Hope Isn’t a Plan

Tessa and I were curled up on the couch tonight, watching old videos of her and her daddy. In one, he's strumming his guitar while she’s strumming hers. Both of them beaming, totally in sync. In another, he’s making some ridiculous face that sends her into one of those deep, belly laughs that echo off the walls.

She doesn’t really remember him.

Not the hospital visits. Not the quiet as his strength faded. Not the way everything shifted and slowed.

I think she only remembers him because of the videos. Because we talk about him. Because I keep saying his name out loud like if I say it enough, she’ll remember him more. I want her to remember that she was loved by him. That he adored her. That even when he was too tired to stand, he lit up when she came into the room.

She knows something’s missing, she just doesn’t fully understand what. Or where he went. Or why.

And that’s what wrecks me.

Because I remember.

I remember how much he would’ve loved watching her grow. He would’ve taught her to tune that tiny guitar and make up nonsense songs just for fun. He would’ve turned bath time into concerts and car rides into jam sessions. He was joy. Loud, ridiculous, heart-on-his-sleeve kind of joy.

She would’ve thrived in his kind of chaos.

And I miss him. I miss him so damn much.

Some days I still find myself hoping. Hoping she’ll remember something new. Hoping that maybe somewhere deep in her, his laugh lives on. Hoping that their bond, even short-lived, somehow left an imprint.

And then there are days where I think maybe I should try dating again. Hope that I’ll meet someone who sees her, who chooses her, who doesn’t flinch at the word “disabled” or get scared off by our version of normal.

But let’s be real.

Online dating? It's a dumpster fire. Muddy pond. Bottom-feeding mudcats everywhere. I scroll and scroll and think, you’ve got to be kidding me. And don’t even get me started on the games. The pretending. The "cool girl" nonsense.

I’m tired, y’all. I’m slap full of flaws. I’ve lived too much life to shrink myself down or wear a mask just to be palatable.

And if I did meet someone... are they going to get it? Are they going to understand that she comes first? Always has. Always will. No exceptions. No compromises.

I doubt it.

What I need isn’t a fairytale. I need real. Steady. Grown-man energy. A gentleman. A MAN's MAN. Someone who doesn’t run when it’s hard. Someone who shows up when the day’s gone sideways, the dishes are still in the sink, and the child is melting down over socks. Someone who doesn’t need the picture-perfect life to show up with love.

So no, I’m not banking on hope.

Hope won’t hold your hand when the school calls again. Hope won’t talk you down from the panic of a new diagnosis. Hope won’t carry your child through this world after you’re gone.

I used to believe that if I stayed strong and hopeful, things would just... work out. That the right person would show up. That the next step would magically reveal itself.

That’s not how this life works.

What got us through? Not hope. Not even planning.

It was one person. One tribe member. One angel who came out of nowhere with a full heart and a notepad and said, “Let’s get this done.”

They helped us gather what we didn’t even know we needed:

A will.

A power of attorney.

A special needs trust.

Whatever else that's in that burgundy binder. (I don't understand legaleze.)

All of it.

We weren’t ready. He was 45. We thought we had more time.

But no one’s ever really ready. And if we hadn’t had that one person step in... I don’t know how we would’ve made it.

That’s why I’m writing this. Because if you don’t have that person... if you’re still telling yourself you’ll figure it out later...what then?

If you died today, would your child be okay?

Would someone know what to do?

Would your child with all their unique needs, quirks, routines, and gifts... be safe? Protected? Understood?

Would they be chosen?

Hope isn’t a plan. Love isn’t either. A plan is a gift you leave behind when there’s nothing else left to give. It’s the act of love that says, “Even when I’m not here, I still have your back.”

Not someday. Not when you have more time. Not when things calm down.

Now. Make it a priority. NOW.

Do it scared. Do it messy. But do it.

Because this kind of love... the kind that fights for them, even after you're gone... this kind of love? It’s what our kids deserve.