridor lined with designer scars not yet seen, stitched together by faith. To have faith, you must trust. And to trust, you must accept whatever ride you’re on—the wounds, the scars, the ribbons of pain that slip in whether the doors are open or closed, leaving their marks behind.
You must learn to value your scars, assign them a worth, rather than dwell on their constant intrusion. Keep moving forward. Stop worrying. Let it go. Run wild. Let out your loudest roller-coaster scream. Breathe.
Find the root of the wound. With your best scissors in hand, cut it clean—then sew it back together. Yes, easier said than done. I know. But you are shaping blessings. Tomorrow, you will be healed. One day, you’ll tell the story—how you overcame it all, how the Man Upstairs had a hand in it.
Life lessons.