Another decade and another major life transition.
On June 1st, I turned 50. On June 3rd, I found myself unexpectedly out of work.
This morning, during a LinkedIn search, I was hit with a tidal wave of emotion about a project I helped shape over many years that is coming to fruition at the same time as my departure. Thankfully, I am familiar with grief and the "waves" or "bursts" that can knock us off our feet when we least expect them.
I was reminded that the spaces we help create, the programs we build, the relationships we nurture, and the people we support often become part of us. When a chapter ends, it's okay to grieve not only what was, but also what might have been, or what will be without us.
Today, I am trying to tell myself the same things I would tell a friend:
Impact doesn't disappear when our role changes or a chapter closes.
The care we give, the connections we foster, and the lives we touch continue long after we're gone.
We can't be terminated from having mattered.
We can't be removed from the history of what we helped build.
We can't be erased from the lives we touched.
We don't resign from the love we poured into it all.
The building is not my legacy. The people are.
The building matters because of the people it serves.
And those people — the beautiful volunteers trained, the staff mentored, the meaningful partnerships built, the courageous families supported, and the healing programs created are scattered all over Omaha now.
My genuine hope is that every person who walks through those doors feels the love, care, and intention behind every element within that space.
Someone recently reminded me that my fingerprints are all over that place, whether people see them or not. I suppose that is true, and it brings me a measure of comfort.
Today, I'm holding both gratitude and grief.
I'm tending to my tears while holding onto hope. ❤️
