💌 Letters from the Rebuild #15

Lighter Than I Expected: On Grief, Healing, and Dreaming Forward

I wrote this week’s ‘Letters’ on Thursday, August 26, 2025, because the messages and feelings coming through me were big - and important. So, I’m doing something a bit different again this week lol— I’m making this usually-subscriber-only post public — in honor of my dad, Jim.

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Today would have been my (adopted) dad’s 78th birthday. He died in 2004.

For years, this date always carried a certain heaviness.

A weird mix of heaviness and joy—because tomorrow (Aug 27th) is my son’s birthday.

Grief, regret, the what-ifs, and why-nots of an imperfect relationship.

My dad was adopted into my life even before I was born, but even so, some of my deepest trauma wounds were tied up with him.

But this morning… I felt something different.

Not heavy. Not sad. Not weighed down.

Instead, I felt light. Happy. Content. Almost buzzing with that electric anticipation of a new adventure — not because everything is perfect, but because I know I’m building my life the way I want it to be.

And I think he’d be proud of that.

Dad was an… unusual… and very atypical West Virginian man.

(and I say that with all love and respect all these years later)

Yes, love. Because as anyone who has been through trauma knows, you can both love someone and not like them… you can both love someone and not condone their actions—or inactions.

Because love isn’t an on-off faucet. Sometimes it flows full-blast. Sometimes the pipes are dry. Sometimes it’s the steady drip that drives your mind crazy. Sometimes it’s the backed-up sink that becomes stagnant and dank.

Sometimes it’s all of those in the same day.

I’ve never known another man who worked as hard as he did. And being from West Virginia, that is saying a LOT.

Before I came into this world, he was in the Air Force, stationed in Libya for a long time — even though I don’t have access to any of the pictures now (a whole other story there), I remember seeing them when I was growing up.

I can remember seeing the old black-and-white, scalloped-edged photos of him and some of his Air Force brothers: young, smiling and laughing, laying in the sun on towels—with what was only dubbed back then as “the lost city” archaeological dig—in the backdrop behind them… as if they were just on vacation at a beach somewhere.

I don’t know what happened in the years he was there and the ones that followed. But I do know that I almost never saw that fire in his eyes that I saw in those photos, ever again in the years he helped raise me until I left at 16 years old.

(until recently—but that is definitely a whole other story)

One of the fonder memories I have with my dad — though when I think on it as an adult, I realize how both sad and amazing it was in reality — is “helping” him build our house. He would come home from work— he worked in the coal mines at that time— and he would come home after a 10+ hour day, eat dinner, and then start working on the house he was building for mom.

(and if you would’ve known my dad, you would know it was for mom… and sure, the rest of us, too. lol)

It was completely dark outside, the only light was from the large dusk-to-dawn light he’d put up, and we were sitting on the mostly finished porch. I was holding this big piece of … something lol… in my memory it was a big square piece of flat metal… and there was a small pile of wet mortar (that I can still smell to this day! lol) on it that he was periodically scooping up with his trowel to lay the brick facing on the front of the house.

I was a daddy’s girl when I was little, so helping him with such an important job was like a treat.

So, to say he was a hard-working man was a drastic understatement.

He was also a man of few words… which made when he did speak something that you listened to.

At this point in my own life, when I am now probably looking at more years behind me than ahead of me—I have no regrets about much of anything.

Though, I do wish I could have known the more atypical parts of him—because there were some that will now probably always remain a mystery especially because of how atypical they were for a West Virginian “country boy” man.

But those are stories that will have to wait for my books.

Like many families from back in those days (I was born in ‘72) there were tons of photo albums.

If you’re old enough — or have older family — then you know the ones I mean: the hard cover, binder style, that often had some garish 1960’s or 1970’s semblance of a floral pattern or something on the cover, and were filled with pages and pages of the cellophane-covered cardboard-type pages. The ones that the cellophane could be peeled back to place the photos underneath.

(I can still vividly remember the sound of that! lol)

I don’t have access to any of those photos now, sadly. I can’t even show you what I looked like as a child (I was not an attractive baby — I was bald as bald could be LOL)

But I do have this one photo of me and my dad. Just one. From 1991.

And although that was far from one of the better days of my life (again, a whole other story there lol) — it was also one of the best.

One of the absolute best.

I’d only seen my dad cry twice in my entire life. Once when Grandmother (his mom) passed away.

Once when he walked me down the aisle that day.

But we ended up cry-laughing because I told him to stop because I was tearing up and couldn’t see and would end up tripping. LOL

I was the only daughter he got to walk down the aisle. (His biological daughter didn’t do the wedding thing when she married). And looking back with many more years of wisdom under my belt—I am grateful that I gave him that experience.

And that picture is one of the dearest photos I have.

So, happy birthday, Dad. I know it took a few years after you passed on to finally find peace and freedom—so enjoy it, you deserve it. 💖💗

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🌿 The Surprise of Peace

Here’s the wild part: as I sat with my coffee, loving the cool, almost-fall-like air of the morning, thinking of my Dad and some of the great mysteries of his life: I started wondering what it was that he dreamed of for himself that he probably never got, and maybe even never spoke of to anyone.

And it struck me that so much of my ideal dream author life — the one I used to daydream about endlessly — I already have.

• I can write stories.

• I (mostly) own my own schedule.

• I’ve rebuilt my sanctuary into a space that feels safe, cozy, and mine—even if it is “just” a rental for now.

• I’ve reclaimed my voice and my creative joy.

The only parts still missing are the ones that require resources:

🏡 A home and land of my own, legacy and security for my son.
🚗 Mobility and freedom, a car that’s truly mine.
💞 A fully self-aware partner to walk beside me.

But everything else? It’s already here.

And that realization was like a balm. Because once you realize the dream is already half alive, you stop clawing for survival and start walking forward with steadier paws.

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🌙 The Next Chapter

What struck me most today is this:

Peace doesn’t come from “having it all.”

Peace comes when you realize you already have enough.

When you notice the quiet victories.
When you honor the pieces of the dream that have already taken root.
When you trust the rest is still unfolding, on its own timeline.

So today, on my dad’s birthday, I’m not weighed down by loss. I’m buoyed by possibility.

Life is good. And I know it’s only going to get better from here.

And I know that he—and Grandmother before him—would be proud of me now.

☮️💖🤗

With ink-stained paws and a lightened heart,
~ Stacy
The Mojo Mama Bear 🐻✨

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🫶 Adventures Are Better with Friends

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🎁 You can gift them a 30-day trial subscription to The Rewilding Dispatch.

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Invite your “accountabili-buddy” to join you here:

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Let’s walk this path together. 🕯️🐾

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🕯️ This post is part of Letters from the Rebuild—my open love letter series to those of us rebuilding something sacred from the ashes. Career. Identity. Voice. Hope. These letters are the embers I send out into the dark, just in case you need to hear: You’re not alone. 🐦‍🔥

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