February 8th: Seventeen Years, Still Carrying His Light

While the Unspoken Grief series names the quiet losses we often carry alone, some days ask us to pause the conversation and honor the people who shaped us before the grief ever had a name. February 8th is one of those days. This post is not a detour—it’s a grounding. A moment to remember who we love beyond how we lost them, and to acknowledge that legacy, love, and remembrance deserve space alongside the unspoken.

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February 8th always arrives quietly—and loudly—at the same time.

Seventeen years ago, I said goodbye to my late husband, Jack.
Seventeen years since I last heard his voice, felt his hug, watched him dote on his little girl, and offer his steady, infinite wisdom on life.

And yet…here he is.
Still with us. Still shaping us. Still leaving fingerprints on the future.

As the years stretch farther from that day, something has shifted in me. I still miss him—deeply. But today, I don’t want to tell the story of what cancer took. I want to tell the story of who Jack was.

Because cancer didn’t define him.
It interrupted him.

Jack was steady.
The kind of man who showed up without needing applause. Who believed in family as a verb, not a title. Who worked hard, loved deeply, and carried a quiet strength that made you feel safe just standing beside him.

He was a husband who loved with intention.
A father who adored his children—and his family and friends.
A man who valued loyalty, honesty, and doing right by people, even when no one was watching.

He had a way of grounding a room. Of making the future feel possible. Of reminding us, simply by how he lived, that goodness didn’t have to be loud to be lasting.

When cancer entered our lives, it changed many things—but it didn’t change him. It didn’t erase his character, his humor, his faith, or the way he loved. It didn’t take away the lessons he taught us or the example he left behind.

And it certainly didn’t take away his legacy.

Seventeen years is a long time to miss someone.
A long time to imagine conversations that never happened. Milestones he should have been here for. Moments that still echo with his absence.

But it’s also been seventeen years of growth. Of resilience. Of learning how to carry love forward instead of letting grief freeze it in place.

As we grow farther away from the last time we saw him, I’m choosing to lean into the goodness he planted—both then and now.

The good he was.
The good that came from loving him.
The good that still unfolds because he existed.

Jack’s story didn’t end in loss.
It continues in who we’ve become.
In how we love.
In how we live.
In how we choose hope—even when it’s hard-won.

Today, we remember him not only with sorrow, but with gratitude. Not only with longing, but with forward-looking faith.

Seventeen years gone.
Still deeply loved.
Still shaping the future.

And always—always, carried with us.

And I would be amiss not to mention this:
February 8th is also the day we remember a man who was full of life—my father-in-law, Gary.

Jack’s dad died on the very same date, fourteen years later. Even now, I’m still in awe of the timing. The beauty of it. The mystery of it.

What Gary taught me about living is this: life is never to be taken for granted, and anything is possible if you choose to believe it can happen.

Gary has been gone for just three short years, yet a lifetime of memories and wisdom are always knocking at our door. I can still hear his robust laugh. I can still hear his voice—offering guidance when I question so many things.

The determination and strength he carried in the final years of his life were nothing short of honorable. Proof that mindset and will can—and always will—win.

February 8th is more than just a date for our family.
It’s a day that changed us for good—not for worse.

Remember that.

Death is a heartache.
But death can also be a reminder that life is bountiful.