When Life Breaks Your Rhythm

Returning to the Work After Losing My Daughter

There are seasons in life when everything you’ve built—your routines, your commitments, your sense of purpose suddenly comes to a full stop. Not because you planned it. Not because you lost interest. But because life broke your rhythm in a way you never saw coming.

That’s what happened to me on October 26, 2025.

My daughter, Ericka, died at 34 years old after nearly a decade of battling multiple sclerosis. She suffered deeply for years, more than most people knew, and the only comfort I can hold onto is that she isn’t suffering anymore.

And in the weeks since, I’ve had to face something I never imagined: the silence that follows the world ending but only for you.

The World Keeps Moving, Even When You Can’t

If you’ve followed my work, my weekly podcast, my leadership writing, my reflections on spirituality, culture, and the world we’re trying to navigate together you’ve probably noticed the quiet. My absence. The skipped episodes. The unfinished drafts. The blank days.

I wish I could tell you the silence was intentional or strategic and that I stepped back for clarity or perspective. But the truth is simpler and far more human:

Some days, I just can’t do it.

Grief doesn’t ask for permission to show up. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t schedule itself between meetings or line up neatly with your content calendar. It interrupts everything your thoughts, energy, memory, focus, sleep, the motivation to care about anything at all.

There have been days I sat down to write or record and stared at the screen, unable to put a sentence together. Days when even small tasks felt like heavy lifting. Days when I wondered if I’d ever return to what I love doing.

Some days I’m okay. Some days I’m absolutely not.

And if I’m honest, grief has a way of making you feel like you’re failing the world simply because you can’t perform for it.

The Pressure to “Be Back” Before You’re Ready

I’m wired, like many of you, to push through pain. To keep showing up. To “be strong.” Years of leadership roles, military training, spiritual work, and real-world responsibilities teach you how to carry heavy things. But burying grief isn’t strength it’s a slow erosion.

And yet, when you’re a creator, a leader, a guide, or someone people look to for meaning, there’s a quiet pressure beneath the surface:

People are waiting.
You should be better by now.
You used to be so consistent.
They subscribed to hear from you don’t disappoint them.

That pressure doesn’t come from subscribers. It comes from within. It comes from being someone who believes in showing up, in delivering, in serving.

But life doesn’t care about your internal standards. Loss doesn’t negotiate with your sense of responsibility.

There’s a strange dissonance that occurs after losing a child: the outside world keeps spinning while your inner world still feels like it’s smoldering. People talk about weekend plans. Emails keep coming in. Deadlines still exist. But your heart is stuck on a moment that refuses to move with time.

Grief Rearranges Everything You Thought You Knew

I’ve lived through addiction, recovery, military service, leadership challenges, spiritual deconstruction and reconstruction. But nothing recalibrates your entire being like losing a child.

It’s not just sadness. It’s disorientation.

You try to work, but your brain slips sideways.
You try to rest, but your mind replays every memory.
You try to pray, but the words feel hollow.
You try to function, but everything feels heavy.

And underneath all of it lives the unspoken, unavoidable question:

How do you keep doing the work you’re called to do when your heart feels like it’s been split open?

I’ve wrestled with that every day since October 26.

Some mornings I wake up ready to return to the microphone, ready to write the next article. Other mornings I feel like I’m walking through fog thick enough to touch.

And that’s why you haven’t heard from me.

I’m Not Quitting but I’m Not Fully Back, Either

I want to be clear about something:
I am returning.

I plan to restart my weekly podcast next week and step back into writing. I want to get back into the rhythm of providing thoughtful content that challenges, equips, and strengthens people in a polarized world. That hasn’t changed.

But I also need you to know this:

It may not happen every week.
Some episodes may be delayed.
Some posts may take longer.
Some days I may simply not have it in me.

I’m doing everything I can to move forward, but I’m doing it with a heart that’s still learning how to beat in a world without my daughter in it.

If you’ve ever grieved deeply, you know that healing is not linear. It’s not predictable. And it certainly doesn’t care about your publishing schedule.

What I Can Promise You

Even in the heaviness, something inside me hasn’t gone out. Purpose is still alive. Calling still matters. The work I do still feels worth doing. If anything, it feels even more urgent and not because of the loss, but because suffering sharpens the truth:

Life is fragile.
People matter.
We don’t get unlimited time to say what needs saying.

So, here’s what you can expect from me moving forward:

1. Honesty

I will not pretend to be okay when I’m not.
I won’t fake the energy or pretend grief is clean.
I’ll show up human because anything else would be dishonest.

2. Presence

When I record or write, it will be from a place of depth, not obligation.
If I’m here, I’m here. Fully.

3. Purpose-Driven Work

My content may feel more grounded, more raw, more direct. Grief strips away anything that isn’t real. You’ll feel that shift in the work.

4. Imperfect Consistency

I’m committed to continuing but not at the cost of collapsing.
Some weeks will flow. Some may be quiet.
You’ll hear from me, but the cadence will reflect the season I’m navigating.

To Everyone Who Subscribed—Thank You

I cannot express how grateful I am for your patience, your presence, and you’re understanding. You could choose to read or listen to anyone. You chose to show up here, in this space, with me and that means more than you know.

Thank you for giving me the grace to grieve.
Thank you for not expecting perfection.
Thank you for trusting that I’ll return when I can.

This isn’t a goodbye. It’s simply a recognition that I’m rebuilding. And like anything built with intention and honesty, it takes the time it takes.

Grief Doesn’t End the Work—It Changes the Voice

I don’t believe we “move on” from loss. We move forward with it. We learn to live differently. We learn to breathe again. And eventually, we learn to speak from a deeper place.

That’s where I’m headed slowly, unevenly, imperfectly.

But I’m heading there.

And if you continue walking with me, I promise the work ahead will be real, grounded, and infused with the hard-won wisdom that only sorrow can carve into the soul.

I’ll see you next week and hopefully with a new episode, maybe with a new article, always with a sincere heart.

—Eric