What would you say if I told you I’m writing a book?
A memoir, actually.

As many of you know, my story first began here—on this page—many years ago. Now it finally feels like the right time to gather those fragments together and shape them into something whole, something I can share.

I start by sifting through my old blog posts, scrolling through words written in the thick of it, when everything still feels raw and uncertain. Then come the journals—the ones I never meant for anyone to read—pages softened with time, streaked with ink, sometimes damp with old tears. I even open my late husband’s medical records, their crisp paper and sterile language pulling me straight back into those hospital rooms I once thought I’d left behind.

Filled with excitement, I close my laptop.

Over the past 2 years, I’ve been pulling notes, blog writing, and journal entries into a memoir covering the first 4 years after my husband’s death. It’s been quite an undertaking–filled with a lot of emotions (anger, sadness, fear, release, acceptance, and peace). The manuscript took on a lot of makeovers — especially when I was being pushed to show, instead of tell, my story in memoir writing classes. One teacher, in particular, pushed for more sharing in a way that evokes recalling the senses (touch, sound, taste…). She had lost her own husband a month before our 10 week session. She knew that I had more to give and she asked for it.

Most mornings begin with a mug of coffee cooling beside me as I type, the quiet hum of my laptop filling the house. Some days end with swollen eyes and an ache in my chest; others bring small moments of grace—a dream that feels like a visit, a story shared by someone in the family that makes me laugh, or cry, or both.

Along the way, I take memoir-writing classes, exchange stories with others who’ve also lost people they love, and write through the nights when sleep refuses to come. Draft after draft, I keep shaping and reshaping until the voice on the page finally feels like one that would compel me to read to the end of the book—even if it leaves me in tears.

Now, after two years of writing, revising, remembering, and re-feeling so much of it, I can feel the story nearing its next step.

And yes, in case you’re wondering, there’s a running thread through it all—literally. My grief story moves with the steady rhythm of my miles, the sound of my breath, the beat of my heart, and the feel of forward motion—one step, one sentence, one morning at a time.

For those who were here in the beginning—my running blog family—I still carry deep gratitude for the way you showed up. In those first days after Tom’s stroke, I remember writing that your words weren’t fully sinking in, but I found comfort in the photos and small gestures I could absorb between moments of chaos. You kept posting, some of you sharing nothing more than a beautiful image and a short note: “For Juls.” It meant more than I could say then, and it still does now.

To anyone finding me here for the first time—welcome. I’ll share more soon as the book moves closer to being out in the world. For now, I’m simply grateful—for the miles behind me, and the ones still ahead.