Hello there.

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and wanted to share some of it with you.

My hope is that what I’m dealing with can actually help you.

So let me start by saying we’re a little more than five months into my post-Shelli world.

I took Sienna to her piano lesson on Monday.

She had a competition on Saturday and did well, but not perfectly.

And the thought of Shelli came up.

What would Shelli say?

What would she think?

I know she would have told Sienna, “If you did your best, honey, it’s great. I'm so proud of you."

And Sienna's performance would have brought Shelli to tears, like it has for others who’ve heard Sienna play.

If you haven’t lost someone really close like this, let me tell you something.

This may seem obvious, but it’s very, very hard.

Most of the time it's okay.

I think I’m probably doing better than most people, just because of what I know about the brain.

But at times... damn, it’s hard.

It’s a thousand times harder than you could ever anticipate.

There are times when life is normal, times when you feel fine.

I spent a whole week in Orlando at a hypnosis conference recently and felt great the entire time.

Didn’t feel sad for more than two minutes the whole week.

But there are other days when I’m surrounded by reminders of Shelli.

And those reminders, in our home and in our life, are nearly constant.

That’s difficult.

I want to share something very personal, because I think it could genuinely help anyone reading this.

Since Shelli passed, the universe keeps sending me clients who are widows and widowers.

It’s been like messenger after messenger.

And what I’ve noticed is that almost everyone who goes through this kind of loss struggles with the same two questions.

I’ve struggled with them too.

Here they are:

Was I truly loved?

Did I love well enough?

When you lose someone, your brain turns them into a saint.

Every flaw gets erased.

Everything they ever did that wasn’t perfect disappears.

And all you can think about is how wonderful they were — and what a failure you were for not loving them better.

That’s just what the brain does.

It must have something to do with survival.

Because here’s the cruel irony.

When someone is alive and with you every day, your brain filters out most of the good stuff.

You take it for granted.

You focus on the things that annoy you.

The conflicts.

The small stuff.

Every marriage has a degree of this.

It’s almost impossible not to do it.

And then when they’re gone, it goes into overdrive — in reverse.

You replay every moment you fell short.

Every time you weren’t strong enough.

Every time you could have done better.

I’ve worked with people who were married for decades — through thick and thin, who held their spouse’s hand when they died — and they still wonder if they let them down.

Still wonder if their partner would have been better off with someone else.

Still wonder if they were truly loved in return.

Those things are very, very hard to carry.

I want to be honest with you.

I’ve succeeded in understanding that I did love Shelli well enough.

And that she truly loved me.

So I’m not beating myself up the way some of my clients are.

But boy, it’s hard.

Because here’s the thing that logic can’t fully fix.

They’re never coming back.

Not in this life.

Not ever.

And that is very, very difficult to accept.

I feel fortunate that I know what I know, so I don’t stay stuck in those loops all day long like some people do.

But it’s impossible to avoid them completely.

Sometimes you get pulled in, and it hurts all over again.

I don’t think people talk about this stuff enough.

I’ve never heard anyone discuss it publicly.

I think most people are struggling so much they don’t want to speak up.

But I’m different.

I hope it has value for you.

And honestly, I hope it has value for me just to talk it out.

Here’s what I keep telling people, and it seems so obvious, but I don’t know who’s actually going to take it to heart.

If someone you love is alive and in your life right now — love them more.

Stop focusing on the bullshit.

Tell them you love them.

Give them more hugs.

Give them more affection.

Write them a long card.

Sing them a song if you have to.

Just make sure they know they’re loved.

Because one of my mentors, Richard Bandler, always says that all love stories end in tragedy.

They end in a breakup, a divorce, or death.

There is no other ending.

So if you want to have fewer regrets someday, love more now.

I think that’s kind of the whole point of this life.

The real challenge isn’t survival.

Fear takes care of survival.

Fear keeps you from walking into traffic.

Fear keeps you alive.

But fear is, in many ways, the opposite of love.

You can’t fear and love at the same time.

Love means trust.

Love means vulnerability.

And both of those things involve the risk of getting hurt.

But the alternative — hiding, playing it safe, not letting anyone get close — that’s not living.

That’s just waiting.

So yeah.

Five months in.

At times it still really, really sucks.

At times it still really, really hurts.

And at other times, like last week, life is wonderful.

Good friends, joy, laughter.

It’s all mixed in.

Nothing ever fully erases it.

But I keep thinking about Shelli’s parents.

When I first met them, fifteen or sixteen years ago, they had already lost their son Ryan when he was just sixteen years old.

And yet they could talk about him, laugh about him, share memories of him.

They weren’t morose all day long.

That was an inspiration to me for years.

And now it’s even more of one.

It tells me there is a way to move forward and have a full life, even after something this tragic.

Things are going to keep getting better.

Even if grief still sneaks up on you from time to time and kicks you in the teeth.

Meanwhile, my dog Allie has absolutely no idea how profound any of this is and just wants me to throw her the ball.

So I should probably go do that.

Tell someone you love them today.

Don’t wait.

With gratitude,

Sean