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
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!
❤️💕❤️💕
Oh my gosh I loved what you said about intimacy in response to your son’s confession. Good job holding it together mama😅