Yesterday, while walking together, my bonus daughter found an amethyst. Just before that, we had been watching This Is Us, the episode where the house burns down. As the scene unfolded, she quipped, “I’m not crying, you’re crying.” The emotions stirred something in both of us, so we decided to get outside and walk it off.

We meant to go to her favorite sunny trail nearby, but twice we turned down the wrong road. I said aloud that maybe we weren’t supposed to go there today. Just then, three police cars raced past us. It felt like a memory from another lifetime. When I was a child and my father had been drinking, my mother would quietly hand my oldest brother the car keys and usher us out of the house. When she could slip away, we’d drive around in the night chasing the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, waiting for the storm to pass.

Instead of the sunny trail, we ended up somewhere else, less light, more traffic noise, but still, there were tall trees and a sky that felt as hollow as we did. I made light conversation as she walked quietly beside me, sorting through what she was feeling. At one point, I noticed she had fallen behind. When I turned around, she was holding out an amethyst she’d found on the path.

Later, when we reached the turnaround, her emotions spilled out. I carried the stone in my hand and held the space with my heart, listening to her speak her truth.

This show, This Is Us, ends today on Netflix, and in many ways it held space for me through my own seasons of change. I watched Jack Pearson and saw the man I always longed for, imperfect but wholehearted, flawed but fiercely loving. Then, he appeared in my life. A real person. My Jack. For a time.

But fantasy often crumbles when the real world intrudes. He couldn’t give himself to me fully, not in the way I needed.

This morning, I drank my lavender cacao and watched Jack die on screen. I cried, not just for the character, but for the man I loved who is no longer in my life. He’s not gone from the world, but he’s gone from mine. And still, I remembered: maybe Jack is a metaphor. Maybe he represents the kind of love that is still coming. My life has always aligned in meaningful, unexpected ways. If he was just a glimpse of what love could look like, then I trust the real thing will open up when the time is right.

When I was young, I wasn’t sure I wanted children. Then my niece was born ans she was amazing, but terrifying. Then I married a man who mirrored both my mother and my father’s wounds, and I doubted I would ever be loved the way I needed. But I helped raise children who loved me. Then I had my daughter, the one I grew in my own personal Easy-Bake Oven, and she loves me fiercely. Because of her I know love exists. 

After my marriage ended, there was a 'Jack' ... not his real name because there was a three-week Jack that showed me other things. This man, my Jack Pearson, showed me I mattered. He saw me, loved me, and was proud of me. He changed me. I grieve him, but I am also grateful. I love deeper now because of him. I give more freely. I know my worth.

And I carry the amethyst as a reminder: healing comes in pieces, and in beauty. Love returns in different forms. And life continues to align, one sacred step at a time. The next version of Jack will be more than the vision, he will be the one, but I will always be grateful for all the versions of Jack that showed up.