Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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9/22/24

Matty,

The squash is stuffed and resting on the counter ~ herbs, burger, sausage, parm all tucked in close, rolls rising slow under their cloth, spice cake cooling under its thick hood of frosting. I’ve got maybe an hour before the cook tent needs me back, so I’m walking down to the river. I do this when the camp goes quiet and the morning gives me a little room to breathe inside of it.

The grass out here in September is something I haven’t found words for yet and I’ve been trying since I got here. A myriad of greens, dense and layered, shifting every time the light moves ~ the pale silver-green of the sage lower on the hillside, the deep wet green along the creek banks, the yellowing at the tips where the season is already beginning its long goodbye. The meadow holds the night’s cold in it until almost noon, and when you walk through it your boots come back dark with dew, mud working up into the laces, the ground soft and giving in a way that feels almost apologetic. Like the earth saying ~ I know. I know it’s a lot. Just keep walking.

I keep walking.

Past the ponds first, where the frogs are doing their loud prehistoric business and the dragonflies stitch back and forth through the air like they’re hemming something shut that keeps coming undone. A beaver cut a clean V across the near pond about twenty minutes ago and I stopped dead and watched it like it was the most important thing I’d ever seen. Out here it kind of is. You lose the ability to scroll past things. Everything insists on being witnessed.

The trail runs across from the river, the willows standing guard on the far bank the way they always do ~ patient, rooted, unbothered by anything the water throws at them. The light comes through the lodgepoles in long slow columns this time of morning ~ the kind of light that makes you feel like you’ve wandered into something that was already happening before you got there and will keep going long after you leave. Which is true. That’s the thing about this place. It doesn’t need us. We are guests here and the land is endlessly, magnificently indifferent to our small human urgencies. I find that more comforting than I probably should.

The bells carry down from wherever the herd has moved to this morning. That low rolling irregular music ~ some bells higher, some deep and slow, all of them swinging to the rhythm of horses moving through grass. My nervous system has memorized it now. Knows what it means before my brain catches up. It means the herd is close. It means the world is doing what it’s supposed to do.

A hawk just cut across the open sky above the meadow, riding something invisible, not working at all. Just held up by it.

I’ve been sitting with something all morning that I don’t think I’ve ever said to you straight. Not all of it. Not like this.

~

After dad died, before the house had even settled into its new quiet, the neighbor knocked on the door.

You know the one. The kind of neighbor my parents waved to across the fence for years, exchanged pleasantries with, maintained some version of a relationship with that I never fully understood and, looking back, don’t think was ever really mutual. He was standing in my doorway and I knew immediately ~ the way the body always knows before the brain has a chance to catch up ~ that he wasn’t there because he was sad. He wasn’t there because he’d lost any sleep. He was there because something had happened next door and he wanted to know what it was. His face was forward, almost aggressive with the wanting of it, like proximity to our grief had earned him the details. Like showing up at the door made him entitled to whatever I had left to give.

Matty, I had nothing left.

Not a single thing. Not even the performance of politeness.

I told him I needed him to leave. He was not happy. I closed the door anyway.

And I stood in that house ~ dad so newly gone the air hadn’t changed yet, his absence still raw and shapeless ~ and I thought about their whole lives. Both of them. How they’d burned through people for decades. The friendships that curdled. The goodwill that got spent and never replenished. The neighbors who maybe genuinely cared once, early on, before the dysfunction made it too costly to keep showing up. I thought about how neither of them had built anything that held. How when the end came there was nobody at the door who loved them. Just people who wanted the story. Just people who came to look.

That man’s face has never left me.

That hunger where grief should have been.

That is what a life looks like at the end of it when you’ve emptied everyone out.

~

And then Connor’s accident.

You’d gone down for coffee. I was sitting in that waiting room ~ that particular fluorescent misery, that hospital quiet that isn’t really quiet at all, the rolling of gurneys, the low intercom, the sound of someone else’s crisis leaking through a curtain ~ just sitting there holding myself together with both hands.

And you came back with the coffee and the tea and you told me.

That Kevin ~ your boss at the time ~ had been there. Sitting in that lobby for hours, just waiting, just in case you came down, just in case there was news, just in case we needed something. Didn’t call ahead. Didn’t announce himself. Didn’t make it into something we’d have to manage on top of everything else we were already managing. Just drove to the hospital and sat down and waited for one of us to appear.

Matty, it blew me open.

Both of us, I know. I saw your face when you told me. But I want to tell you what it does to me still, out here on the side of this mountain with nothing but time and quiet ~ when I turn it over and look at it. That he didn’t need to be seen doing it. Wasn’t performing it. Just pointed himself at the place where we were breaking and sat down.

I keep thinking about the difference between that and the man at my parents’ door.

Both of them showed up.

Only one of them came for us.

~

And then we had to move. Had to make the house work for Connor, had to make the world fit a life none of us had planned for. And I remember standing at the living room window that morning, mid-morning, the light coming in flat and bright, and watching you outside directing traffic.

Because there was traffic to direct.

Trucks, Matty. Trailers. A line of them. People loading at the old house and unloading at the new one simultaneously, boxes moving hand to hand down human chains, someone painting a bedroom while someone else was still hauling furniture through the front door, the ramps going up out back with the focused efficiency of people who had decided this was simply what was happening today and they were going to see it through.

I couldn’t move from that window for a long time.

Connor was outside in his shell brace, saying hello to people, still so newly himself in that body, still finding the edges of who he was going to be inside it. Chris Bates had painted the Superman logo on his chest at the hospital ~ the Superman logo and Horsetooth ~ and Connor was wearing that city on his skin, standing in the driveway while our whole community moved around him like water around a rock. Max was your shadow, taking it all in the way Max always takes things in, quietly, completely, filing it somewhere deep.

And I stood at that window and I could not breathe.

Not from grief. From the opposite of grief. From being so overwhelmed by the love being poured over our family that my body didn’t know what to do with it. Houska’s held a fundraiser for us. People showed up to organize when I asked for help organizing. The bathroom remodel, the ramps, the meals, the months of dinners while Connor and I were down at Craig ~ I cannot get to the bottom of the list. I have tried. Every time I think I’ve named it all I remember something else. Another person. Another Tuesday. Another moment where someone just showed up and did the thing without being asked twice.

And I catch myself still, even now, even out here ~ wondering how. How we built that. Why people want to show up for us.

You, I understand. That part was never complicated. You are one of those people the world just opens for. There is something in you that people feel the second they’re near you ~ this steadiness, this real and completely unperformed interest in whoever is standing in front of you ~ and they move toward it the way everything moves toward warmth. It’s not something you do. It’s something you are.

Me ~ I am an acquired taste. Always have been. You either love me or you absolutely do not and there is very little middle ground and there never has been. I am too much and not enough in all the wrong moments. The woman I am now is so far from who I was in those early days ~ the one who accused you of stealing a fleece and meant it, and also just wanted to talk to you, and both of those things were completely true at the same time.

But somewhere in building this life with you ~ the table, the music, the door that has always been open, the way people feel when they walk into our house like they can finally exhale, like they don’t have to perform or manage themselves or brace for anything ~ somewhere in all of that we made something. Not on purpose exactly. We just couldn’t have done it any other way. Neither of us is built for performance. Our house was never a stage. It was just ours. Loud and full and honest and sometimes an absolute shit show and always, always safe in the way my parents’ house never was.

And what thatmeans, it turns out, is that when the ambulance comes, the right people show up.

Not the ones who want to know what happened.

The ones who just sit down and wait.

~

I’m at the river now. Boots off, feet in the cold water, the current pushing around my ankles like it’s been doing this since before anyone alive was born and will keep doing it long after. A crow is making a scene somewhere in the trees behind me, very important crow business, very urgent. The bells are faint from here ~ just underneath the sound of the water, barely, a thread of something familiar running through all this wildness.

I am so humbled by our life, Matty.

Not the hard parts ~ goddess knows those humbled me plenty, brought me all the way to the floor more than once. But this. The fact that we are surrounded by people who actually want to be there. Who show up without being asked. Who have given us more grace than I knew grace could stretch to cover.

I grew up watching people show up for the story.

We built something where they show up for us.

~

I keep thinking about my parents. About that man in the doorway with his hungry face. About Kevin in that lobby. About the line of trucks in our driveway and Connor in his shell brace with Fort Collins painted on his chest and you out there directing all of it like of course, like this is just what people do.

We chose different. We built different. And I don’t say that enough ~ to you, to myself ~ that we did that. That it wasn’t only luck. That it was ten thousand small choices about who to be and how to show up and what kind of table to keep and what kind of door to leave open.

I’m coming home soon and I want to sit with you and not say much and just feel the weight of it.

How lucky we are.

How lucky we made ourselves.

How those are maybe the same thing.

Lots of love,

hz

Becoming a paid subscriber is an easy and impactful way to support this work. It costs just $6 a month—less than a latte or martini.

However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

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If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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9/21/24

Dear Matty,

I am really missing you and the boys today.

I know my last letter was dark and twisty, so I’m trying to take a bit of a break from that. And it got me thinking — you asked me the other day what I’m proud of. And I reckon there are a few of the regular things I could say. But what actually came to mind was a woman at a climbing wall in Colorado.

She was shaking. Full body shaking. Harness on. Helmet crooked. Looking up at that stupid wooden wall like it was Everest.

She leaned in and whispered, “Heather, I feel like if I go up there, I’m going to shit my pants.”

And without missing a beat, me and the fierce team of women who helped create my programs said, “Let me tell you something, sis. We shit our pants all the time.”

We meant it.

We told her everything. All of it. And she started laughing.

She climbed.

She rang the bell at the top and yelled down, “Heather! I didn’t fucking shit my pants!”

I have never been prouder.

Not because she didn’t poop.

Because she wasn’t alone in the possibility.

I have a slight fear of shitters and vault toilets now because of that time we were hiking — one of the easy trails out here, so accessible and beautiful, you can see for miles — and I went into a porta potty.

I sat down.

Something touched my butt.

Matty, I have never in my life moved that fast. I came out of that porta potty with my pants around my ankles, screaming. You and the boys were standing there. People on the trail were looking. I looked unhinged.

You looked at me with that face you make. The one that says what mishap has befallen you now, my dear and also why in the fuck do these things happen to you.

Something touched my bum. I swear.

No, I swear, something is in there.

So you went in.

And it was a blackbird. Trapped inside the porta potty. Flapping around in the dark. Which means when I sat down, a panicked bird flew up and made contact with my bare ass.

We had to call the rangers to get it out.

Then there was Wyoming.

We’d just arrived at 307 Outfitters with Scott and a group of caregiver program leaders. I went to use the backcountry toilet and I’m coming out of the shitter and my phone — which I forgot to zip into my pocket — slides out in slow motion. I watched it. You know that feeling where you can see it happening and there’s not a damn thing you can do.

It dropped directly into the cat hole.

I walked out and apparently had a face. The ladies looked at me. What happened?

My phone fell into the shit hole.

Scott — who is a gentleman and a total badass and the kind of human he is — looked at me, looked at the outhouse, put on gloves, masked up, and went in.

He reached down into the cat hole and retrieved my phone.

I took it out of the case, doused it in Clorox, and decided that if a man will reach into a literal shit pit for you on day one, the rest of the trip would probably be fine.

Costa Rica. Rachael and I are pulling up to an Airbnb on the Caribbean side and the owner isn’t there yet and I had to go. Not oh I should find a restroom had to go. The kind where your body has given you about ninety seconds and the clock is ticking.

So I ran into the jungle.

I apologized to the forest spirits. I looked around. Banana leaves. Palm fronds.

I did what needed to be done.

And I thought: this is it. This is who I am. A woman who writes about somatic healing and nervous system regulation, squatting in a Costa Rican jungle, wiping with a banana leaf, whispering sorry to the trees.

Out here I think about Connor all the time.

I think about how fucking crazy it is that he rode horses after he was paralyzed. And was so good at it. I hope he gets back to that.

And I think about — I know I repeat this over and over and over — how much I hate that he won’t ever be able to see this. These trails. This sky. All of it right here and he can’t get to it.

That random afternoon — just an ordinary day in those early years. Code Brown in therapy. Had to change. And he was crying. He was sixteen, shitting himself in front of a whole therapy unit. Not the only one — but try telling him that in the moment. What the fuck could I say?

One of the older girls rolled her chair over and just took his hand. No speech. No fixing.

That night they were all eating dinner and telling stories. Every humiliating accident. Every moment their bodies betrayed them. Fourteen to twenty-four years old. Kids who had been through hell.

They were howling. Laughing about shit and piss like it was the funniest thing any of them had ever heard.

Not cruel laughter. Not hallway laughter. The kind that weaponizes.

The kind that says: me too.

I remember telling Debi and Anne — how you would never see this in a regular school. How stunningly heartbreaking and beautiful it was. All these young humans, broken open in ways no one their age should be, and yet. Laughing. Holding hands. Holding each other.

Craig Hospital and Connor and those kids built that circle themselves. Nobody designed it. No facilitator. No prompt. Just young people deciding, together, that they were safe enough to be ridiculous about the worst of it.

If I’m honest, I am proud of the retreats. I built them from scratch. They became nationally recognized caregiver programs and I will never not be proud of that.

It’s the space. The thing me and the team create that can’t really be replicated and isn’t easy to do.

The bell ringing. Scott reaching into the pit without hesitation. You walking into that porta potty like it was a crime scene. A girl rolling her chair across a therapy room and taking Connor’s hand without a speech.

Humiliation is fast. It convinces you you’re the only one.

And then someone steps closer instead of back.

Not to fix it. Not to minimize it. Just to stay.

The mess doesn’t disappear.

But you don’t either.

I know what it feels like when no one shows up. I know what it does to a person. Maybe that’s why I keep building different rooms.

Places where if your body fails you, you don’t lose your place at the table.

Shit happens. It always will.

Bodies quit. Phones fall. Birds panic. Sixteen-year-olds cry. Women shake at climbing walls.

Sometimes no one comes.

But when someone does — when someone steps into the mess instead of around it — that’s everything.

That’s the part I’m proud of.

Not avoiding the mess.

Staying in it.

lots of love

hz

Subscribe now

Becoming a paid subscriber is an easy and impactful way to support this work. It costs just $6 a month—less than a latte or martini.

However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

Buy Me A Coffee ☕

Brutally Beautiful is a reader-supported newsletter.

If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

Leave a comment

Share

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Subscribe now

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Brutally Beautiful is a reader-supported newsletter.

If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

A note before you read: This letter holds hard things—suicide, gun violence, the aftermath of both. If that’s not something you can carry today, I understand. Come back when you’re ready, or don’t. Either way, take care of yourself first.

If you or someone you know is struggling, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available 24/7—call or text 988.

9/20/24

Matty,

I usually write to you. Tonight I wrote to him first, and now I’m writing to you about both.

I waited two weeks before I let him go.

I carried my dad’s ashes with me the whole time I was out there—rode in with them, slept with them nearby, worked, cooked, explored, let the land introduce itself before I asked anything of it. I needed my body to understand where I was before my grief did.

Today, at Hawks Rest, I released him.

But you should know what I was releasing.

I got the call from Eric. We hadn’t spoken in over a decade—I can’t even tell you how long exactly. I knew immediately it was bad. He wouldn’t have called otherwise.

I remember telling you that night: if Eric’s calling me, something has already broken past repair.

When I got there, I couldn’t believe how they were living. No food in the house. A few sodas. My mom—I could tell immediately something cognitive was happening. My dad looked hollowed out, illness eating his body alive. The tension in that house was thicker than anything I’d ever walked into. It pressed against your chest the moment you crossed the threshold.

So I did what I always do.

I went to work.

Groceries first. Stocking the fridge so they’d have actual food. Then meals—real ones, cooked with care. His medications hadn’t been filled in god knows how long, so I ran those down. Set up Meals on Wheels. Got their Medicaid and Medicare sorted so they could have a caregiver. Started interviewing people. Found transportation to get them to doctors. Scheduled new appointments. Built scaffolding around a life that had been collapsing quietly for years while I stayed away.

When I first arrived, he hugged me. Held on like he was trying to absorb me into his body, and he started bawling. I told him I was sorry I’d stayed away so long, that we could try to get back on track.

I see it differently now. I think when he saw me, he knew he could stop holding everything together—because I would hold what came after.

For two days, it almost worked.

That morning I hadn’t eaten. Wasn’t practicing what I preached. I just wanted to get everything done and get back home to you and the boys.

I went to the store again. Tacos…my comfort food. I was so fucking excited to make them something normal.

I’d already started cooking when he came at me. Burger browning in the cast iron, cheese half-grated. I’d even called Eric to invite him over. He always loved my tacos. I was picturing us all sitting down together, eating like a family that functions.

Then Dad was in my face: Where the fuck is my medicine?

It took me aback. Partly because I was hangry, partly because I was just aggravated. I said, Dad, it’s in the car. I’m gonna finish cooking and I’ll go get it in a minute. You just gotta give me a second. I’m dealing with multiple things here, not just you.

He looked at me. Stormed off.

I felt bad. Not that I’d yelled,I hadn’t,but that I hadn’t been softer. So, I walked back toward his room, already rehearsing an apology I shouldn’t have had to make.

The shot came before the words.

Everything fractured into tasks.

Grab mom. Phone. Call you. Car. 911. Fear moving faster than thought. I wasn’t sure—knowing how impulsive he was—if the next shots were meant for me and mom. So I whisked her out, nearly carried her to the car, started the engine, drove her down the road while I was still on with dispatch.

Her chest started hurting. Oh my god, she’s going to have another heart attack. I told 911 to send another ambulance. Left her in the car with paramedics coming.

And then I walked back toward the house.

Here’s the thing I can’t explain: I was more obsessed with whether he was suffering than whether he might kill me too. I couldn’t live with myself if he was in there in pain and I could help. What the fuck that says about me…

But the whole way, my mind kept saying: Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.

I opened the door and yelled: “Dad, it’s me coming in. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Please don’t shoot me.”

Nothing.

I walked back.

There he was. His long six-foot-two body on the bed, legs dangling off, a towel over his head, gun still in hand. The smell was gunpowder and something bodily, something sweet. That smell stays with me. I can’t scrub it out.

The wall behind him,it was almost cruel how the blood looked. Like his final artwork, his final piece, sitting there glimmering in the light.

I took his hand. Brushed his legs. Told him I was sorry he was in that much pain.

I wasn’t angry. I’d always thought I would be.

I was just unbearably sad that this was the ending he chose.

What followed was our family in perfect form. Destruction and triage.

Eric’s car came screaming through the grass, screeching to a stop before the engine was even off. He got in my face: What the fuck did you do? I want to see my fucking dad. You did this, Heather. This is all you.

The deputy stepped between us. I thought they were going to arrest him.

My mom had reverted to a child—oddly not very mom-like, not intensely taking up space, needing tending.

And me. Fielding calls. Talking to officers. Answering the same questions over and over. Managing Eric before he’d even arrived. Absorbing everyone’s crisis while mine waited its turn.

My dad: impulsive, doing shit that would hurt the whole family with fallout that would last forever. My mom: collapsing. Eric: raging, arriving late and burning sideways. And me: trying to clean it all up. Trying to make it survivable.

I could not make it survivable.

As one ambulance was leaving with mom, the other paramedic came over to me. The only one that day to ask: Are you okay? Do you need anything?

He said: I see you taking care of everything, but no one’s taking care of you. I think you’re in shock.

I watched them load mom and Eric into the ambulance. I’d sent Eric with her just to have some peace.

How fucked up is that? It was more peaceful for me to be in the house with my dead father’s body than with my living family.

At some point I ended up in the garage.

It was very clean. Organized. That was Mom—her need for control on display even there.

I sat on a cinder block. My phone was almost dead. People kept moving through the door into the house;sheriffs, paramedics, detectives—coming and going while I sat still for the first time that day.

The cinder block was cold. That’s what kept me present. The coolness pressing through my favorite blue jumper. The one I still wear, because I refuse to let them dictate or fuck up my life, even what I put on my body.

I called Jamie.

Told her: Dad just shot himself. He’s dead.

I couldn’t cry. But she did. She sobbed so hard it felt like she was absorbing my grief, carrying what I couldn’t yet hold. Like she knew I needed someone to do that for me.

I stared at the steps leading into the house. The door was open. Light moved through it. Voices. Footsteps. And somewhere inside, my tacos half-made. Cheese still grated on the counter. Beef and green chiles sitting in the cast iron, waiting for a dinner that would never happen.

Tragically comedic. That’s what it was. That’s how our family worked.

I’ve been carrying both versions of him ever since.

The man who taught me how to love the wild. Who moved among animals without startling them. Who could kneel beside something injured and make it still. Plants grew better under his hands. Strays found our garage without being invited. Tenderness came easily to him once—before pain and pills and silence took up all the space.

That’s one of the reasons I know how to see what’s alive around me.

And the man who left me holding the wreckage. Who chose a moment when I was walking toward him with an apology on my lips. Who made me walk back into that house not knowing if he was waiting to kill me too.

Both of them were in that bag of ashes I carried into the Thorofare.

The ride in took most of the day. Nine hours of forward motion and nothing to do but stay upright and pay attention. I was leading nine mules, the owner riding ahead of me, no one behind. Bells never stopped. Hooves struck stone, dirt, roots. Leather creaked. Breath moved in rhythm.

There was too much sound for talking—not loud, just constant—enough to push words out, but not thought.

The Tetons held steady behind us, blue and jagged, early snow clinging higher up. Aspens flashed gold along the bends, willows already thickening, their leaves darkening as if bracing. The river kept pace most of the way—sometimes close enough to cool my boots with spray, sometimes slipping away and reappearing miles later like it had taken a shortcut.

The water was so clear it felt deliberate. Stones visible all the way down. Weeds bending. Trout holding steady—huge, old, fed by a place most people never reach.

I thought of him constantly, but not heavily. More like recognition. Horses. Distance. Work that mattered. A world that didn’t need explaining.

This was his kind of place.

The days that followed were full and ordinary. Cooking before light. Coffee boiled too strong. Knife against board. Steam rising. Pots blackened by fire. Walking the river in the afternoons, learning where the current slowed, where ice would start forming first. Stars so sharp they felt intrusive.

I slept hard. Woke cold. Mornings tasted like metal and pine.

The day I chose wasn’t dramatic. It was a day off.

I got up early anyway. Built the fire. Fixed breakfast for the staff—eggs, potatoes, bread warming at the edge of the pan. The familiar choreography of care. Later, I prepped dinner so no one would need me when the light shifted. Chopped vegetables. Set things aside. Cleaned as I went.

Only then did I shoulder my pack and walk down toward the river.

The ground was stiff with cold. Willows brushed my sleeves, damp and dark, already leaning toward winter. The river moved fast, clear enough that you could see straight to the bottom—stones, weeds, fish holding their place like they had nowhere else to be.

I sat for a long while before I did anything.

Time moved differently there. I gathered what the ground offered—stones warm from sun, a feather snagged low in a branch, bits of petrified wood smoothed by water. I built a mandala slowly, without design. Knees in grit. Cold seeping through fabric. The ache in my thighs keeping me present.

His love of trees, now turned to stone. I didn’t plan the symbolism. It just was.

Dragonflies hovered close, landed, lifted, returned. Birds moved through the willows, unbothered by me. It didn’t feel like solitude so much as permission—as if the place had noticed and decided I could stay.

He would have loved that. The version of him that knew how to be still.

When I reached into my pack, I took just a little.

The ashes were pale and dry and nothing like him. But when I opened my hand, the light caught them and they lifted briefly—almost curious—before the river took them.

No pause. No ceremony. The current folded them in and carried on, already thinking about ice.

I stayed until the cold insisted. Until my fingers numbed and my legs complained. Until the sound of water felt loud enough to hold everything I didn’t say.

When I stood, the weight I’d been carrying wasn’t gone—but it had shifted. Set down somewhere that wasn’t my body anymore.

He’s in that bend now. Both versions of him. The man who taught me tenderness and the man who left me with his blood on the wall. The river doesn’t distinguish. It just carries.

I wanted you to know where I went today.

I wanted you to know what I was carrying. The tacos that never got made. The paramedic who saw me when no one else did. The house that was more peaceful with a body than with my family. The daughter walking back in, more worried about his suffering than her own safety. The mandala made of petrified wood—his love of trees turned to stone, then given to a river that will carry him past places he never got to see.

Thank you for trusting my knowing.

Lots of Love,

HZ

P.O.D.

cast iron still warm.

the shot came before my words.

cheese on the grater.

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Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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9/18/24

Matty,

Day off today. Unseasonably warm here at Hawks Rest—the kind of warmth that feels borrowed, wrong somehow, like the land’s lying to itself about what season this is.

I slept until five. Five felt indulgent out here. Luxurious. No 2 a.m. cold biting me awake, no sharp gasp peeling myself from the cocoon of my sleeping bag, clutching the hot water bottle like it could save me. The tent held its heat this morning. The air didn’t slap me awake.

But warmth like this has a price. The beetles love it.

I moved slow on purpose. Warmed breakfast, started fires, prepped dinner early. Then I stopped. Laundry could wait. So could order.

But the day was too generous to spend fixing things.

So I decided to be a little grungy. To go explore instead.

The staff and guests think I’m nuts for heading out without heavier bear protection. They’re not wrong. I should have brought more. But there are no guarantees out here—no object that promises safety. I know how to move in bear country. I know when to slow, when to listen, when to be loud.

And honestly, being alive has always involved risk. Out here, it’s just more honest about it.

I packed simply. Cheese. Nuts. Kind bars. Oranges. Grapes. Herbal tea. Two water bottles. My journal. Bathing suit. Towel. Sunscreen. Hair ties. Chacos.

Tomorrow I’ll bathe, wash clothes by hand, pretend I’m civilized again. Today was about dirt and breath and letting the wilderness rearrange me however it wanted.

I headed the opposite direction of Bridger Lake. Turned east, upriver— away from what’s marked, toward what refuses to be held by a name.

This is the most remote campsite in the lower forty-eight. No Instagram hike to prove you were there. No summit selfie. No tagged location. Just wilderness that’s still wild enough to resist human labels.

That’s the high I crave. Not peaks. Not miles logged. The unnamed.

The sun hit the aspens first, light catching their leaves like hammered gold foil, bright and almost violent against the dark green of the pines. The air smelled of wet sage and sun-warmed stone—that perfume of earth after rain, sharp and sweet and alive in a way that makes your chest ache.

There’s an old beaver pond east of here. The wranglers say the beavers had a heyday when the moose numbers dropped—when the great bodies that once pressed paths through the willows thinned out and left space behind.

The willows surged. They tangled. They reclaimed.

Until the beetles found them.

I stood at the pond’s edge watching dragonflies stitch the air above the water, their wings catching light. The willows pressed close—thick, green, impossible to see through. Mud at my feet shaped by beaver teeth, water held still because something once decided it should be.

Redwing blackbirds balanced on cattails, their songs cutting across the surface. Insects hummed. The water reflected clouds so perfectly I couldn’t tell which sky was real.

But the trees around it were turning. Red needles like rust bleeding down the trunks. Bark beetles everywhere—biting, boring, gutting beauty from the inside out.

I hate those motherfuckers.

They remind me of Mom. Little assholes who love destruction for its own sake, who find what’s lovely and hollow it out until there’s nothing left but kindling.

And they’re making Max’s season harder. More dangerous. Every red tree a bomb I can’t defuse. Every warm winter another year they don’t die off the way they should.

I moved through that place deliberately loud— voice and music cutting the air ahead of me.

On popular trails I’d judge the hell out of someone doing this. But twenty-eight miles back? I’ve only seen one group of humans. That’s it.

This isn’t trail etiquette. This is survival math.

The willows closed in thick. That’s where the unease lives—where sightlines vanish and instinct sharpens. Where you remember you are not the top of anything. Just another body moving through a system that doesn’t pause for fear.

Just before I cleared the willows, I saw them.

Wolf prints in the mud. Fresh. Deep.

Four toes. Claws. The distinctive space between pad and digits pressed so clearly I could see where weight had shifted from one foot to the next.

They’d come through after the river was high, when the bank was still soft and giving.

Maybe this morning. Maybe an hour ago. Maybe while I was making breakfast.

I crouched there studying them. No fear. No thrill of danger. Just observation.

They were here. Now I’m here. Soon neither of us will be.

Past the pond, the river takes over.

She doesn’t rush you. She doesn’t wait either.

I followed her bends and every turn opened something new—gravel bars white as bone under water so clear I could count stones on the bottom. Cottonwoods leaning over the current, their leaves turning that particular yellow that looks like captured sunlight. The sound of water over rock, endlessly varied, a language I don’t speak but understand anyway.

Raptors called to each other high above, landing on trees and rocks to survey their territory, then lifting off again. The sky was that beautiful blue today—fluffy cotton candy clouds moving impossibly fast, like someone was fast-forwarding footage of a lazy afternoon.

It was a hard hike at first—bushwhacking, scratchy and slow, branches grabbing at my pack. But once I cleared a few bends, the riverbank softened. I walked beside her instead.

Moss slick and green under my boots—bright emerald in the shade, nearly yellow-green where sun hit it. Different greens in different spots, some thick as carpet, some thin and delicate over rock.

Late-season asters still blooming—pale purple with yellow centers, stubborn against the coming cold. Fireweed gone to seed, their white fluff catching light like snow that hadn’t fallen yet. Lupine leaves turning bronze at the edges. A few gentians still holding on—that electric blue that doesn’t look real, like someone dropped paint in the grass.

Every curve felt like a gift. The current deepening here into something dark and cold that could pull you under without malice. Spreading thin there, singing over stones worn smooth by decades of friction.

Walking beside her, I felt my shoulders drop. The constant measuring—How far? How fast? How much will this cost my body later?—began to dissolve.

Wind moved through the pines above me, that particular sound like the earth breathing. Small birds I couldn’t see sang from the willows—bright, insistent notes that felt like joy even if they weren’t.

And everywhere: red trees. Whole hillsides of them. Dying standing up. The forest becoming tinder.

Just before my spot, I passed a lodgepole pine with grizzly hair caught in the sap and bark—coarse, dark, unmistakable. Not old. Fresh enough that the sap hadn’t fully hardened around it yet. I stood there close enough to see how the individual hairs twisted into the resin.

I wondered how many people pass tokens like this without realizing life and danger are so close.

How many hikers walk right by evidence of what shares this wilderness with them—a tuft of hair, a claw mark, a print in mud—and never see it because they’re not looking, or don’t know what looking means out here.

That’s what I come for. Not the peaks with names. The stuff most people walk right past.

I made it to my spot around midday.

A bend where the water spread wide and shallow, sun warming the stones. Gravel bar jutting out. I dropped my pack and just stood there for a minute, letting it sink in—this place, this moment, mine for as long as I wanted it.

Boots off. Chacos on. Cheese and nuts arranged on a flat rock like I was setting a table. Water boiling for tea on my little camp stove. The river moving past, constant and indifferent and perfect.

My private lunch with the wilderness.

I waded into the river first, cold water climbing my legs. Stood there feeling the current push against my calves, stones shifting under my feet. Dipped all the way in—shocking, perfect, the kind of cold that makes you gasp and laugh at the same time.

When I came back to my rock, shivering and alive, I saw them.

Grizzly prints in the mud.

Massive. The claw marks extended inches beyond the toe pads, gouged into the soft bank like punctuation marks. Fresh. Deep. They’d come through after the river was high, same as the wolf.

Different spots on the hike. Different predators. Same mud. Same river. Same day, maybe.

I sat on the gravel bar, ass planted on sand and rock that held both the coolness of earth and the harshness of sun all at once. The contrast—cold underneath, heat beating down from above.

I ate my cheese slowly. Sharp. Salty. Real. Handful of nuts. Tea that tasted of calendula, nettle, moringa leaf, mint, elderberry, and raw honey—floral and earthy and sweet all fighting for space on my tongue.

Watched dragonflies work the surface of the water—electric blue bodies hovering, darting, impossibly fast and precise. A trout rose once, rings spreading outward until the current erased them.

I sat there for hours. Not doing. Just being.

Noticing how nothing stays the same for more than a second.

The river that’s been here thousands of years—yes. The cliffs, the mountains—yes. But they change too. A pebble falls. The bank erodes here or there. A beaver hacks down a willow. The current shifts after rain. Light moves across the canyon wall, turning stone from grey to gold to shadow.

I am among this river which has been here longer than I can imagine. But even she’s different than she was this morning. Water that touched my feet is miles downstream now. The stones I sat on have shifted. The wolf and grizzly that left those prints are gone.

Every moment— unrepeatable.

The dragonflies kept hunting. The trout kept rising. The asters kept blooming against the cold.

And I just sat there, grungy and content, letting it all happen around me without needing to name it or claim it or photograph it for proof.

My private lunch with the wilderness.

I packed up when the sun started shifting, shadows lengthening across the water. Left the prints untouched. Left the stones where they were. Left everything exactly as I found it except for the shape I made in the gravel, which the next rain will erase.

This wilderness I love is becoming the thing that could kill my son. This warmth that let me sleep is the same warmth letting beetles thrive. This peace I crave shares a root system with the fire Max will fight.

The raptors kept calling. The river kept moving. The asters kept blooming, stubborn and perfect.

Both true. Both happening at once.

This country is powerful. Once you’ve been in it—really in it—it becomes a drug. You can’t unknow the depth of those grizzly prints in the mud. Can’t forget how cold river water feels against your skin. Can’t go back to pretending small lives are enough.

But you also can’t pretend it’s safe. Can’t pretend loving wild things doesn’t mean watching them burn.

Tomorrow, I’ll bring order back. Clean the tent. Wash clothes. Be civilized again.

But today belonged to the river. And the wolf and grizzly who walked here before me. And the grizzly hair caught in sap, proof that danger is always closer than we think. And the truth that nothing out here stays the same for more than a second.

Lots of Love
HZ

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Becoming a paid subscriber is an easy and impactful way to support this work. It costs just $6 a month—less than a latte or martini.

However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

Buy Me A Coffee ☕

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If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Subscribe now

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9/18/24

Matty,

I hiked further down the river today, following its long curve until it disappeared around a bend that looked painted by someone who still believes in wonder. The air smelled of wet sage and sun-warmed stone, that familiar perfume of earth after rain. Every bend out here hurts with beauty.

The hawks rode the thermals above me, carving quiet arcs against a sky so blue it could bruise. I stood there and felt both the wild and the wound living inside me. The stillness here hums with memory. Sometimes, in the hush between one birdcall and the next, I understand why the old healers and witches hid in the hills. Civilization corrodes what’s sacred. Out here, even what’s broken feels whole.

If you and the boys were here, I swear I could stay forever. You’d have what you need ~ fire, water, wildness ~ and I would never feel alone.

Maybe that’s why he came to me out here. Reggie. The man who left our son in a ditch. He always finds me in places like this ~ where beauty and heartbreak braid together. Awe always carries its shadow, because Connor can’t move through this wilderness the way he once did. He loved being feral in the woods ~ vanishing into trees, returning smelling of pine and triumph. When I walk through these places, I see them through both of our eyes: mine full of wonder, his bound to a different kind of freedom now.

It’s strange how grief and gratitude share a heartbeat. Even in this vastness, I still feel the absence of him running ahead on the trail, laughing, daring the wind to keep up. Maybe that’s why I finally had the strength to face Reggie.

After the accident, messages poured in. The praying for you ones felt hollow ~ sometimes I wanted to reply, Thanks, but Jesus has ghosted me my whole life. Then came the hateful ones ~ offers to “take care” of him, comments steeped in vengeance and righteousness. That darkness stunned me. I wrote then what became my compass: I hope two lives become better from this. I meant Connor and Reggie. It was rebellion against bitterness.

I’d already watched my family splinter and learned how pain becomes inheritance when no one interrupts it. So when Connor’s accident happened, I recognized the sound of breaking ~ how quickly grief turns to poison, how easily anger seduces a family into ruin. I swore that would not happen to us. I’d lived that story once; I would not let history repeat itself in our home.

We’d clawed our way back from my illness, from debt, from despair. I refused to let anger finish the job. But I knew ~ to protect Connor from bitterness, I had to do the harder work inside myself. My anger was hurt wearing armor. I needed to sit it down, pour it tea, and ask what it needed ~ to listen instead of battle it, to give it space before it took over the house.

The memory that pushed me there still burns clear ~ the courthouse. People stood to praise Reggie’s good character, calling him a hero, an EMT who saved lives, while Connor sat beside me with tears sliding down his face, whispering, Get me the fuck out of here.

I took his hand, and we rolled out together into the lobby, then the parking lot, the air sharp and cold. That was the moment I promised myself: anger would not be the language of our family.

That’s when Pam reached out. She’d read something I’d written and mentioned a program called Restorative Justice. I’d never heard of it. She gave me Terri’s number.

When I called, Terri’s voice was calm, grounded. She explained that they could connect me with the man who hurt Connor, if we were both ready ~ not for punishment but for truth and choice. She said, “We create a space for people to meet the one who harmed them or a loved one.”

I hung up and listened to the wind outside, feeling a flicker of possibility for the first time in years.

That night, I brought it to the dinner table ~ just us four, a simple meal cooling between us. I told you and the boys what Terri had said.
Connor stared at his plate, then at me. “If you do this,” he said quietly, “I just want to know why. Why did he leave me there?”
Max nodded beside him. “Yeah. Why would anyone drive away from that?”
Their questions hung in the air ~ unanswerable, heavy.

I told them what I’ve learned: why can trap you. It keeps you circling pain until you forget how to live. “We may never get the why,” I said. “But we can decide what we do with it. We can’t control what he did. We can only control what we become after.”
Connor looked up, eyes wet. “You need this, don’t you, Mom?”

“Only if it doesn’t hurt you,” I said.

He reached for my hand. “Then do it. You go. I’ll get there when I can.”

Max exhaled hard. “Ask him anyway,” he said. “Even if he never answers.”

Their permission steadied me.

The next morning, I called Terri back, and that’s when the real work began ~ a year-long process that returned my power one small piece at a time. Terri and her team asked what I needed to feel safe: how I wanted the room arranged, where the chairs should face, what questions I needed answered, what comforts I wanted nearby ~ stones, tea, sunlight, tissues, fruit. At first it felt absurd, all that attention to detail, but each decision stitched something back together in me.

Restorative Justice doesn’t erase harm. It hands you authorship. It lets you choose how to walk into the room that once defined your pain. Healing, I learned, isn’t the absence of hurt ~ it’s the return of choice.

When the day came, the sky over Old Town was painfully blue. My stomach knotted. My palms slick. I wiped them on the yellow sundress I’d chosen ~ a mistake, or maybe not. It clung and revealed more than I wanted: sweat, softness, the truth of a body that has lived through war. Normally I wear black ~ my armor ~ but not that day. That day I showed up bare.

Tamara stood beside me, silver hair catching the light, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. She took my hand. “If you want to go,” she said, “we can walk away right now. We can get a drink. You don’t have to do this.”

That’s when panic hit. “What if I’ve been lying to myself this whole time?” I said. “What if I can’t do it? What if I walk in there and want to punch his fucking face?”

She didn’t flinch. Her grip tightened. “Then we leave,” she said. “We go get that drink. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Something in me softened. I took a breath. “Fuck it,” I said. “I want this. I need this.”

Inside, the room was just as we’d designed ~ a circle, no corners, no hierarchy. In the middle: grapes, fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Terri and Bernadette holding space. Tamara and I across from him and the friend he’d brought.

For a while I felt detached, hovering above the scene. Hostile Heather stirred ~ the scorpion I learned from my mother ~ but I was tired of fighting. I let her rest.

When our eyes met, he started to cry. “I can’t believe you wanted to meet with me,” he said.

“I’m not here for you,” I told him. “I’m here for me. I’m forgiving myself by forgiving you.”

And then it all came out ~ everything I’d carried. I told him I’d failed Connor that day, that I wasn’t patient or kind, that guilt had lived in me like a parasite. But one day doesn’t define a life unless we let it.

He sobbed. Said he’d expected me to come in screaming.
I said, “What would that change? I’ve seen what bitterness does when you feed it. I’m done feeding it.”

Then, Matty, I did the impossible. I stood, walked into the circle, and hugged him.

We didn’t say anything that mattered after that. Tamara and I hugged in the doorway afterward too, wordless. I can’t recall what we said ~ if we said anything at all. I only remember the loosening, the strange lightness, the way my lungs finally filled all the way.

That room didn’t heal the past. It didn’t fix Connor’s body or rewind time. But it gave me back authorship. Restorative Justice didn’t hand me peace; it handed me power ~ the quiet, steady kind that lets you write the next line of your story yourself.

Now, sitting by the river at Hawks Rest, watching the hawks drift above the water, I think of that moment and how it reshaped me. Forgiveness isn’t a single act; it’s a practice, a tending. The river keeps moving, carrying everything forward ~ smoothing stones but never forgetting them.

I’ve had so many brutiful moments in my life, but that one ~ that one was not one I ever saw coming. And I have you and the boys to thank for being my anchor through it all.

Life is brutally beautiful. I know that now deep down.
The brutal is what breaks you open.
The beautiful is what you choose to plant in the space it leaves behind.

Lots of Love,

HZ

P.O.D.

no poem today

Subscribe now

Becoming a paid subscriber is an easy and impactful way to support this work. It costs just $6 a month—less than a latte or martini.

However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

Buy Me A Coffee ☕

Brutally Beautiful is a reader-supported newsletter.

If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

Leave a comment

Share

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Subscribe now

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Brutally Beautiful is a reader-supported newsletter.

If you enjoy this article or feel you gained some value but are not ready to commit to a monthly paid subscription, you can buy me a coffee!

9/16/24

Matty,

The pork spits in the pan. Scalloped potatoes bubble at the edges, bread softens on the stove. A spice cake cools under its thick frosting. Out here, meals like this feel smuggled—too lush for a valley that trades only in fire and dirt. Later, I’ll sit outside and watch the sun drop behind Hawks Rest, that ridge standing guard while the moon and stars take their posts.

And memory,pulls me back to our beginnings.

You in the liberal arts hall, a book cracked open but your gaze fixed toward the dancers’ bathroom. Rosalyn—goddess that she was—pointing you out with a sly smile and her seal of approval. That green fleece, twin to the one I’d lost, yanked me across the hall. I accused you of stealing it. Just blurted it out. And then, instead of laughing me off, you invited me to sit. And I did. Sat right down and started explaining why I thought you were a fleece thief. Fuck me, Matty, I cringe even now. My heart hammering, my words a mess, me all wildfire—reckless heat over hurt, armor strapped tight. And you, just watching, letting me flare in your direction and not turning away.

I was pedaling to class, the Burley rattling empty behind me, wind stinging my eyes. You rolled up, glanced at it, and said, “Cool way to carry books.” And in my head Freddie Mercury started up: and another one bites the dust. My grip tightened on the handlebars, stomach dropping. I braced for the retreat before you even knew me. But I said it anyway: “Actually, it’s for my son. Connor.” I can still see your face—surprise first, then something steadier. My whole body waiting for you to vanish. You didn’t.

I invited myself on your trip to Denver—“I need shoes, I’ll come”—and you, reckless, kind, curious, said yes. Who says that? Who does that? Me, back then. Goddess, I was a fucking hot mess. We detoured to DIA so you could pick someone up for the world flute project you were working on with Paul Taylor. You didn’t even know who was flying in. And then Kara walked out—my ex-husband’s best friend’s ex—her suitcase thumping into the backseat. Matty, can you believe that? Even now it feels like the universe was laughing, folding my old life into yours before either of us had a clue what we were doing.

And then yellow kitchen. Not the same night, just early all the same. We stumbled in drunk, fumbling keys, laughter spilling too loud, shushing each other as if the walls might tell on us. You laid tenderloins in the pan, I chopped peppers and onions, mushrooms giving themselves over to the heat. Garlic hit the oil and stayed—thick, insistent—like another guest who refused to leave. The air grew hot, stove and bodies and wine still on our breath. You cracked eggs into the skillet, yolks spilling, smoke rising sharp. I pressed my cheek to your back, arms locked around your waist, laughter and heat still racing through me, armor strapped tight where hurt lived. And you—steady, unflinching—let me.

We still talk about that meal, don’t we? How simple it was. And yet how decadent it felt. Tenderloin, eggs, garlic, laughter. And me thinking the whole time—this can’t be mine, not something this easy. That it must be forbidden. But you let me have it anyway.

So tonight, as pork tenderloins brown, as potatoes bubble, as the spice cake waits, I’ll be tasting all of it: this backcountry feast, the fleece, the stop sign, the Toyota, the skillet in Laramie. Garlic in the air like a witness. My wildfire pressed to your steadiness. The mountain keeping watch while the stars take their places.

Lots of Love,

HZ

P.O.D.

Midnight Snack 

Keys scatter across the table,
metal ringing louder than we meant.
We hush ourselves,
wine still on our tongues.

Onions split under the knife,
their sting rising quick.
Peppers collapse into oil,
skins giving way,
garlic searing the seams of the room.

The cut of meat slicks the board,
salt crusting its edge.
When it hits the pan
oil lashes back,
smoke threads into our hair,
into the curtains.

You crack an egg one-handed,
shell snapping,
yolk slipping loose.
I lean into your back,
arms closing,
our bodies hemmed by heat—
stove, sweat, breath.

The hiss swells,
fills the silence between us,
holds what we cannot say.
Even now,
I smell that night on my hands.

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Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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9/14/24

Matty,

When I rode into camp and saw those flags strung above the tent line, my inner voice

said it plain: Well, fuck. This is gonna be an interesting 30 days.

It was very clear—we’re not just on different pages—we’re reading different books in

different languages, written by people who’ve never met. It’s not the right time or place

to have debates. Too many guns. Too much whiskey. Too much pride.

Matty, I always strive to find common ground, and recognize that everyone has their

own set of experiences, and most of the time, we can connect on at least a human

level.

But these days, some folks can’t even meet you there—and it’s exhausting. And so, I

find myself quietly sliding in my earbuds, turning on This American Life or whatever

audiobook I’m burning through, and disappearing into someone else’s world for a while.

What I’ve come to understand—now that I’m older, and maybe a little less angry—is

that protest doesn’t have to be loud. Others can carry that torch. Sometimes it’s how

you live. What you give your time and heart to. What you quietly refuse to carry.

I don’t need to throw down around a fire ring with people who will likely never see me

clearly.

I’ll save my voice for where it matters. I’ll write. I’ll vote.

I’ll speak up in the spaces that feed me—not deplete me.

And out here? I am choosing to protect my peace.

The early mornings help. I was up again at 2 AM, starting fires in the dark, the stars still

sharp and scattered, the moon low and glowing like something watchful. It was just me,

the cold, and the quiet clatter of hooves as the horses and mules stirred awake—the

bells chiming and clanging like a lullaby in reverse. When they call to each other across

camp, something stirs in me too. Not spiritual. Just real.

And after the guests ride out, the herd runs.

You remember—fast and wild, hooves pounding the ground, breath like smoke, manes

flying like wind-struck flags. There’s no way to capture it. You don’t watch it. You feel it.

In your chest. In your gut.

Everyone should feel that once in their life.

Tonight’s dinner is prosciutto-basil pinwheels, steak, scalloped potatoes, salad, and

chocolate cake. Solid. Comforting.

They came in sunburned and sore—half in love with this place, half convinced the

mountains are trying to kill them.

And maybe they are, a little.

But they’ll go home changed.

I always do.

And today, in the rhythm of fire-starting and chopping onions and watching the mules

disappear into the trees, I kept circling back to something I haven’t let myself sit with in

a long time:

The story of how we got married.

We were only a year in, but it felt like we’d already lived twelve.

I was supposed to move in with a friend. Bags packed, Connor on my hip, I showed up

at her door—only to find a note taped to it: You can’t move in. My boyfriend doesn’t

want you here.

What she didn’t write—but might as well have—was:

He knows you know. He knows you see the bruises. He doesn’t want that kind of truth

living under the same roof.

No conversation. No warning. Just silence.

And me, standing there with a kid and no plan.

You didn’t hesitate.

You told us to move in. Said you’d sleep on the couch, and we could have your room.

You didn’t try to fix it. You just made space.

Then we moved into the duplex on Kearney with Laura and the kids. God, I loved that

house. I was finally settling.

And then I got pregnant.

You asked me to marry you, and I told you no.

Not because I didn’t love you—but because I did.

Because I knew what marriage had cost me before.

I’d been swallowed whole by it once, and I was afraid I’d drag you under with me if I

tried again.

I wanted forever with you, but I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it.

You didn’t push. You waited. And eventually, something in me softened.

I said yes.

We planned a quiet courthouse wedding. Your professor agreed to witness. We didn’t

tell many people.

I put on a tight red dress that showed off my tiny bump—maybe an act of defiance.

I had Laura snap a photo of us before we left, not telling her where we were headed.

When we got there, I asked not to have Judge Castor—because how fitting would it

have been to have my ex–father-in-law remarry me?

I mean, I adore him, but I needed this to be different. Just ours.

We sat. We waited. Your professor arrived.

And then I panicked.

I told you I had to pee, locked myself in the bathroom—and didn’t come back.

I was spiraling. Not because I didn’t want to marry you—but because I did.

And the weight of it—the finality, the history, the fear of failing again—made me freeze.

My heart felt like it would beat straight through my ribs. I couldn’t breathe.

And then I heard your voice through the door.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you coming out?”

“I love you. This doesn’t change anything.”

You didn’t knock hard. You didn’t pace. You didn’t leave.

You just stayed.

And Matty—that broke me open.

Not shattered. Just cracked open—just enough.

I opened the door, and you were still there. Calm. Kind. Solid.

You wiped my face and asked, “You ready?”

I said, “Not really. I’m so fucking scared.”

You said, “Me too.”

And we walked in together.

I cried the whole ceremony. Full sobs. My makeup was a mess. I looked like I’d just

been rescued from a hostage situation.

I still think the judge gave us six months, tops.

Then we went to Young’s Café. Ordered crab. Laughed nervously, like two people

pretending to be adults.

And after dinner, you told me—very casually—that you’d knowingly written a bad check

to cover the meal.

That’s us, honey.

Broke as shit, mildly reckless, high on hormones and hope—committing seafood fraud

to celebrate our marriage.

Honestly? It was perfect.

Exactly our kind of ridiculous beginning.

We started our marriage with a baby on the way, a bounced check, and a hell of a lot of

hope—but somehow, that made perfect sense for us.

I’ve thought a lot about how much I wish we’d had a party, some kind of celebration to

mark what we chose.

Maybe we still do that someday. Something a little ridiculous. Something wild and ours.

I’m sure people thought we wouldn’t make it. Single mom. Moving fast. Messy past. Too

much, too soon.

But here we are.

We’ve seen people get married and divorced and stay in versions of forever that look

like anything but love.

And somehow, through every season, we’ve chosen each other. Again and again.

Matty, I love you more now than I did that day. Because now I know what we’ve carried.

What we’ve survived.

And honestly—I still think about you on the other side of that bathroom door.

I wonder how hard it was for you, waiting. How unsure you must have felt.

But you stayed.

And when I opened that door, you were right there.

That’s the moment I married you.

Not the judge. Not the vows.

That moment.

And it’s the one I keep choosing—every single day.

Lots of Love,

HZ

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Becoming a paid subscriber is an easy and impactful way to support this work. It costs just $6 a month—less than a latte or martini.

However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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9/10/24

Matty,

My hands are rebelling, numb, swollen, tired, but I'm hanging in. Meals have been good. Something is steadying about being back in the cook tent again. Chopping, searing, tasting, layering, each movement a kind of prayer, a way to coax chaos into something nourishing. Cooking's always been one of my languages, hasn't it? The way I love, grieve, celebrate. I cherish our dinners, piled high with stories and second helpings. The table becomes absurdly lovely when it's us: food, laughter, and the occasional ruthless round of Cards Against Humanity.

Every morning and evening, just as I get breakfast or dinner going, the stock, over seventy horses and mules, comes rushing past the cook tent. You know how magical it is. Their hooves thunder against the ground, tails flying, whinnies echoing through camp like some wild orchestra of freedom. Nothing says freedom quite like a horse tearing across a mountain meadow. It's a kind of aliveness I never get tired of. Makes everything else,the aches, messes, even the mice, fade to the background for a minute.

I haven't written much about the folks I'm working with, probably because… honestly? This trip is for me. I'm happy to cook, serve, and feed everyone well, but this is my reset at its heart.

My breath.

My space to walk alone and listen to what's still buried inside me.

I still cannot believe I am out here doing this.

Most days, I take a five- to seven-mile hike, down to the river or up the trails. And yeah, I'm still nervous about bears, but I've developed a strategy. Nerd alert: I made up a whole damn routine. I crank the Magical Fantasy playlist on Spotify (you'd hate it, think epic elf warrior meets cottagecore hype music) and imagine I'm on a sacred quest to retrieve the Elixir of Peace and pour it into the land and rivers, so that women can rise again and rule, restoring balance, nurturing, and some actual sense to this broken-ass world.

I am unsure why, but it helps me with the anxiety of hiking alone in Grizzly country.

I'm also outlining a fantasy novel based on this. Even if it's just for me. I'm so sick of stories where the women are whiny, seventeen, and clawing their way toward power stolen by men. Where's the one where mature women already rule? Where the matriarchs kept the world from burning while the men were off pounding sand? Anyway, rant over.

Back to the herd: they came galloping by this evening while I was stirring garlic into a pot of potatoes, and I just thought how fucking cool it is right now, doing this in a place you were thirty years ago. The echoes of you here. So here I am, writing to you instead.

And I keep coming back to the table. Ours. The safety of it. The way we pass not just salt and hot sauce but memory, humor, and our tales. There's no performance in it. Just belonging.

It wasn't always that way.

Growing up, the table was sacred too, but for different reasons.

It was a stage.

A trap.

A performance of perfection held together by flaky pie crusts and the sharp edge of silence.

My mother ensured the food was incredible, but every bite carried the weight of what couldn't be said. Emotions were buried under mashed potatoes and gravy.

One night, the façade cracked.

I had the Beastie Boys blasting in my ears, trying to drown it all out, but it broke through, glass shattering, furniture crashing, voices raised in fury. I stepped out and followed the chaos: broken picture frames, the acrid mix of cigarette smoke and sweat, overturned furniture like a breadcrumb trail to the front lawn.

There they were, Dad and Eric, locked in a rage that had been simmering for years. My father's hands twisted into Eric's shirt, his voice distorted with venom. "You son of a bitch," he spat. Eric didn't flinch. He surged forward, knocking our dad off his feet. They rolled through the grass, fists flying. I stood frozen, useless, watching the two men I loved try to destroy each other.

Unfortunately, you've witnessed Eric's rage, so I'm sure you can picture it.

I went looking for my mother. I found her in the bathroom, calm, unbothered, spritzing her Lancome and applying lipstick like she was prepping for a gala, not a domestic violence report. "What do you need, Heather?" she said, not even sparing me a glance.

She knew the police were coming, and she was getting ready.

I'm still in fucked-up awe of how she masked it so well. Fuck, even you and the boys never believed me until she came to live with us. Different story, different day.

When the police arrived, she greeted them with a smile and a laugh, talked about the weather, and mentioned what we were having for dinner. The officers looked at me. Their eyes asked a question I couldn't answer. I smiled and nodded. Of course I did. I'd been trained for that.

So no arrest, just another "friendly warning."

What the actual fuck?

Once they left, we sat.

The table was still meticulously set, crisp napkins folded, buttered rolls steaming in their basket, fried chicken perfuming the air like nothing had happened. Mashed potatoes sat in a blue ceramic bowl, gravy skin beginning to form beneath the overhead light. Greens wilted in a chipped dish, still glistening with bacon fat.

Behind us, the house looked like it had survived a tornado. Furniture shoved off its mark, a pile of shattered glass swept into the corner like a threat contained. The front door hung loose on one hinge.

My father's lip was split, a smear of dried blood trailing from his nose. Eric's knuckles were raw and swollen, his shirt collar stretched sideways like it had tried to run.

Still, Dad bowed his head, fingers laced, his voice calm and practiced:

"Let us pray."

I stared at the bowl of potatoes, felt the heat rise off them, and heard the silent scream between us. Eric didn't move. He just stared at his plate, as if he wasn't sure if it would feed him or bite back.

And then, I broke. I couldn't help it. My hand moved before I could think, grabbing the roll, slicing it open with a quick, deliberate knife swipe. Butter smeared thick, almost aggressive, yellow pooling in the creases.

I wasn't going to let it go. Not this time.

I bit into it, chewed slow, made sure they were watching.

"Well," I said, mouth still half-full, "that was a hoot and a holler."

The fork clattered against her plate.

My mother's eyes snapped to mine, sharp and unblinking.

"Heather," she hissed, like the sound of steam escaping,

"Why must you always make everything dramatic?"

Her eyes settled on me, calculating.

"Just take one piece, please," her voice dripping with that rancid sweetness she used to coat every barb.

"You're looking a little bigger these days…"

I didn't look away. I reached for the spoon and took two scoops.

Of everything.

Mashed potatoes were piled high, gravy was poured thick, and green beans were spilling over the rim.

Mashed potatoes were piled high, gravy was poured thick, and green beans were spilling over the rim.

I didn't know it then, but that was another part of myself to reclaim.

Even if it was just potatoes.

This brings me back to our dinners and why they matter so much.

Because now, no one flinches when we speak or get up quickly from the table.

No one tiptoes around the truth.

No one gets weighed by how many scoops they take.

Our table isn't a set piece, it's a place to exhale.

To be messy and loud and honest and full.

And Matty, there is something holy in that.

In us.

Thanks for your haiku, hilarious and oh so romantic.

Here's mine:

Horny man's delight

Wants to dance all through the night

Pants off, moon's in sight

Lots of Love,

HZ

P.O.D.

The Table

Shoulders brush the stove,
plates clatter, forks scrape.

Max piles his plate like it's owed.
Connor talks with his hands,
half-chewed bread,
words tumbling out unfiltered.

Matty's thumb traces the glass,
slow, deliberate,
like he's mapping something invisible.

The kitchen is too small,
we are too loud.
I wouldn't trade it.

The table holds our weight,
the lean of elbows,
grooves worn deep,
rings from Matty's glass,
scratches like a ledger
of all we've survived.

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However, I understand that times are tight, so if a paid subscription isn’t an option, consider sharing BB with someone who might love it or even gifting a subscription to someone you know.

Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Prolugue

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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Matty,

I slept like shit last night.

A mouse ran across my face.

My face, Matty.

Tiny paws tap-dancing across my cheek like I was just another stop on their after-hours rave route. I shot upright, slung the fucker across the tent, heart pounding, halfway out of my sleeping bag, convinced I was under attack. I didn’t scream—but it was close.

I tried to go back to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I heard them scratching, plotting, and whispering their little mouse agendas. I lay there, completely covered in my bag, like a mummy—a terrified mummy. I would rather have had a bear walk by than have that encounter.

And now they’ve found the kitchen. I caught one chewing through a paper towel roll, mid-bite, looking me dead in the eye like, “This is mine now.” If they weren’t disease-flavored agents of chaos, I might’ve let them stay. But alas—they shit freely, spread disease, and chew paper and chips. So today, we set traps.

It’s easy to forget where I am out here, until something like that happens. Then suddenly I remember—I’m living in the wild. I’m the intruder.

Still, even in the chaos, there’s this quiet hum underneath it all. Something ancient. The land feels like it’s holding a secret just out of reach. And as ridiculous as it sounds, I think even the mice are in on it. Like they’re part of the agreement out here—tiny reminders that we don’t control a damn thing.

While walking by the river, I thought about that trip to Craig Hospital Water Hobbie Day. Connor had just come home, Max was out of school, and for a few rare days it was just me and the boys.

We stayed in a nice Marriott—clean, quiet, and the kind of place that made you forget, for just a moment, how much the world had shifted. I asked the front desk for a place we could walk and roll to for dinner, and they pointed us to Shanahan’s. Sounded casual enough.

We got dressed. Max helped Connor with his compression socks, tugging and swearing under his breath like a tiny nurse-in-training. I steadied Connor’s foot, Max’s fingers working like he had a mission. That image—Connor patient, Max focused—lodged deep in me. Love and grief always live side-by-side like that.

We headed out, Connor rolling and Max walking beside him. That rhythm between them still undoes me. It’s steady, unspoken. I don’t think either of them realizes how beautiful it is.

We reached the restaurant and immediately realized we were out of our league. Dim lighting. Pressed tablecloths. Broncos memorabilia framed like relics—quiet tables filled with grown-ups who weren’t preparing for a live-action puberty Q&A.

Max leaned in, wide-eyed. “Holy shit, Mom. This is Mike Shanahan’s restaurant.”

I blinked. “Who?”

Max nearly collapsed. “The coach, Mom. Of the Broncos.”

Connor looked personally offended. “How are we related to you?”

The hostess seated us. Our waiter floated over—blond curls and an airbrushed jawline. He introduced himself, but I missed the name because I was too busy making sure Max didn’t knock over his water while simultaneously asking if Shanahan was “rich-rich?”

Bread arrived. We dove in. The waiter returned to gently scrape crumbs from our table with one of those tiny silver tools, and Max was entranced.

“Dang,” he said. “I need someone to do that for me daily. Or Connor needs that.”

Connor deadpanned, “I am the mess.”

I raised my martini. “To us, you little fuckers. I love you more than I thought possible.”

We clinked. Connor mumbled something sarcastic. Max grinned and knocked over the butter dish. It felt like home.

Then I shifted the conversation.

“Before we order,” I said. “Anything either of you want to talk about—the move, the accident, what you’re feeling, what you need. Nothing is off topic.”

Max froze. Then he put both hands flat on the table, took a deep breath, and leaned back like preparing for lift-off.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Okay. I’ve been holding this in, and I need to say it. A few weeks ago at Ian’s, I learned that whips and chains are part of foreplay.”

Connor and I went completely still.

Mid-sip, I choked on my martini and grabbed my napkin. Connor turned into his napkin, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

Max looked completely relieved, like he’d just offloaded a felony.

“We watched porn,” he added. “And I know it was wrong, and I won’t do it again, but I had to tell you. I feel so much better now.”

Connor was now wheezing. I looked at Max, my drink, the waiter, and again.

Max, still riding the relief wave, said, “You’re not mad, right? I didn’t even know what Ian was watching and then… boom. Whips and chains.”

Connor, face in his hands, gasped, “I think I dropped the big brother ball on this one. Sorry, Mom. But I was hit by a car, so like… you legally can’t be mad at me.”

Max looked at me, earnest. “I just didn’t want to keep a secret. But I do have a question—how do you learn that stuff?”

Matty, I had no idea what to say. I wanted to disappear into the napkin with my martini. I kept thinking, Where the hell are you? This was a two-parent situation. I needed backup.

I braced. “What exactly did you see?”

“Just the normal stuff,” he said, totally casual. “Two girls, one guy. Two guys, one girl. Girl on girl—”

He said it like he was reciting movie genres. No shame. No worry. Just the raw matter-of-factness of a kid who hasn’t learned to hide yet.

Connor started coughing again.

I stared at my drink like it might turn into a therapist.

“Okay,” I said, slowly. “Thanks for telling me that. Just… a quick summary of all the major categories. Great.”

Max looked proud. “I didn’t search for anything. It just came up.”

I nodded. “And now we’ve all been changed.”

Connor whispered to himself, “We are not okay.”

I took a breath. I reached out and covered Max’s hand with mine.

“What you’re feeling is normal,” I said. “Curiosity is normal. Your body’s changing. Your brain’s trying to catch up.”

He nodded, eyes big.

“But porn?” I said, “It’s not real. It’s extreme. It’s meant to shock, not to teach. It doesn’t show love, or consent, or connection.”

Max nodded again—slower this time.

“Real intimacy starts with trust,” I said. “With care. It’s not about performance. It’s about being present, and safe, and wanting someone to feel seen.”

He nodded, brow furrowed.

“So,” I added, “maybe let’s skip the internet as a teacher next time, yeah? Ask questions. Come to me. Or Connor. Or Matty. You’re not in trouble. You’re learning.”

Max leaned back, hands behind his head, and grinned. “Cool. Thanks. That felt awesome to get off my chest.”

He turned to Connor. “So. What do you got?”

Connor adjusted in his chair, shook his head.
“No way can I follow that up.”
And they both broke into giggles again.

I took a long drink and whispered into my glass, Holy shit. Not what I was prepared for. Really missing you Matty.

The food arrived—thank Godess for it. The table settled into something softer, quieter, though Connor was still chuckling and Max kept sneaking glances like he was waiting for applause.

For a few minutes, we were just eating. Laughing. Breathing.

And somewhere in that messy little window between chaos and cheesecake, I realized something:

We weren’t talking about trauma.
We weren’t grieving.
We were just living.

And it was beautiful.

Matty, that night reminded me: parenting after trauma isn’t about pretending it didn’t happen. It’s about learning how to hold space for what didn’t destroy us.
How to sit with curiosity instead of shame.
How to let things be messy without losing connection.

I’ve talked to doctors about pressure sores. About catheters and bone density and wheelchair ramps.
But not porn. Not intimacy. Not how to explain that real love doesn’t look like a browser window.

This dinner wasn’t “normal”—but it was ours. And honestly? That’s more than enough.

After dinner, we walked back under a sherbet sky. I trailed behind, watching Connor roll and Max walk beside him, their rhythm familiar, unspoken.

Then we entered the hotel lobby—
and walked straight into a furry convention.

Foxes. Wolves. Sparkle dragons. Tails. Corsets. Full fur suits and casual greetings, like this was just any Tuesday.

Max whispered, “What is happening?”

Connor grinned. “Furries, Max.”

We got in the elevator. Doors closed.

Max leaned back and said, “I bet they use whips and chains.”

And we lost it.

Full belly-laughing, tear-streaming, clutching-the-walls kind of laughter. The kind that empties you out in the best way. That cracks something open and lets the light back in.

As we stepped out, Connor said, “Weirdest fucking night ever.”

Then, softer, “But it was great. I love you, Mom.”

Max wrapped his hand around mine. “I love you too.”

And in that moment, standing in a hallway filled with laughter and leftover bread crumbs, I knew:

We were okay.

Even now, covered in dust, surrounded by bark beetles and rogue mice, remembering that night—I feel it again.

We weren’t surviving.
We were living.

And I was the luckiest person on the planet.

I miss you. Guests arrive tomorrow afternoon, so wish me luck!

Lots of love,

HZ

P.O.D.

steak juice on my sleeve
wolves howl near the elevator
he says something big—
I sip, nod, let the night hold
the wilderness we call parenthood

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Catch up on Brutiful:

Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

Chapter One

Prolugue

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March and February—the sticky ones. The months that press against my ribs, heavy with memories. Connor’s accident. My dad’s passing. Connor’s accident again. My mom’s passing. My birthday, tucked somewhere in between, trying to find its place in all that weight.

But today~today marks ten years. Ten years since the day that could have shattered us but didn’t. Connor’s 10th Alive Day.

The world is still wrapped in winter’s quiet, giving me space to hold it all, process, and breathe.

The next chapter of my memoir is coming soon, and I promise~it’s not all dark and heavy. Thanks for riding through my two least favorite months with me.

"Mom, can you fix my legs?"

The words landed like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath.

Connor, sixteen, was too big for the bed, too small for what had just happened to him.
He looked at me like he thought I could, for a fleeting second.

And that broke something inside me.

Because for the first time in his life, I couldn't fix it.

That morning had been nothing special.
Just another fight, sharp-edged, the kind of argument that felt big at the moment
but would have been forgotten by dinner.

"You're wasting your potential."
"Your grades are slipping."
"Your friends are a bad influence."

Connor, fists tight, jaw locked~
"I fucking hate you. I hate this house."

The slam of the door echoed long after he was gone.

I let him go.

Because I was tired.
Because my head ached.
Because I thought we had more time.

I grabbed the pills.
Dilaudid, Xanax, Promethazine.
Swallowed them dry, collapsed onto the couch,
let the dulling fog pull me under.

Then the sirens came.

And I didn't know they were for him.

Matty’s voice cut through the haze.

"Why the fuck aren’t you answering your phone?"

My head pounded.

"I had a headache."

His face~something raw, something unfamiliar.

"Connor was in an accident."

The words didn’t land at first.
They hovered in the air,
waiting for me to understand.

Matty was already moving, coat in my hands, phone in my lap,
a scrap of paper pressed into my palm.

"Call this number."

I dialed. The voice on the line was steady, detached.

"He is in critical condition. Get here as soon as possible."

Matty gripped the wheel,
jaw tight, hands steady.

His focus was sharper than mine

because it had to be.

This was what he did.
When I was too sick to move, he took care of me.
When the world crumbled, he built a plan.
When disaster struck, he became the anchor.

And I clung to him now,
as he steered us toward something neither of us knew how to face.

Max was in another car, riding with friends, and it was quiet.

Not because he was small.
Not because he disappeared.
But because he was steady~the observer,
the one who thought before he spoke,
the one who did the right thing without making a show of it.

Connor had always been impulsive, quick, larger than life.
Max was measured, thoughtful, intentional.

And in that moment, he was absorbing it all.

The shift in the world.
The way his family was about to change.
The way he would have to change with it.

Matty met him at the hospital doors
and knelt to his level, hands firm on his shoulders.

"Your brother’s been in a bad accident. He’s in surgery now.
We don’t know everything yet, but the doctors say he might not walk."

Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry.

Matty kept going, steady.

"Connor is still your brother. That doesn’t change.
He will just have to do things differently now.
And we have no idea what that will look like yet.
But we’ll figure it out. Together."

A slow, sharp nod. Too fast.

Matty pulled him in,
a quiet, fierce hug in a hallway full of too many lives hanging in the balance.

"You will still live your life, Max.
We will always be here for you."

Max exhaled, let himself be held for just a second,
then straightened.

"Okay."

The hospital swallowed us whole.

A doctor sat with hands folded, his voice too careful.

Spinal cord injury.
A 10% chance he would walk again.

The numbers sat in my throat like swallowed glass.

A cop stood in the corner.

Hit and run.
No driver.
No answers.

Matty shook her hand, steady.

"Please keep us updated. We appreciate your service."

A card.
A case number.

None of it mattered.

I needed to see my son.

His body was still,
but his eyes—God, his eyes.

Fear.
Apology.

A question he was afraid to ask.

"Mom, I’m so~"

"No."

I wouldn’t let him carry it.

"We weren’t our best today," I whispered."But that’s in the past. What matters is now.
How we go forward."

His fingers barely curled in mine.

His breath shuddered.

Then, the words that broke me.

"Mom, can you fix my legs?"

And all I wanted,
all I would have given,
was to say yes.

But I couldn’t.

"I will be here," I promised.
"Every step. Every second. We will figure this out. Together."

And somehow, in that moment,
that had to be enough.

Max stood at the edge of the hospital room,
hands stuffed in his hoodie, his whole body stiff.

The moment he saw Connor,
he crossed the room in two steps,
threw his arms around his brother,
held on too tight,
and broke.

Twelve years old,
too young to carry that much grief,
too old to pretend he didn’t feel it.

He sobbed into Connor’s chest.

And Connor—
his body weak,
his future uncertain—
lifted a shaky hand
and rested it on Max’s back.

We could have let that day break us.

Instead, we let it shape us.

We stopped sweating the small things.
We stopped leaving without saying I love you.

Connor lived—so we lived more.

And Max~
Max, who had spent so much of his childhood
not being overlooked, not being small,
but watching, waiting, learning, knowing when to step in~
grew into something unshakable.

And Matty~
Matty, who had held us all together through the worst of it,
who had held the line when the world fell apart,who had taken care of me, of them,
who had never once let go—

he remained the anchor.

He always had been.

Max became a wildland firefighter,
one who walks into the burn,
who holds the line while the world turns to smoke.

Every two weeks, I hug him goodbye,
his uniform stiff with soot,
his skin carrying the scent of mountains and fire,
of earth swallowed whole and reborn.

Tears turned to ash,
woven into the fabric of him,
His eyes carry things I cannot protect him from.

I watch him go.

And as I write this,
Connor is sick in bed.
I have a migraine that makes my skull feel too tight.

Matty sits beside me,
his presence steady,
the same as it’s always been.

Our life is not all roses, dear reader.

It is full.
It is brutal.
It is beautiful.

It is ours.

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

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Matty,

Yesterday, as I rode the 28 miles back to camp, I couldn’t shake the wild poetry of it—a girl from Kentucky tracing the same rugged trails a boy from California traveled 28 years ago. We were drawn to the most remote camp in the lower forty-eight in different lifetimes. Life doesn’t just lead you on a crazy ride; it drops you in places like this, where the land quietly rewrites your story.

Being here at Hawk’s Rest in the Teton Wilderness is breathtaking, terrifying, and exhilarating. Knowing I’m walking on the same ground as you did feels surreal. This land has a way of carving itself into your marrow, reminding you that you’ve always belonged. It awakens something ancient and deeply rooted, something we forget in the noise of life. Here, the wildness makes you remember.

This morning, I made breakfast—nothing fancy, just something to keep my hands moving and ease into the day. The crisp air made coffee taste more decadent, and the scent of bacon curling through camp felt comfortable. I stood over the stove, cracking eggs into the center of buttered toast, letting them sizzle into golden perfection—eggs in a nest, a childhood favorite. Grits bubbled low and slow, thickened with cream and just enough salt, while fresh berries and sliced melon added a touch of brightness to the meal.

Breakfast was just for the staff, a quiet moment before the wilderness called us back to work. After cleaning up, I stretched out my sore muscles and sat outside, breathing in the stillness, letting the land settle into me.

Later, I was surprised by a nap—the deep, dreamless sleep when your body fully surrenders.

The day felt calm, but the pain in my neck persisted—gnawing, relentless, refusing to be ignored. It’s hard not to wonder if the ablation stirred something darker instead of providing relief. Pain like this doesn’t just exist in the body; it drags you back to memories you’d instead leave behind.

I’ve had many bedridden days—months that blurred into years—but there are four that stand apart, etched into me like scars.

Those four days remain sharper than the rest, even after everything we’ve endured. Curled up in bed, praying to the porcelain goddess, the migraine and pain stripped me down to something unrecognizable—a shadow of myself. And that’s saying a lot because, at that point, I didn’t recognize myself at all. I was drowning in grief for the person I used to be, unable even to begin to understand who this new, sickly version was. How could I expect you or the boys to see me—see me—when I was still a stranger to myself?

My hollow, dark eyes terrified Max, who wouldn’t come near me, too scared to see his mother reduced to something fragile and fading.

I felt it then, Matty—something in my body had shifted, heavier than pain, like my heart had turned into a ticking bomb. I tried to tell you and make you understand that this time was different and that something was wrong. But you were tired, too. The weight of mounting medical debt and the death of the life we’d once imagined hung between us like a wall.

Your exhaustion was palpable, your fear buried beneath frustration. But there was something else—a coldness I’d never seen before. It cut deeper than the pain I was feeling, creating a barrier I didn’t know how to reach across.

We dissolved into a fight I barely had the strength to hold onto. Every ounce of energy I had left went into the simple act of staying alive.

The car ride to the hospital was silent, thick with everything we couldn’t say. When you dropped me at the ER, I looked at you, trying to convey what I couldn’t find words for: This time is different. Then you drove off to park, leaving me alone—not just with the physical pain, but with a more profound ache that cut straight to my core.

I wasn’t angry, Matty. I was heartbroken—by what we’d become, by how close we’d come to mirroring the very thing I swore we never would. I was terrified that I’d broken you in ways that couldn’t be repaired.

Each step into that hospital was a battle, every movement pushing one thought deeper into my mind: Maybe it would be better if I didn’t come back. But that thought was interrupted when the hospital staff moved urgently—something I wasn’t used to. There were no dismissive looks, no long waits, none of the usual bullshit that comes with being a woman with a chronic illness or an invisible disability. No skepticism, no second-guessing. Just urgency. They took one look at me and rushed me straight back.

As they checked my blood pressure, the edges of my vision blurred. I whispered, “I’m going to pass out.” And then… nothing.

When I woke, the sterile smell of the room hit me first, followed by the quiet hum of machines. They told me I was in acute kidney failure—that just one more day would have been too late.

Matty, when you walked in, your look mirrored everything I felt: guilt, exhaustion, and hurt. It was carved into your features, etched into how your shoulders had fallen like you’d been carrying the weight of the world alone.

I wanted to hold you and tell you it was okay, that we were only human, and that this life was far more complicated than we could have imagined. But words failed me, and I could only sit in that fragile silence, hoping you’d feel what I couldn’t say.

At that moment, we sat close but felt miles apart, bound by the quiet understanding that sometimes love alone isn’t enough to bridge the gaps life carves into us. I think we both doubted whether we’d find our way back.

And yet, here we are—still standing, still moving forward, thriving, carrying everything we’ve endured but refusing to be defined by it.

I write this today because I know you carry guilt and shame over that time, especially that day. Please hear me when I say: you have nothing to feel guilty for—not from my heart. You kept us together. You fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself. You gave the boys stability when I couldn’t.

Fuck Matty—you had to walk Connor through our first 911 call, where he thought I was dying right in front of him. And Max? He looks at you like you hold the sun in your hands—because you do. You were their rock when I couldn’t be, and you were mine too.

The future is uncertain—a lesson we’ve learned more than once. But because of you, I know we can weather whatever comes next.

I miss the boys, and I miss you. Out here, I feel you all with me—somehow close and far away at the same time. The wilderness holds space for all these emotions—grief, love, longing, gratitude—and as I sit under this vast sky, I feel every bit of it.

Thank you for letting me be broody in this letter. I promise not all of them will be so heavy.

Know this: I love you and am endlessly grateful to you. When I return, we’ll sit together, hold the weight of all this history, and let it rest between us like a shared fire, warming and healing what it touches.

Lots of Love,
HZ

P.O.D. (poem of the day)

weight



stone-blooded, i sink—
a relic no one prays to,
a monument to neglect,
tethered to sheets that smell of desperation and waiting.

i whisper—
       "may i have this?"

                        "and that?"

                                   "oh, and this too?"

a beggar in my own body,
tin cup rattling, ribs caving like a collapsed lung.

i loathe this version of me,
this ghost strapped to scaffolding and expectation,
a thing maintained—never mended.

your body is a machine—
goddess, how i envy its casual cruelty,
its ability to flee, to forget.

would you leave me?
i would.
without hesitation.

no record of my debt,
no pile of invoices curling at the edges,
no weight dragging at your spine
as you drown yourself in work, in anything but this.

but i cannot crawl out of myself.
i cannot peel my spirit from these bones.

and so we ask, again—

             "how much today?"

                               "how much can i give, take, endure?"

as if it fucking matters.


fuck this counting,
fuck this ritual of measuring existence in ounces of strength,
fuck this body—
this tether, this tomb,
this thing abandoned.

Catch up! Brutiful Prologue 9/6/24

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Brutiful: stories of a brutally beautiful life is a serial memoir written through letters and poems during a month-long stay at Hawks Rest, the most remote camp in the Lower 48. Set against the wild backdrop of the Teton Wilderness, the memoir reflects on pivotal moments of love, loss, fortitude, and healing. Each letter captures the raw interplay of life’s hardships and beauty, offering readers an intimate glimpse into a life shaped by caregiving, survival, love, laughter, and transformation. But it’s not all dark and stormy—mischief, laughter, and silly tales wind through these musings, bringing a lighthearted balance to the journey.

9/6/2024

Matty,

We rode in a silence carved by time, a language as ancient as the wild, saying everything words could never hold.

The rhythm of hooves on dirt, the pulse of the mule string behind me, the wind threading through the sage—these sounds spoke with a depth no conversation ever could. Eight hours spent in Wyoming’s vast expanse felt like a kind of communion, where the landscape held your thoughts for you, letting them unravel at their own pace.

With the sway of the big bay mare beneath me, six mules trailing behind, I had time to think—about us, about the staggering weight and beauty of everything we’ve survived. It feels like we’ve lived forty lifetimes in one.

It's strange how life unfolds behind your eyes when you finally have space to breathe. I watched the messy reel of memories unravel as the miles passed under hoof.

When I was little, I could’ve imagined myself here—riding through wilderness tucked into the edges of an untamed world. But then Dad had his stroke, and everything shifted. It was the first domino to fall, and the rest tumbled, toppling every part of my childhood. Dreams became something to hold onto by my fingertips, and there were moments I wasn’t sure I’d make it—if I’d survive or even stand again, let alone live.

Dad—and the family I knew—slipped away bit by bit after his stroke. Mom and Eric’s demons devoured everything around us, while Bryan’s were aimed squarely at me. The man who once laughed with me, who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, faded slowly until nothing was left of him. I keep returning to his last hug—— gentle but heavy, like he knew it was goodbye. I didn’t realize it at the time; how did I not fucking see it? That hug lingered in the quiet corners of my memory—a farewell I can now finally understand.

Wyoming was my fresh start, though I found myself repeating old patterns with John—but I got Connor out of that, didn’t I? And I found my voice again, wild and reckless, like a flame that refused to be tamed. That fire brought me to you.

We had Max, and then the sickness came—the bed-bound years, hospitals, medications that turned everything into a haze. I think about the damage those years did—to you, the boys, and us. How we barely made it through. Yet somehow, we surfaced, gasping for air. My health found its footing, only to be swept into another storm.

Connor’s accident changed everything. We had to learn how to breathe differently, how to build a life that made room for a wheelchair, for grief, and for a love that can only grow in the cracks of broken things. And just when we thought we had found our footing, the universe dealt us Mom. A final, demented, sad, and angry ending to a diseased and lonely life.

Her mind unraveled slowly, thread by thread, slipping through the cracks of dementia and paranoia. I found myself at a crossroads no one wanted to reach: Do I care for someone abusive, or do I let her go? Ultimately, I found peace in a place I never expected—in letting go. Forgiveness came too, though it was messy and tangled, like everything with her. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was a release—monumental in its way. I laid it all down piece by piece, and somehow, that was enough.

But here I am, Matty—whole enough, healthy enough, and here. Riding through this wilderness on the back of a bay mare, I can think, feel, and dream—alive in ways I once thought were out of reach. You, me, and the boys—we’ve built a strength I never could’ve imagined.

We’ve found something most people search for—a love so true, so vast, it’s almost terrifying. I love you fiercely, deeply, in a way that once seemed to only exist in myths. The cost of getting here was steep and brutally beautiful in its way. But somehow, we turned it into something uniquely ours—our brutiful.

I want to spend this month writing about our life—delving into every corner, from the light and airy moments to the shadowed, stormy days and everything in between. Much of my writing lingers in the dark, murky parts, but what adventures we've had! The joy and laughter have been my greatest medicine through it all. I want to honor those moments, too. Our life is not a tragedy; it's a masterpiece, stunning in its depth and beauty, and for that, I am endlessly grateful. This isn’t just something I want to do—it’s something I need to do.

These stories are screaming to be told—and I no longer ignore the screams in my life. I listen now to what calls for air, tending, and nurturing. And these, my dear, need to be set free.

I’ll sit by the fire tonight and let the silence, the stars twinkle, and the moon's glow wash over me. I’ll write more soon; as promised, I’ll include a poem with each letter. I can’t wait to read yours in return.

Lots of Love,
HZ

P.O.D. (poem of the day)

Conversation with the Universe

Tell me—
who looked my way, tilted their head, and said—
this one will be tested.

Not once, not twice, nor thrice—
but again and again, until falling and rising
felt as natural as breath.
Not as punishment—
but because something extraordinary unfolds
in the breaking, the gathering.

Who leaned in and whispered, break her—
but not all the way.
Scatter her pieces just far enough
that each time she pulls them together,
something new emerges—something closer to true.

Was it mischief or mercy that made you choose me?
To press my edges until some wore smooth,
while others grew sharp—shifting with the tides.
And who among you scattered those tiny losses,
the ones that slip away unnoticed, like feathers on the wind—
as if the point was never to hold on,
but to master the art of release.

Did you plan for me to wrestle with uncertainty,
to dance with doubt until it no longer scared me?
Was it to teach me that control is illusion—
that life slips through even the tightest fists?
Or did you know surrender isn’t weakness,
but strength—wrapped in acceptance, tied with grace?

Did you know this path wouldn’t undo me,
but forge me—layer by layer—
like clay shaped by both chaos and care?
Not scarred, but etched with truths,
stitched with wonder for those who look closely.

Because what choice is there?
Not only to survive,
but to gather what remains,
layer by layer,
until one day, without meaning to,
I realize—
I’m no longer waiting to become something.

I am here.
And I have been all along.

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Exciting News: A New Chapter for Brutally Beautiful

After a year of stepping back, grieving, and reflecting on what my 47 years have taught me, I'm redefining professional success ( yes, again, it's an ongoing process)  and genuinely exploring what professionally brings me joy: writing, nature, and retreats. My recent time off the grid in the Teton Wilderness made things clear: Brutally Beautiful (BB) is evolving. Beginning in January 2025, BB will move to Substack, where I'll be sharing my memoir through poems, letters, and stories that chronicle a brutally beautiful life. 'Brutiful, a term I use, is a combination of 'brutal' and 'beautiful, 'representing the paradox of life's challenges and its inherent beauty. Each month, a new chapter of Brutiful will unfold, interwoven with poems; I will also include meditations, zen nature moments, and somatic tools for healing in my monthly posts. Learn more. I'd be honored if you joined the journey—either the free subscription or the paid one. It's $6 a month, less than the price of a latte. I would be honored to have you on this journey!

During our annual Fall retreat in Maine with the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center (AOEC), a community I'm honored to work with who exemplifies compassion and mission- I was reminded of why I do this work and what it means to help others find their way back to themselves. This isn't about advice or telling caregivers what to do; it's about creating a space for healing and self-discovery. When caregivers are given a space to simply be free of judgment and equipped with tools to reclaim their voice and choice, healing unfolds in powerful and deeply personal ways.

One of the most common things I hear is, "I had no idea how much I needed to unpack." Awareness is the first step, and witnessing that awareness bloom in these remarkable souls is something I'll never take for granted.

This year, I'm returning to the heart of what sparked my journey—retreats for caregivers and women. This is my zone, my jam. At BB, we approach caregiving differently, and it works. I've witnessed profound and lasting transformations when caregivers and women are given space to reconnect with themselves, using nature for healing and grounding. This isn't about caregiving talk; it's about reclaiming their lives. The unfolding growth and rediscovery are profound; they are lasting, empowering caregivers and women in ways they never thought possible.

To keep creating these experiences, I'm stripping away the noise and distractions, focusing instead on those ready to dive into their healing. Over the past decade, I've seen the caregiving space shift—now, more attention is on the caregiver, not just the one they care for. This shift, long overdue, is something I've fought for, and I'm thrilled to be part of it.

As always, I'm committed to sharing my story—in person or through the written word. Stories connect us; they shape us, and we need more connection to nature, each other, and ourselves. I feel so fortunate to do this work and witness its beauty and rawness daily.

Here's to the journey ahead—I hope you'll be an integral part of it! Your participation is not just welcomed; it's crucial to the success of this journey. I look forward to sharing this transformative experience with you.

Dear Grief,

You've settled into the corners of my life, quiet as dusk. You claim spaces I thought were mine alone, rooting deeply, uninvited. And though I've often wanted to push you away, I've learned to let you stay. I had time to sit and ponder about you, my oldest unwelcomed companion. All the ways you have been in my life.

Long before I recognized your face, you came uninvited and sat beside me after my father’s stroke, which led to the unraveling of the family. So young, the loss of youth and innocence with no manual from you or anyone. I wonder what you saw in me when you first came into my life. Did you make your plan then and there?

You came quietly, too—in the ache for lost friends, the grandparents I naively thought would never leave, the brother and innocence of youth both long gone, and the brother whose demons took him long ago. All we lose along the way. You settle like dust in empty rooms, each particle holding the weight of things once solid. What do you get out of all this?

And then there's the slow erosion of the self I once knew—the self I wore like a favorite puffy vest patched with duct tape, weathered and familiar. Before Ehlers-Danlos, I moved through life with ease, unthinking, unburdened. But now, that self is out to sea, swallowed by a tide I never saw coming. Some pieces linger, tethered to a version of me that no longer exists. Others wash ashore unexpectedly, worn and strange, like messages in bottles from a life I can barely recognize.

The losses seem small until you hold them up to the light. The freedom of easy movement, of grabbing a bag and going wherever I pleased, is now replaced by the ritual of packing—a duffel filled with the tools that keep me whole. The simplicity of an unscanned morning is gone; now, my family and I count my spoons, weigh my pain, and carefully map out every step. Even food, once a source of pure joy, has become a stranger—meals I once devoured now betray me, pleasures ripped away one by one.

So many fragments of the life I built have been swept away, scattered into the deep. Yet other pieces drift back, pulled by invisible tides. Do you, Grief, have a map for this chaos you bring? Or do you wake each day and decide, "Today, I will wreak havoc on this body, this life, this spirit?" Or was it to prepare me for the losses yet to come?

Connor’s accident was a random moment that shattered everything we knew. His world changed instantly, and ours had to rebuild around the wreckage, forcing us to shift the very language of how we connect, speak, and exist. But the grief that came with Connor’s injury was different. It was a new kind of heartbreak that sank deeper than I ever imagined. This grief—the grief of watching my child lose everything that came with living paralyzed—was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn’t just the loss of what was but of what could have been. The future I had dreamed for him, for us.

Grief, I have to ask—what the hell is the purpose of this lesson? Why do you insist on teaching us through such profound loss in ways we can barely comprehend? Was there no other way to get the point across? Did you grow lonely in endless rounds or get greedy for more?

When my father passed by his hand in 2020, he tore a seam in my world I didn't even know was there. It was sudden, a sharp, blunt force that shattered something in me before I even had the chance to brace myself. His absence left jagged fragments—the hollow ache of apologies never spoken, questions that echo without answers. His departure carved out spaces in me that memory and understanding could never fill. He left an anchor in my chest, heavy and unmoving, a weight I carried alone or did until I let you walk beside me.

Grief, you and I have a quiet, unspoken understanding—a secret language we share regarding her. It’s a silent exchange only those who have danced with loss can recognize: a knowing glance, a nod that needs no words. You were always there, filling the spaces words couldn’t reach, lingering in the moments when I could only sigh and let you fill the air between us. We had our code, one forged from the sorrow of loving someone who was never truly there to love us back. The hurt was relentless, sharp, like a splinter too deep to remove, an irritant that quietly and steadily infected everything. 

You were with me long before her mind faded, etched into my bones from the years spent carrying the weight of who she never was. Piece by piece, she unraveled, and I found myself unwillingly drawn into the orbit of her decline, caring and grieving for a mother I had already mourned—the mother I longed for but never knew. And yet, a new grief emerged, fresh and unexpected, bringing me to my knees. There was no clear line between love and resentment, only a tangled knot of bitter memories and unmet wishes that clung to me like cobwebs, impossible to shake off. Watching her vanish felt like standing beside a dried-up well, cracked earth where something vital had withered long ago. And yet, at that barren end, I found strange peace—not in reconciliation or happy endings, but in quiet acceptance of what was and what would never be. She stayed closed, her untouchable story, a book I could finally set down, knowing it no longer held power over me. What a savage way to teach me acceptance, to force me into the art of letting go. I hated you for this lesson, this way. Do you hate me, Grief? Is that why you share the gift of loss so freely with me?

Oh, to dissect you. To pull apart your motives, lay bare the machinery of your cruelty and wisdom. You are as vast and elusive as the sea itself. And so, I stand on these shifting shores, gathering what drifts in, letting the rest float away, and learning how to rebuild. I've come to accept you, Grief, as a part of life, a teacher of profound lessons, and a force that shapes and reshapes us in ways we can barely comprehend.

Oh, how this life with you has worn me thin, stretched me to threads. There are too many losses, too vast for a single letter or lifetime. I feel myself unraveling at the edges, my fabric pulled taut, thinning with every strain.

So, this summer, I left.

I rode into the Teton Wilderness and let it all fall away—the static, the noise, the endless grind of trying to hold it together. Out there, where the willows bow low, and the mountains stand like quiet sentinels, nature began her silent lessons. No sermons, no commands—just the steady rhythm of life doing what it does best.

I slipped into the cold embrace of the Yellowstone River, her waters biting and cleansing in equal measure. The wolves sang ancient songs, marking their dominion under a bruised sky. I watched the moon hang heavy, like an old friend, patient and unflinching as I laid my burdens bare. And in that stark vulnerability, the wilderness held me.

Decay was everywhere, yet so was life. The fallen deer, its body now a banquet for ants and flies. The willow branches bent low, cradling the beavers' work. Even the grizzlies, lumbering shadows, shared the harvest—relishing their take and leaving behind a feast for scavengers. Nothing hoarded, nothing wasted. In nature, letting go is not loss but renewal.

And I, too, began to loosen. Grief, you were there, steady and unyielding, as constant as the stars. But in the stillness, I saw how even you have a role to play. In letting you sit beside me, unjudged and unchained, something else stirred—something soft like moss growing over an old wound.

By the time I emerged from the wilderness, I wasn't whole, but I wasn't splintered either. Nature had taught me her quiet art: to let go not in despair but in trust, to see the beauty in unraveling, in being taken apart so something new can grow.

So, here we are, a quiet understanding between you and me. You've left your marks and reshaped me in ways I never sought. You live in the marks of my marrow, settled deep like the mountains, steadfast and undeniable. Yet somehow, you've brought me nearer to what's real. Now, I walk with you—not in resistance or surrender, but acceptance. In those places where answers vanish, I am learning to breathe, to keep moving.

There's an odd grace in letting you stay. I no longer wish you were gone. You press against the boundaries of my being, bending me in ways I hadn't known I could bear—and somewhere in that tension, I find ground—not perfect, but steady enough. Amidst the weight, I breathe, I learn, and I continue.

Grief, You are my oldest, most unwelcome companion. And yet, despite the havoc you've wreaked, you've shaped me more than anyone else. You've hollowed me out, but I've planted seeds in those hollows. They've grown wild and unruly, tangled with memories and watered by tears. In this chaos, I've found my rhythm, a balance between the joy that keeps me afloat and the sorrow that keeps me grounded.

I am more than the weight I carry. You may be a part of my story, but do not own it. For that, Grief—for this brutiful balance—I find myself strangely grateful.

Brutifully Yours,

HZ

Poem of the Week

Shapeshifting Companion

You're here again,  

unbidden, lingering like a song I know too well—  

Joni Mitchell's Blue murmuring low on the radio,  

a melody sinking into my bones,  

as if it was meant to find me right here.  



I ask for one clean breath,  

a second alone—  

but you settle in more profound,  

filling the room thick,  

warping light before it lands.



There's the faint scent of roses—  

not fresh but fading,  

petals bruised and crumbling at the edges,  

holding on to what's left.  



You bury yourself in my chest,  

split open the soft places,  

leave marks I never wanted,  

lessons etched into me  

that I can't scrub clean.



You twist everything,  

turn pain metallic,  

confusion thick as fog rolling over fields,  

and in some strange grace,  

there are flashes, brutal and bright,  

where light leaks through the spaces torn.  



It feels wrong, this joy in the middle of ruin—  

sharp, out of place,  

like laughing at the funeral of something I loved.

There's no ease here,  

only the crooked path you push me down,  

each step heavier than the last.  



And still, in the wreckage,  

I stumble on strange, quiet things—  

small fragments of love, forgotten trinkets in corners of the closet,
solid, unbreakable,  

as if they'd been waiting here all along.



Sorrow winds itself tight,  

presses in,  

makes each breath shallow.  

But beneath its grip,  

a pulse—slow and old,  

an ancient rhythm,  

mine.  


Maybe yours, too.


There's no beauty here,  

only the bare, open wreckage you leave,  

yet sifting through,  

I find parts of myself,  

scarred, softened, still whole.



Somehow,  

love clings to the ruin,  

stitched through the mess,  

binding me together,  

a thread of rhythm  

steady in a tilting world.



You won't entirely leave,  

but one day,  

your grip will ease,  

and in the quiet you leave behind,  

hope might stretch awake,  

worn, waiting,  

and so will I.

Nature Zen Video
take a minute and breathe.

video credit: heather zoccali