Work Life Wisdom #2
Two weeks after Alex was cremated, I opened my laptop at the kitchen table. Full time. I work from home, drive to our three marinas in South Carolina, and make the 3.5-hour haul to our big Tennessee lakefront—a marina, busy restaurant, and campground spread across one massive tract. Six companies don’t wait for grief. Payroll, bank transfers, deposits—only I could sign. Some days I hammered out 10 hours. Others I’d limp through one or two, then crawl back to bed, pull the quilt over my head, and let the tears soak the pillow.
For two straight years, every sunrise was the same. 5 AM: Pop Klonopin, Buspar, daily antidepressant, cry until I drifted off again. 6:30 AM: Wake up, meds kicking in, ready for the day. Work: Push through swollen eyes, trembling hands, fog thicker than lake mist. Afternoon: Pick up Faith from school, stir spaghetti, smile for Lacie’s boys. Night: Drink. I was drunk 65% of those nights—the bottle my only quiet. Year three: Swapped the bottle for pills, morning and night. As an empath, I absorbed every ache and pain—mine, the kids’, those closest to me professionally and personally. It amplified everything until my chest felt crushed.
Three years ago, I chose sobriety. It was brutal—like losing Alex again, but this time wide awake. Two years ago, I kicked the Klonopin. Faced the depression, the stress, the real, jagged pain—no filter.
What pulled me through? Podcasts on anything spiritual —Tara Swart felt like an angel walking beside me, but I devoured dozens more. Books on spirituality and neuroplasticity—Tara taught me how thoughts literally rewire your brain. I learned to find the positive in every mess, reprogram my subconscious, and lower stress through focus. Journaling—every trigger, every sign (222, eagles). Talking to my team. I laid it bare: “I’m broken. I need grace.” Marina life is high-stress—weather, inventory, guests, breakdowns. The restaurant? Non-stop. I can’t erase it, but I manage it. I talk, I listen, I love them, I care. I keep their load as light as I can so mine doesn’t crush me. Happy team = good leader.
That shift gave me room to breathe—room to grieve. Losing a child flips your world into “it could be worse” mode. Leaky roof? Doesn’t faze me. Low turnover now because I lead with heart, hear their stories, grow them. If they are growing, we are growing as a companies. I still juggle, with the tremendous help of my husband, our grandsons, Faith (16), Mikale, my mother and father-in-law (who live with us). Alex’s signs keep me upright—222 on clocks, double rainbows, Jeep moments, Elvis, synchronicities that can’t be explained away.
And here’s the miracle: I’m happy. As happy as a grieving mother can be. Sobriety gave me clarity. Learning gave me peace. I’m thankful for my 23 years with Alex instead of angry all the time. I can’t wait to keep sharing what’s worked—because if it helped me, it can help you.
Your Turn: How do you love your team through your own storm? Comment below—I read every one.
#LiveMoreLikeAlex #WorkLifeWisdom #EmpathLeadership #SobrietyTools #GriefToPurpose #TaraSwart