If you had told me on New Year’s Day that 2025 would be the hardest year of my life, I don’t think I would’ve believed you. Going into the year, everything felt solid. We were pregnant, expecting our second kid, both of us had steady jobs, and life finally felt like it was moving in the right direction. And then, just like that, everything changed.
I still remember the day clearly. Michallia and I were outside doing farm work, enjoying one of those rare, perfect days where everything just feels right. We were standing by the chicken coop, staring up at the sky, talking about how thankful we were for the life we’d built. It’s strange how peaceful that moment was, knowing now what was coming.
When we went inside, we got the call. I knew right away it was going to be bad, but I had no idea how much grief was about to hit us. We were told my father-in-law had been airlifted to a trauma center nearly an hour away after crashing his dirt bike. We dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. We sat in the ICU waiting room for hours, clinging to hope and waiting for answers. And then they finally came in and told us the news: the best they could do was salvage some of his organs for donation. I’ll never forget the looks on his kids’ faces. Or the empty, shattered look on my mother-in-law’s face. I think, deep down, she already knew. I’ll never forget the overwhelming silence in the waiting room after the final test concluded he was gone.
I know I’ve already written about Jerimi, but he meant too much to me not to say more. He was a brand-new grandpa, a proud dad, a devoted husband… and he was taken far too young. When I moved to the KC area years ago, I struggled with being so far from my own family. Jerimi became the father figure I didn’t even realize I needed. There were times I disappointed him, and he never sugarcoated it, but he also never missed a chance to tell me he was proud of me. If I needed help, he dropped everything. If we needed someone to watch Theo, he volunteered before anyone else could. No hesitation. Ever.
Since he passed, I’ve had to watch a family I love try to function while completely broken, all while trying to be strong myself; even though I was grieving too. I’ve lost grandparents before, and that grief came from missing the memories we shared over long lives. This is different. This grief is missing everything that should have been. Every milestone our boys hit, every accomplishment I’m proud of, every moment I want to brag about how strong and incredible his daughter is… I’m reminded that I don’t get to do that anymore.
A month after Jerimi died, Michallia gave birth to our second son. One of the last conversations I had with Jerimi was about baby names. He lit up every time he talked about the boys; about getting them motorcycles, doing “man stuff” on the farm, teaching them everything he knew… doing “cool shit” as he explained it. I never imagined that our son would end up carrying his name, a small way of keeping him with us.
As badly as I wanted to be happy welcoming new life into this world, I couldn’t escape the devastation of what was lost. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t excited. I was angry. Angry at God, angry at the universe, angry at whoever was up there for letting this happen to our family. I felt there was nowhere to go.
When Michallia was on maternity leave, she wasn’t just adjusting to life with a newborn; she was grieving the sudden loss of her dad while trying to be a mom to two feral little kids and an incredibly needy baby. I wish I could sugarcoat it. I wish I could say she handled it with grace and made it look easy. But the truth is, it was fucking hard. Not a single day… sometimes not even a single minute… went by where Jerimi wasn’t on her mind.
There were moments I’m not proud of. I remember both of us getting short with the boys when they cried or acted like normal babies and toddlers, and then having that awful realization hit us: we weren’t mad at them. We were dumping our grief and anger onto the easiest targets. They were just being kids. We were the ones who were out of line. Grief has a way of leaking out sideways when you don’t know where to put it.
When Michallia went back to work after maternity leave, it didn’t take long for her to realize something wasn’t right. She loved being a pediatric nurse. The job was steady, the pace was manageable, and most of her coworkers were genuinely her friends. But after losing her dad, she knew in her gut she needed to be home more with her family, with her kids, with us. She was honest with her boss and explained that she might start looking for something that allowed her to be more present at home.
Less than a month later, she was terminated on the spot for even considering the possibility of another job.
That moment crushed her. It sent her into a deep spiral. On top of losing her dad and raising two kids under two, she suddenly lost her job, and with it, a huge piece of her identity. It also put a massive amount of pressure on me to pick up as much work as possible to support our family. Every application she submitted after that ended the same way: rejection, usually because of the recent termination. It felt like a slap in the face. Anyone who knows Michallia knows she’s the hardest-working, most determined person in the room. She doesn’t get fired. Ever. There were moments I genuinely didn’t think things could get worse.
With Michallia essentially not getting paid for six months, the financial burden on us was crushing. We went from having minimal debt to having to put groceries and gas on credit just to get by. There were days when we’d scrape through with only a couple of dollars in our bank account. None of it felt fair.
What made it worse was how some of Michallia’s friends: people we’d hung out with outside of work, people we trusted… betrayed her, fired her, and made an already impossible situation even heavier. It’s still something I struggle to wrap my head around. Even now, I catch myself thinking about it and shaking my head, because it shouldn’t have happened. Though I’m thankful we are slowly recovering now, it shouldn’t have been a struggle after the year we were already having.
This year took a toll on me too. I’ve carried a constant weight on my shoulders, one I didn’t always know how to explain. When a promotion opportunity came up at work, I applied… and absolutely bombed the interview. I’ve always been a solid interviewer, but the grief, stress, and depression I was carrying caught up to me. I wasn’t myself, and it showed.
I’ve also struggled with explaining all of this to my side of the family. I’ve always been a huge family guy, so I know it’s been hard for them to understand why I haven’t traveled to see them in over a year. The truth is, with everything that’s happened… with the grief, the emotions we’re still carrying, and now two young kids… the idea of packing up and driving across the state feels overwhelming. Some days, it feels impossible.
They’ve been patient, and I know they’d love for us to come down. I just hope they know it’s not personal. I’m doing the best I can to hold everything together. Trying to be there for a broken family, keep my own family afloat, and still meet everyone else’s expectations is exhausting in a way I don’t know how to explain. Some days, just staying sane feels like a full-time job.
2025 was hard on our marriage as well. Being completely honest, Michallia and I fought more than we ever had. There was yelling. There were nights one of us slept on the couch. There were moments where walking away felt easier than working through it. The pressure, the grief, and trying to adjust to a new version of life made being intentional with each other harder than it should’ve been. Our marriage wasn’t falling apart, but it was definitely tested. And I’m grateful we chose to keep showing up and working through the cracks instead of letting them break us.
Then, in September, everything shifted.
Michallia got the call she’d been waiting for: she was hired for her absolute dream job. She now works at a Children’s Hospital on the oncology floor, and she is absolutely crushing it. That’s not to say she doesn’t have hard days, because she does… but overall, she’s thriving. She only works two days a week and gets to spend the rest of her time at home with her family, exactly where her heart has always been. If there’s anything to be thankful for, it’s the people at Children’s Mercy Hospital who gave her a chance, and gave our family room to breathe again.
2025 also surprised me with something I didn’t realize I was missing: real friendship.
I’ve always had acquaintances. Group friends. People I’d see around. But I’ve never really had a best friend as an adult. The last time I did was back in grade school and I ended up marrying his ex-girlfriend… sorry not sorry.
This year, I trained a lot of new police recruits, but one stood out immediately: Jarrod. We clicked right away. We didn’t agree on everything, but there was mutual respect, and that mattered. When Jerimi died, Jarrod didn’t hesitate. He opened his home to our kids so we could grieve, attend services, and be with family. He didn’t just show up for me. He showed up for all of us. He did all of this barely knowing me because that’s just the kind of guy he is. In less than a year, his family has become as important to me as my own. Our wives are close. Our kids are close. He’s not just my best friend… he’s family. I didn’t realize how much I was missing that kind of friendship until I found it.
I could keep going about 2025. The heartbreak, the growth, the moments that nearly broke us and the ones that quietly stitched us back together. But if I’m being honest, all I hope for in 2026 is a little peace. I wouldn’t mind floating for a while.
Here’s to a new year. New memories. New growth. And hopefully, a gentler, calmer, road ahead. Cheers.
For a Thought 
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