Week 4

June 21, 2026

Father's Day

This is the first Father's Day without my father or my son.

Today, there's no celebration for me. Maybe next year.

I'm grateful for the time I had with both my father and my son.

But if I'm being honest, I'm bitter...bitter that my father passed away 4 months before Ryan was born. He never got to see that smile or hear that laugh. Ryan never got to meet the man who helped me become the man I am...and bitter that I lost Ryan at 21.

To ALL fathers and ALL sons, while you still can:

Celebrate each other.

Say "I love you."

Say "I'm proud of you."

Appreciate the frailty of life.

I'm fortunate that I told and showed my dad how much I loved him, regularly.

Things were not left unsaid.

That's something I learned from him. He never had any issue giving me an embarrassing kiss or hug as a kid. He told me he loved me, often.

I did the same with Ryan.

❤️ Love begets love. ❤️

Wishing all the dads out there a Happy Father's Day.

Let your dad know just how much you love, appreciate, and respect him. Drop the petty things. In the end, they just don't matter.

This was written by Robin

I don’t have the words to fully express what an incredible dad Eric has been to Ryan.

If you knew either of them, then you already know how much they were alike. And even if you didn’t know them personally, if you’ve walked alongside us these past three weeks, you’ve probably caught a glimpse of the extraordinary bond they shared.

Ryan always looked up to Eric. He valued his advice, trusted his judgment, and treated everything his dad said and did as something worth emulating. Having the privilege of watching their relationship grow over the years was truly special. As Ryan got older, it was amazing to see their father-son bond naturally evolve into a genuine friendship built on love, respect, and admiration.

We are not ready to truly acknowledge this day, but I’m trying to stay focused on what Ryan would want. He would want me to be there for his dad—to sit with him, hold his hand, make sure he eats a good meal, and make sure he gets plenty of puppy cuddles.

So today, that is my goal. Because Eric, you will always be Ryan’s dad, and that love, that bond, and everything you meant to each other deserves to be honored.

June 26, 2026

I'm not ok, and that's OK.

Today marks 4 weeks. Four weeks ago, I received a phone call that would change my life forever.

It still feels a little surreal. The reality has firmly settled in... knowing and understanding that he is gone.

But acceptance isn't quite there yet. When my phone rings in the evening, my first thought is, oh, it's Ryan. I know it's not logical. It just is.

He was supposed to get in town for his birthday. He'd walk through the door and I'd give him the biggest hug.

That's not going to happen... but it feels like it is.

I can function as I need to. But the pain, the loss, the missing piece of my soul is greater than any words can express. The trick is to learn to live with it.

Bear the unbearable.

That pain manifests as physical pain most of the day, which is still a little crazy to me... but I will bear it and try to make room for joy.

I've come to terms with the understanding that this sadness, this pain, this longing and aching and despair... it's part of me now.

It's the other side of love. Two sides of the same line.

I will embrace it. Experience it. Not push it aside. It's a terrifying thought, but how else do you begin to rebuild if you don't?

I want to invoke Ryan's spirit, his joy, his laugh, his love, his memory... as much and as often as I can.

Today, these thoughts are only in my head. If I speak them out loud, the grief takes over and literally does not allow the words to come out of my mouth.

Writing is the only way I can do this right now.

I miss Ryan with every single fiber of my being.

This piece of my soul that is missing will never be filled... and that's ok. I will allow the grief to wash over me, and allow myself the grace and strength to feel everything.

To push through the fear of pain and let it subside.

There is a long and grueling road ahead. But the love and support of the people around me gives me the strength to move forward.

Robin wrote the following

This past week has been an interesting one. It was the first week where we didn’t have decisions to make about Ryan. For the three weeks leading up to his services, every day seemed to revolve around conversations, planning, and making decisions to honor him. Then suddenly, there were no more decisions.

I don’t know what I expected as we tried to find some sort of routine again. What I’ve learned is that my brain isn’t fully ready for that. So each morning, I made one simple decision: get out of bed, shower, and get dressed. It sounds like such an easy checklist, but lately, it’s taken everything I have.

I’ve learned to celebrate the smallest victories, going to the grocery store, returning Amazon packages, dropping off donations, or even treating myself to a special drink if I felt up to it. But even as I accomplished those little things, I still felt shaky. Being around people made me anxious, and I often found myself sitting quietly in my car afterward, either in complete silence or listening to Ryan’s favorite Spotify playlist.

It’s hard to explain what trauma does to your brain. It feels like a piece of it has simply been taken over. Everything is cloudy. My thoughts feel scattered, and even simple tasks require more effort than they used to.

Wednesday was especially memorable. Pam and I attended a grief workshop at the funeral home where we held Ryan’s wake. That morning, I struggled to get out of bed. I had absolutely no desire to leave the house, but I knew it would be good for me, and I didn’t want Pam to have to face it alone.

One thing that has been incredibly helpful is the way Eric, Pam, and I continue to encourage one another. We check in every day, say the hard things out loud, and remind each other that what we’re feeling isn’t crazy. It doesn’t lessen the grief, but it certainly makes this journey feel less lonely.

As I walked into the room for the workshop, I was shaky and overwhelmed with emotion. I hoped we’d leave with practical tools or techniques to help us navigate each day. Instead, we found ourselves in what honestly felt like we had walked onto the set of a scripted TV show. It reminded me of Jury Duty, like everyone else knew the script and Pam and I were the only real people there.

There were certainly people who were grieving, but many of the interactions felt almost like characters in a show. At one point I leaned over to Pam and whispered, “Ryan would be laughing so hard at this.” I could picture the look on his face and hear that goofy laugh of his.

As heavy as that morning was, it unexpectedly gave us something we desperately needed, a moment to laugh. Grief has a strange way of making room for both tears and laughter in the very same moment.

On the drive home, I talked to Ryan. I laughed. I cried. Somehow, both felt right.

Next week we travel to Little Rock to honor Ryan on base. It’s an incredible privilege to be included in something so meaningful, especially knowing how many of his fellow service members wanted to celebrate his life. Those moments will undoubtedly be hard, but they are also deeply comforting. Every story we hear reminds us of the impact Ryan made on so many lives, and as his parents, there is no greater gift than knowing how deeply he was loved and how well he loved others.