Loving Him is Loving Me
It’s time for another post, another reflection, another piece of this strange, beautiful, and heartbreaking journey. This one is about friendship, joy, and about how the people who love me are showing up in ways that reach far deeper than I ever expected.
My best friend Jenny came in from Houston this past weekend. It was the first time we’ve seen her since Cassidy’s diagnosis, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. We both knew there would be tears—and there were. But what I didn’t anticipate was how much laughter, healing, and deep joy would fill the space in between.
We packed so much into a handful of days, and somehow it still felt grounding. We went to the Rockies Pride game with a big group of friends, wrapped in community and rainbow flags. We had an impromptu TaylorFest night, where dancing felt like reclaiming a piece of myself. We shopped, we wandered, and we found those slow moments that only exist with your person—the kind of friend who knows what you need without asking.
But what filled my heart the most wasn’t just the fun. It was the quiet, everyday moments that unfolded in our house. Watching Jenny and Cassidy together—laughing at memes, flipping through Pokémon cards, sitting on the couch watching House Hunters like they’ve done it a hundred times—meant more than I can really explain. She didn’t need to try to connect with him; she just did. She sees him fully. She talks to him like she always has. She brings warmth, humor, and normalcy into our space. And in loving him so well, she’s loving me. That’s a powerful thing—to feel seen through someone else’s love for your person.
And then Tuesday night came: Coldplay at Empower Field. A literal bucket list concert for me, shared with two of my favorite people—Jenny and Chelsea. It was magical. The lights, the music, the emotion of being in that space was something I’ll never forget. But even then, even surrounded by music and magic, there was a heaviness I couldn’t shake.
Cassidy was at home. I left him.
Before the diagnosis, I never really struggled with stepping away. I valued my independence, my friend time, my nights out. But now? Every time I leave, I feel this whisper in the back of my mind—Is this worth it? What if something happens? What if he needs me? What if I miss something I’ll wish I hadn’t? The guilt is quieter than it was in the early days, but it’s still there, lingering.
And yet—I also know that taking care of myself is part of taking care of him. That moments of joy don’t erase the gravity of what we’re going through, but they do make the weight a little easier to carry. Jenny reminded me of that this weekend. That it's okay to laugh, to dance and live…to hold joy and grief in the same breath.
So that’s what this weekend was. A breath. A break. A bridge back to parts of myself that I haven’t seen in a while. And the comfort of knowing that even when I step away, I’m never stepping out of the love we’ve built here. Because when people love Cassidy like Jenny does, it reminds me we’re not doing this alone.
