When the Mic Stalls and the Grief Speaks First

I’ve tried to record Episode 28 of Logistics at a Crossroads. Over and over again. But the words stumble. My voice falters. And honestly, my heart is somewhere else entirely.

Grief has been showing up in waves. It’s not neat. It’s not organized. It doesn’t take turns. It just arrives and piles up.

It started with the loss of my friend Kelly "Bee" on February 8th. 

Then came emergency surgery on May 15th, when my body demanded I slow down whether I wanted to or not.

May 31st brought the news that Alfred, a friend from high school, had passed.

June 13th reopened the wound of losing my cowboy, Todd.

June 18th, I remembered my grandfather—his voice, his steadiness, the quiet wisdom he carried.

And woven through it all is the painful, national memory of the Mother Emanuel 9 sacred space turned into a site of mourning, and of the Charleston 9, Firefighters lost in a fire... 

And just this morning… Kelly’s mama passed away. I knew it was coming. We all did. But knowing never makes it easier. Grief doesn’t honor your schedule. It rips the air from your lungs and expects you to continue on like nothing shifted.

Some days, I look fine. I go to work. I show up. I lead. I push through. But behind the scenes? It’s taking everything in me to keep going. To keep moving forward. To hold the line for everyone else when I’m not even sure I’m standing on solid ground.

This isn’t just about podcasting. This is about the truth of what happens when life becomes too heavy and the world still expects you to function.

So here it is I’m choosing to pause. To breathe. To let the ache be real instead of masking it behind productivity or performance.

Episode 28 will still happen. But it will come from a deeper place now. From this place. From the tiredness in my bones and the fire that’s still somehow flickering.

I’m writing this for anyone else who’s ever tried to show up with a broken heart. For anyone who has ever carried quiet grief while the world asked them to keep performing. For those who get up, show up, and hold up everything—even when it hurts.

Some days, just carrying the weight is enough.

🖤 For Kelly Bee. For her mama. For Todd. For Jason. For my grandfather. 🖤 For the Mother Emanuel 9. For the grief we don’t always name. 🖤 For the ones who hold it all together in silence.