I underestimated the emotional impact of the Christmas holiday. I thought, “It’s a special day, sure, but still, it’s just another day without my son. Why would it be different from all the other days?”

I wish I could explain why it was different, but I can’t. It’s felt, sensed. It was heavier without Cooper here, with a constant void, an emptiness. Melancholy Man set up camp and stayed a few weeks.

Taking down the Christmas tree ornaments saddened me. So many little ornaments made by my guy when he was just a small fry.

Four stockings hung by the fireplace with care.

Chinese food on Christmas Eve—no Cooper.

Christmas Eve drinks and board games—no Cooper here to laugh with.

It’s amazing how we build routines and annual habits into our lives, and these threads give shape to our days, anchor us, tie us together.

Not gonna lie, the holiday season set me back a bit. It was harder than I anticipated. I underestimated it. One step backward, for sure.

First Christmas and New Year without Cooper, in the books. Very sad, heartbreaking, difficult, and emotional.

And yet, some new patterns and threads were woven.

I went out and played pool and drank beer with Carse. One evening, after about five games of pool, I said, “I need a break for a bit.” As we sat at our table, I asked Carse, “How are you doing? How are you processing your brother’s death?”

In his own way, Carse opened up to me and shared his emotions, his thoughts. That moment alone was worth our time together.

Playing pool and having a few beers with my son was enjoyable; it was fun. It took my mind off things, gave my brain a break. I was able to smile and relax, let my shoulders down, just be for a little bit.

I also drove out to the cemetery with CJ and spent some time near Cooper’s gravesite. We talked a bit, prayed, took it all in.

What is it exactly one is supposed to do at a gravesite? I don’t know, but I always feel better after I visit. I say things, I pray, I show up. The presence feels honoring. It feels warm to be there. But it’s hard, too.

The drive out to the cemetery gave me time with CJ to ask how he is doing, how he is processing. We both agreed that we have had anger show up in our grieving. We love Cooper, and we have also been angry at him for doing this. He hurt a lot of people, deeply and forever.

But we both admit that our anger is fleeting. We love Cooper and realize he was hurting, and it wasn’t really Cooper who took his life.

I imagine it this way: Cooper was carrying a tremendous amount of pain. When he took his own life, he dispersed that pain to his family and friends. The pain I have in his absence is only a fraction of the pain he was carrying, as other family and friends have their share. So if I know how badly I hurt, and I am only carrying one share of pain, a fraction, then wow, I don’t know how Cooper did it for so long.

Yeah, these firsts are tough. First Christmas without Cooper, first New Year’s Day. There will be more, and I can’t say that I really look forward to them.

I am doing better than ground zero day for sure. I can feel myself getting stronger and gaining balance and equilibrium. I still hurt, of course, and I walk around daily with an aching emptiness in my soul, my shadow casting about, but I do feel stronger and more healed than before.

I am not healed, but some healing has taken place.

My wife and I still talk, we still process, and we still run into the same unanswerable questions. But we talk it out nonetheless.

Cooper’s death is not like the death of my father or my grandparents. I worked through the grieving process following their deaths, and I feel fine today. I miss them, surely, but I remember them with love and fondness. Very few regrets. This is where the “stages of grief” make sense to me. With their deaths, I believe I am on the backside of the grieving process. I worked through something, and I am at peace with their deaths.

Not so with Cooper. It seems to me it will be like a pinball arcade game, the ball bouncing around side to side through these stages of grief. Bing, bing, bing. The ball falls through the grief levers and gets shot back up into the stages to bounce around all over the place.

But there are moments. I do savor them.

Out of the blue, I received a very nice text message from a former student yesterday. He’s a full-time firefighter now, got married a year ago, and they have a newborn son. He sent me a picture and told me he missed me. In a good way, it broke me up. I found myself in tears, standing in my kitchen. Grown-ass man with tears running down my cheeks, jingling the coins in my pocket.

He didn’t know about Cooper, and I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to spoil the vibe.

It’s not lost on me, and it’s painful. I know my son won’t know the deep, warm, long glow of marriage and the beautiful joy of being a father. This is heartbreaking, and I can’t change it.

The text exchange with my beloved former student gave me hope because it helped me to focus on my future, and it clarified some things for me. The thing is, I know how my body feels and reacts when the Holy Spirit is speaking to me, and in this text exchange, the Spirit was with me, giving me direction.

It was good to know God has not left me. I never thought He did, really, but He has been silent.

In this new year, God willing, I hope to move back into education, into the classroom. It’s what I am passionate about, something I am decent at—teaching. I imagine teaching young students and giving them my very best. This is aligned with my strengths and passion, and most importantly, it feels honoring to Cooper. Cooper would be proud of the message I received from my student.

Here I am, Lord. Full send me.