Go. Be Happy. No Regrets: A New Year's Lesson in Loss

“I miss Grandpa Chet!” C sobbed between breaths as the Times Square ball replay dropped for us Central Standard Time folks.

Well ‘Happy New Year’ I thought sarcastically to myself.

“We lost Bella, Grandma Barb, and Grandpa Chet. 2024 was the worst year ever! It’s not fair!” C cried.

I took a deep breath, searching for the right words, but all I could muster was, “I know, baby. Cry it out. Let it out.”

So, we did.

I kicked off my slippers, climbed into her bed, and soon Apollo jumped in, nestling close as we cried together.

This was her first year of loss. Well, losses.

I was 17 when I experienced my own “year of big losses”—my senior year, when we said goodbye to my Grandpa Butch and my beloved cat. But C? She’s only nine. Nine years young, and she’s right—it hardly feels fair.

As I stroked her hair and her tears fell, I drifted back to a moment I hadn’t thought about in years. It was when we welcomed her oldest sibling, T, at the hospital. After 23 hours of a traumatic labor and delivery, followed by some rest and recovery, Trent handed me our firstborn. My first thought wasn’t joy—it was sadness. Regret.

Not regret in the way you might think, but regret nonetheless. Trent noticed my disappointment and asked what was wrong. I still remember so clearly saying, “I just hate that we brought him into this world. It’s so harsh, so full of pain. What have we done? We’ll never be able to protect him from all of it.”

That thought came rushing back tonight as C’s deep, shaky sobs continued. This is one of those things I can’t protect her from—loss. Not just the loss of someone dear but the harsh realization that loss happens, again and again, without warning.

Last week’s tears were for the passing of her great-grandparents. This week’s are for the heavier truth: loss is inevitable. It’s a tough life lesson at nine years young.

Once her breathing slowed, I channeled my best Grandpa Chet and Grandma Barb. I hugged her tightly and said, imitating them with stern but loving tones, “C! Quit your cryin’. I’ve lived my life with no regrets—now go live yours! You’ve got so much to be happy for! Now give me a hug and go be happy!”

A tiny smile curled at her lips, though she was still sniffling.

We talked about how the rough days. Rough weeks. Months. Hell, even rough years will come. Grandma Barb had them. Grandpa Chet did too. And the only way through them is just that—through. Crying through them. Screaming through them. Sitting silent. Sleeping. Fighting. Running. Walking. Shaking. Crawling.

Because eventually, after the rough patches, come the glimmers.

I grabbed my phone. “I want to show you something,” I told her. “A few years ago, I was having a hard time with all the heavy stuff. I think you might be like me—an empath. Do you know what that means?”

C nodded slightly, then shook her head.

“It means we feel things deeply, not just for ourselves but for others. When your friends are sad, you feel sad with them. Sometimes it’s so strong, we feel like we have to do something to help. It’s probably why I rescue kittens from random streets in Kansas or bring food to people when they’re sick or sad. But being an empath means the sad feelings can feel extra heavy for us. Does that make sense?”

C nodded again.

“So, not that long ago, I decided to help myself when I felt down- just for moments like these. Here’s what I came up with. For two years now, I’ve taken pictures and videos of things, people, or experiences that bring me joy or peace. I put them into “Glimmer” albums. Look—scroll through.”

I handed her my “Glimmer” albums from 2023 and 2024. She slowly scrolled, pressing play on videos and smiling at the pictures—concerts, birthdays, family vacations. And then the smaller moments: a stunning sunset, autumn leaves on a walk, Apollo snuggles, kittens, and—

“You have a lot of pictures of coffee, Mom,” she teased.

“Hey, coffee brings me joy, alright?” I laughed.

“Listen,” I said. “We’re going to have rough days. We’ll lose people we love and feel like our hearts are shattered into a billion pieces. It’s okay to cry and feel it all in those moments. But after that, we get to experience glimmer after glimmer after glimmer. Grandma and Grandpa would want us to. They’d say, ‘Go have fun! Do all the things that make you happy! Don’t waste your time crying!’ Right?”

C nodded, a bit more confidently this time.

“Sometimes like tonight, we can say, ‘I need to cry.’ Then tomorrow, we get to enjoy our glimmers.”

“Like coffee?” she asked with a small smirk.

“Yes, like coffee,” I said, squeezing her hand.

“Okay. But can I have a chocolate milkshake instead? I don’t like coffee.”

————

I’m so grateful for the countless conversations I shared with my Grandpa Chet over the years—conversations about his full life and all the experiences he embraced. He told me relentlessly, irrevocably, that he had lived the best life, had no regrets and that I should too. He’d equally light up when talking about big moments like his travels to London or Monaco, as much as the small moments like me catching lightning bugs off his back porch. Watching a Hawks game brought him joy, as did sipping coffee at his dining room table reading the paper.

I know there were hard times—the moment he lost his employer health insurance after his stroke before retirement age, only to discover he’d have to battle an aggressive cancer, then spend Christmas at Mary Greeley Hospital, unsure if he’d survive the treatments. When his body began to give: neuropathy in his legs, special shoes, leg braces, then a walker, taking his freedom to go, and giving up driving. Yet, I don’t remember him dwelling in those hard moments because he was always so grateful just to be here—even when it seemed there might not be much to be thankful for.

When tough days come, I could sit in sadness, regret, and hurt—and sometimes I do. However, I always remind myself that I can’t stay there, or I’d miss all the good things sprinkled around the hard times.

His wisdom continues to echo in my heart: “Go. Be happy. No regrets.”

It’s the kind of permission I want to share with all of us as we step into 2025—permission to take each day and fill it with what we need.

Cry it out when you need to.

But then find your glimmers.

Go.

Be happy.

No regrets.

Our glimmers of 2024