If you saw my post from a couple of days ago, you probably figured out that I'm in Panama.
I was actually a little reluctant to tell people.
Mostly because I didn't want to be that obnoxious Canadian posting pictures of sunshine and palm trees while everyone back home is coming to terms with winter coats and snow tires.
And for my friends outside Canada, we don't get snow the day after Labour Day. Fall in Ontario is one of the most beautiful times of the year.
Just wanted to clear that up.
Anyway, I arrived in Panama on October 15 and I'm staying until mid-December.
For the first time in my life, I've taken more than two weeks away from home.
Two months.
I still find that a little strange to say.
But I think I needed this more than I realized.
The Last 15 Years
The last 15 years or so have been the most emotionally difficult of my life.
Losing Maddie was a heartbreak I wouldn't wish on anyone. I hope you never have to test that theory.
Please, just take my word for it.
And this past year, I lost my mom.
Since then, I've spent a lot of time trying to help my dad adjust to life without her.
They Don't Call Him "The Beast" for Nothing
My dad is one of my heroes.
He's 85 years old and still heads into the woods at the cottage with his chainsaw, cutting down trees and splitting enough firewood for this winter, next winter and probably the winter after that.
I'm serious.
His work ethic is something else. You don't see that kind of determination in many men his age, or quite frankly, men half his age.
There's a reason I nicknamed him "The Beast."
But I've watched the Beast age this past year.
Grief will do that to you.
He finally decided to retire, although he keeps threatening to go back to work.
We've had some beautiful conversations over the past eight months since Mom passed away.
Some really difficult ones too.
There have been days when he's questioned whether he wants to keep going.
That's a hard thing to hear from a man you've looked up to your entire life.
My youngest brother and I have tried to simplify things for him.
We sold his house, sorted through years of belongings and helped him settle into a new place about five minutes from my brother and his family.
It was a lot to go through, especially so soon after losing Mom.
But he's settled now.
I think his biggest challenge will be finding enough to keep himself busy. Something that gives him the same sense of purpose that work has given him his entire life.
He's exploring volunteering at the local hospital.
I love that.
At 85, he's still looking for ways to contribute.
I'm proud of him.
And I'm grateful I was able to spend so much time with him these past eight months. Even on the difficult days.
My Boys. My Pride.
Then there are my boys.
They're both in a really good place.
Zac has a meaningful job in Toronto, he's doing incredibly well in his career and he's in a wonderful relationship.
Sawyer is in his final year of university in Halifax. We talk or FaceTime pretty much every day.
I'm proud of both of them.
But there's something they're doing that means even more to me.
Both boys mentor younger kids who've experienced loss.
Kids who are trying to make sense of some of the same things they had to deal with a decade ago.
I think about that quite a bit.
They were just kids themselves when we lost Maddie.
They've grown into young men who understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone who's hurting is to listen.
You don't have to fix everything.
You don't have to have all the answers.
Sometimes you just need to be there.
They'll help those kids find their way. Sometimes with grace, sometimes with emotion and probably a few mistakes along the way.
And that's okay.
Those kids are incredibly lucky to have my boys in their lives.
I know Maddie would be proud of her brothers.
I certainly am.
Life in the Jungle
So, back to Panama.
I'm living in a little cabin in the rainforest.
Every morning I wake up to the screams of howler monkeys.
If you've never heard a howler monkey, I can assure you there's nothing particularly soothing about the experience.
Especially at six in the morning.
But I've grown to love it.
My days are pretty simple.
I read. I walk. I explore. I meet interesting people and have some wonderful conversations.
I still spend time working on things I care about.
I'm proud of what we've accomplished with our work supporting parents and helping them better understand what their kids might be going through.
We've reached thousands of parents, and the encouragement I've received from people around the world has meant more to me than I can adequately express.
I'm grateful for every bit of it.
But I'm also learning to enjoy doing absolutely nothing.
Something I've never been particularly good at.
And a funny thing has been happening since I arrived.
A few people I've spoken with have made comments about how I look.
"You look different."
One person even asked if I'd lost weight.
Nope.
I think that's what gratitude looks like.
Gratitude for my boys and the men they're becoming.
For the time I've had with my dad.
For the people who've stood beside me through some pretty awful years.
For the friendships I've made along the way.
And for the chance to wake up every morning and enjoy whatever the day brings.
"Chris, You Look Happy."
Yesterday, I was talking to Dad on WhatsApp.
We were catching up on the usual things. How he was doing, what I'd been up to, life back home.
Then he stopped for a moment.
"Chris, you look happy."
I smiled.
"I am happy, Pop."
And as I said it, I realized just how true it was.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I really am happy.
I don't know exactly when that happened.
Maybe it's been building for a while and I just hadn't noticed.
Maybe getting away from my usual routines has given me a chance to recognize it.
I don't really know.
And for once, I don't feel the need to figure it out.
For Once, I Don't Have a Plan
Before we finished our call, Dad asked me what life would look like when I got back to Canada.
What were my plans?
Normally, I'd have an answer.
Probably a fairly detailed one.
But this time, I didn't.
"I don't know, Pop. I'm just looking forward to the next six weeks."
And I meant it.
There are people I love waiting for me back home. There are things I want to accomplish and work I'm looking forward to continuing.
But I don't want to spend the next six weeks thinking about what happens after them.
I want to enjoy being here.
I want to wake up in my little jungle cabin, listen to those ridiculous monkeys and see what the day brings.
I want to keep meeting people, exploring, learning and enjoying my own company.
And maybe that's what feels so different.
For a long time, I was so busy dealing with what life had put in front of me that I rarely gave much consideration to what I wanted from it.
I'm giving that some consideration now.
No grand plans.
No big announcements.
Just a little more time to enjoy being alive.
Life is beautiful.
I'm glad I got to remember that again.
FAQ
How does grief affect older adults?
It often shows up in the body: less sleep, less appetite, less energy, and a person who looks older than they did a year ago. Losing a spouse also means losing the routines built around them. If it’s lasting months and getting in the way of daily life, it’s worth raising with their doctor.
How can I support a grieving parent who lives alone?
Keep in touch with short, regular contact rather than occasional long visits. Take practical weight off them where you can. Help them find something that gives the week a shape, like volunteering. And let them talk about the person they lost without steering them away from it.
What should I do if a grieving parent says they don’t want to keep going?
Take it seriously. Ask them directly whether they’re thinking about suicide. Asking won’t put the idea in their head. Stay with them and help them connect with support. In Canada and the US, call or text 9-8-8. If they’re in immediate danger, call 911.
How does mentorship help a teen who has lost someone?
A mentor who has lived through loss can show a grieving teen that there’s a path forward. Mostly by listening. Mentorship doesn’t replace therapy. It gives a teen someone who has been where they are now and is still standing.
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