June 6th would have been Richard’s birthday.

Celebrating someone’s life through grief is never easy—especially when the love you shared was so rare, so real and so hard-won.

When people say “love of your life,” I don’t think they often mean it the way I do. I met Richard in 1995. It was love at first sight—or, as I say, love at first light. I felt it in my bones, even though he was married, and I was preparing for a wedding of my own. Life moved us in separate directions. Then Richard and I crossed paths again more than five years later on a busy day in the Smoky Mountains with all the tourists here to see the beautiful fall leaves . And that same spark—no, that same knowing—was still there.

I had never had that feeling with anyone else. Not my ex-husband. It was different.

And I went to him—not as a woman looking to be rescued, but as a woman desperate to be known. I asked him, “Do you want to know me? All of me—not just the roles I play, but the messy, real me?” And he said yes. That moment changed everything.

For the first time, I dropped all the walls. I let someone in—truly in. And he didn’t run.

That was the start of 17 years together.

Richard wasn’t perfect. I sure wasn’t. But we got better with time. Like I always say: men are like fine wine—they improve with age. But really, it’s about the relationship aging. We learned. We had respect. We grew wiser. Our deep love had grown and flourished during both the difficult and joyous moments of our life together.

We had just reached that beautiful stage of life—the downhill, where the view is breathtaking and the climb is behind you. Then I got “the” knock at the door at 4 a.m. This morning, I had difficulty sleeping and had just fallen into a deep sleep an hour prior.  I was in a state of confusion.  Initially, my dogs began to bark a protective bark which was very unusual and frightening.  I saw flashlights moving outside my front door, thinking the unthinkable… someone was outside wanting to break into our home and I am home alone with my youngest who was still in high school, senior year but always my baby, as Richard was away on this business trip.

This was the morning he would be flying back home after an unbelievably demanding work week.  I often traveled with him on business trips, but this week required a lot of moving parts and locations.  I needed to stay home to take care of business here.  As I peered, trying to figure out my next step, I saw a police badge shine from one of their flashlights outside.  So I put on my robe and proceeded to the door after the dreaded knock.  

They asked if I was Michelle Bishop.  I replied, “Yes”.  They asked if they could come inside, and I replied, “Absolutely”.  The patrol car was parked at the neighbor’s house so I thought possibly something was going on there.

Then, after a few more questions, they said, “Your husband has had an accident.”  My immediate response was – where do I need to get a flight?  They said, “No, you are misunderstanding.”

Then they said the words. Your husband has died.

It didn’t compute. I was alone. The breath left my body. I was in shock. I went to the floor. I stayed there for what felt like a year.

The first and only thing I knew to do was to call my dad in Florida. He said, I must call someone to be with me now.  I reached out to my very trusted friend, Melissa.  She and her husband were here to support me immediately.  She never left my side through the days and months that followed. I will forever be grateful to her and her family for the support they gave me during this time of need. 

August 8th, 2019. That day split my life in half.

Grief and Love Walk Hand-in-Hand

I’ve faced big things in my life—abuse, divorce, starting over with nothing, brain injury from a horrible accident, breast cancer and a COVID hospitalization. But grief? Grief took me to my knees in a way nothing else ever had.

When I had breast cancer in 2016, I was sure Richard would leave me. I had a partial mastectomy. I was burned from radiation. I was, in my own words, disfigured. I had lost the physical manifestation of my femininity. I thought, He’ll leave. He won’t want me anymore.

But my aunt said something that stuck with me: You’re not giving him enough credit.

She was right. He didn’t just stay—he stayed for every treatment, every tear, every raw moment. He loved me harder than I ever let myself believe I deserved.

And then, three years later, as we finally saw the light at the end of our trials, he was gone. There was no turning back.  I spent the next year expecting him to simply walk in the garage door every moment of every day.  It never happened and never would.  

I’ve come to understand that grief is the price of love. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), acknowledging grief is critical to healing. It is not a sign of weakness—it is the echo of love that has nowhere left to land.

Rituals That Heal

Every June 6th—and every day—he remains in my heart. The waves of loss still come, and it’s not always easy, but now I can celebrate him with more joy than sorrow. Sharing memories and laughing with others about all the life we lived together brings warmth instead of pain. It’s a vital part of healing. I reflect often on the incredible things he did—for me, our family and everyone around him. His leadership, his joyful “go big or go home” approach to life, his talents in hunting, golf, boating, cooking, dancing, and his ability to make friends wherever he went—all of it continues to inspire me. His love shaped who I am today, helping me find strength in vulnerability, comfort in authenticity and delight in whatever life brings.

According to research published by the NIH, rituals of remembrance like these help ease grief and reconnect us with the love that never left.

Authenticity in the Aftermath

Who I am today was not shaped solely by Richard’s passing, but more profoundly by the love we shared—both his for me and mine for him. He approached life with deep responsibility, stood firmly for integrity, and honored his boundaries without apology. He lived without regrets, offered kindness freely, and had a remarkable gift for influencing and inspiring those around him. I carry these qualities with me now—not out of prideful ownership, but with genuine pride and gratitude. His loss pushed me to rebuild from the ground up. And the woman I am today is someone I know he would be proud of. 

Richard taught me how to love deeply—and in his absence, he taught me how to live boldly, in the strength of who I was always meant to be.

If You’re Grieving, You’re Not Alone

If you’re celebrating someone’s life through grief, know this: you don’t have to navigate that alone.

I offer coaching and support for people in grief—not with platitudes, but with presence. Whether you’re at the beginning of your loss or years into it, I’ll meet you where you are.

Reach out to me here.

Your pain is valid. Your healing is possible. And your love story doesn’t end—it simply continues in a different form.