The Woman on the Ferry

Epilogue

Dear readers, I’m in the process of packing up for my next adventure. I am headed to Bryce Canyon, Utah. where I’ll be an ATV Guide, and returning to last summer’s routine - sharing trail logs and posts that I will weave into a new book. But to understand the beginning of this chapter, I’m rewinding to bring you the epilogue of The Woman on the Ferry.

Watch the book trailer here.

Epilogue

WITHIN A WEEK of returning to my winter home, I had a job lined up for the summer. I will step into a new role as an ATV guide, leading adventurers through towering groves of ponderosa pines to the rim of Bryce Canyon National Park, in Utah. I’ll share the story of the hoodoos—those otherworldly spires of red rock sculpted by time and the elements—and help eager eyes spot pronghorn as they move like whispers across the ancient landscape. My home will be in the employee campground, where I'll be part of another community, surrounded by nature’s masterpiece, paid to share the wonders I love. My spirit soars just thinking about it.

But joy and sorrow often walk hand in hand. My elation is bittersweet. Mom won’t be here to share in my stories.

On October 17th, mom celebrated her 92nd birthday. She giggled as she told me about her lunch out with the girls at the restaurant that offered a birthday special—matching its discount with the number of years. Mom received a 92% discount off her filet mignon! Her delight at this small windfall sparkled through the phone, a moment of humor amid increasingly difficult days.

By November 4th, we made the heartbreaking decision to move her into assisted living. The farmhouse that had held a lifetime of memories—the home where she raised her children, where holidays unfolded in warmth and laughter—could no longer support her growing needs.

Yet even in this transition, Mom found a way to thrive. She reunited with neighbors from decades past, formed new friendships, and, with characteristic resilience, brightened every room she entered. But time was running out.

On a sunny November day, I boarded a plane to Minneapolis. I stepped off into a world of ice and snow, then made my way to the old farmhouse in central Wisconsin. Over the next ten days, I spent every moment I could with Mom—massaging her feet, helping her write her last story, pushing her wheelchair to the piano, sharing memories.

I watched her fade. On my 61st birthday, I knew we were near the end. That day, I wheeled her in front of the piano—her lifelong joy. Her fingers, frail but determined, found their way to the keys. The melody of “Happy Birthday” filled the air, trembling but true, like her spirit—unyielding, beautiful. In that moment, where she had spent so many days receiving care, I wanted her to feel the joy of giving again.

When the final note faded, I knelt beside her wheelchair and took her hands in mine. “Thank you for being a wonderful mother,” I whispered, my voice catching. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, her grip stronger than I expected, pulling me into one last embrace.

We both knew it was the last. As I stepped away, her tears mirrored mine. I made my exit, carrying her love like a beacon.

The bus was late. Snow-covered ground glistened under streetlights as I waited in my sister’s car, the heater humming against the cold. When the bus finally arrived, I stepped out into the biting air, hugged my sister tight, and joined a few quiet strangers at the depot. I took a window seat, darkness swallowing the road ahead. As the miles stretched between us, silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I had been given a rare gift—the chance to say goodbye, a gift not everyone receives. I thought of my thousand-mile journey—each step taking me somewhere new while tethering me to what matters most.

On December 21, my brother called. “Mom died early this morning.”

I was in the Sonoran Desert, midway through a ranger-led hike. I stepped away from the group, watching my tears darken the dry sand. But then, gratitude. Mom had lived 92 years. She had been given time. We had been given time.

That evening, as the sun melted into the mountains, I felt something profound shift within me. The saguaros, standing sentinel for centuries, bore witness to life's endless cycles—birth, growth, death, renewal. These ancient plants had endured the harshest conditions for hundreds of years, their very existence a testament to resilience and patience.

In that stark and silent desert, surrounded by life that had learned to thrive in seeming emptiness, I found an unexpected comfort—raw, honest, enduring. Mom's energy hadn't disappeared but transformed, just as the desert transforms rain into vibrant, if brief, blooms. Her influence remained in how I saw the world, in the courage I'd found to live authentically, in the capacity for joy she'd modeled even in her final days.

The grief was real, a hollow space that would remain. But so was the gratitude—for our final moments together, for her lasting gifts, for the wisdom to recognize that endings make way for beginnings. I realized that completing my thousand-mile journey just months before her life journey ended wasn't coincidence but convergence—two paths meeting at the intersection of letting go and moving forward.

Death brings clarity. What truly matters? What lights me up inside? I knew one thing for certain—I was done with my financial coaching business. I wasn’t walking away from a struggle; I was stepping into something truer. That chapter had drained me, pulled me away from the life I wanted. With that decision, a door swung open—to more writing, more travel, more adventure. To a life that made me feel alive.

Back in California, surrounded by the vastness of the high desert, I finally understood what had drawn me to Celeste on that ferry. That quiet radiance, that deep peace with her choices—it wasn’t just something she carried. It was something she passed on. And in those final moments with Mom, I felt it in myself. A peace with my own life, my own choices. I would carry Mom’s spirit with me, and Celeste’s energy had become woven into my story.

I want to carry this joy to my final breath. I want to be remembered as the woman on the trail, the woman in the RV, or maybe, the woman on the ATV—the one who inspired others to live fully, deeply, without apology.

Through this journey, I’ve learned that we all leave ripples in the world—through our energy, our joy, our way of being. Just as Celeste’s brief presence in my life created lasting waves of transformation, maybe my own path will touch others in ways I’ll never fully know.

What I do know is that somewhere along the way, my fear of death changed. I used to be terrified of dying alone, of dying broke, of fading without family or friends. But that fear no longer holds me. Instead of dreading a lonely, painful end, I now imagine something softer, something full of grace.

I see myself in an Adirondack chair as the sun sinks behind the horizon. The full moon rises over a still lake, fireflies flickering like tiny lanterns. A fleece blanket shields me from the evening chill as I listen to the symphony of tree frogs, the crackle of distant campfires. And when I take my last breath, my energy drifts away on firefly wings, dispersing into the night sky.

But for now, my journey continues. Each day is an invitation—to share joy, to inspire, to live with reckless wonder. And maybe that’s the greatest lesson of all—that joy isn’t just something we feel. It’s something we pass on. A light that grows brighter with every heart it touches, dancing eternal, like fireflies on a summer night.

Like fireflies on a summer night, we shine briefly but brilliantly. Our light mingles with others, creating patterns more beautiful than any single glow could achieve alone. And though individual lights fade, the dance continues—an unbroken rhythm between darkness and radiance, solitude and connection, what passes and what endures.

This is my mother’s legacy. This is Celeste’s gift. This is my continuing journey.

And the trail stretches on before me, calling me forward into whatever adventure awaits.