Heartbreak and Healing: A Letter from the Editor

What Breaks Us, Builds Us: Notes from a Year of Grief, Grace, and Growth

By Jen Paul Schroer

I’ve taken a pause from writing. A long one. A full year, in fact.

For someone whose life has been built on stories—sharing them, shaping them, seeking them—this silence was unfamiliar territory. But life doesn’t ask for permission to knock us down. It just does. And sometimes, the only response is to sit in the rubble for a while, catch your breath, and begin the slow, uneven work of rebuilding.

Last spring, in May 2024, everything changed. My mom fell and broke her back in three places. She was already in the grips of dementia, and the trauma pushed her condition into rapid decline. My father, loving and loyal, couldn’t manage the medical complexities, the daily demands, and the emotional weight on his own. I stepped in as her primary caregiver.

And while we were still figuring out the logistics of appointments and therapies, of medications and memory loss, the unthinkable happened. My Aunt Susan—my mom’s sister-in-law—was killed in a tragic boating accident in Alaska. A commercial fishing boat collided with the smaller vessel she and my uncle were on. She never made it out. Her body was recovered later, still inside the boat.

I don’t know how to describe the kind of grief that stacks like that—how heartbreak collides with helplessness, how time starts to lose shape when your days are filled with hospitals, funeral planning, and blank stares from someone you love who no longer remembers.

For months, we waited to see if my mother’s spine would heal naturally. She refused to wear the neck brace. I can’t say I blame her. When your mind is already fading, discomfort is intolerable in ways no medical chart can measure. Plus, she kept forgetting her back was broken. The spine didn’t heal, and in December, she underwent major surgery. The next day, her organs began shutting down. She was rushed into emergency surgery again. Test after test ruled out the usual suspects—stroke, clots, infection. Finally, a rare diagnosis: serotonin syndrome.

Two back-to-back surgeries on a body and brain already battling dementia had devastating consequences. My mother had to relearn how to walk, talk and how to use a straw again. Her recovery has been long, painful, and ongoing. Today, she lives in a memory care unit, where she often tries to escape. She believes she’s back in high school, fluttering with nerves about the new boy who caught her eye—my father. She asks me daily if he likes her, if he wants to date her. And daily, he visits and reminds her—gently, lovingly—that they’ve been married for over fifty years. He tells her the stories she’s forgotten—the births, the road trips, the little arguments and the big victories—and she listens as if they’re fairy tales. The next day, my dad starts all over again. She does not remember.

In the middle of this collapse, I stepped away from public service. I couldn’t be the leader I wanted to be while trying to hold my family together. I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I was also ashamed. I felt like I was burdening those I loved. I couldn’t fix the problem. I couldn’t outrun it. And as someone used to solving problems for others, that was a hard truth to swallow.

So, I got help. I started counseling. I asked for grace. I made space in my days for what was essential—and left the rest to wait. I poured myself into the parts of life I could still shape.

And in the darkness, there were lights.

Aviva, my spirited daughter, had her first dance recital. She beamed on that stage in her tutu, reveling in the spotlight, full of joy. She graduated from pre-K, proudly showing me her artwork and singing her favorite songs. Ryker, now a confident first grader, learned to play chess—something I didn’t expect would capture his attention—and he finished the year with straight A’s. Justin, my husband, has leaned into his own entrepreneurship and is thriving, building with passion and purpose. And my dad, who once looked so lost, has found a new rhythm in his days—a peaceful steadiness I admire deeply.

As for me—I’m writing again.

It feels tentative, like learning to walk again. But I’m here, and I’m grateful.

Summer is now upon us. For so many parents, it’s a time of transition—of looser schedules and later bedtimes, of sticky popsicles and impromptu adventures. For me, it also serves as a gentle reminder that breaks are not only allowed—they are essential.

Our children are watching us. They learn not just from our productivity, but from our pauses. They learn that grief is not weakness. That caregiving is not failure. That setting down something heavy so you can breathe again is not quitting. It’s human. It’s healthy. It’s how we survive.

In this issue of Tumbleweeds, you’ll find stories of summer that are playful, messy, and hopeful. Discover how summer gives teachers at the Santa Fe Girls School the recharge they need for a new school year, and meet a brother-and-sister duo from “School of Rock” who are rockin’ out with rhythm and confidence. You’ll also read about a father and son rediscovering connection through a childhood hobby—chess—and how it’s become a screen-free way to think ahead together. Alongside ideas for camps, family outings, and seasonal events, I hope you also find something deeper: permission to rest, to reset, and to reflect. Not every season is about growth. Some are about healing.

To those of you who are caregivers, who are grieving, who are rebuilding quietly and without applause—I see you. You’re not alone.

And if you’re in a season of joy, let yourself bask in it. Celebrate the small milestones. Soak in the giggles and the sun. Summer doesn’t last forever, but the warmth it gives can carry us far through another school year.

Thank you for being part of this community. I’m honored to write to you again.

With heart,

Jen Schroer

Jen Paul Schroer is a dedicated community leader with a proven track record of driving positive change. As a three-time Senate-confirmed cabinet secretary, trade association CEO, and chamber of commerce executive director, Jen has extensive experience in both the public and private sectors. As a wife and mother of two, Jen is deeply committed to improving the local community and supporting the economic well-being of families as the editor and owner of Tumbleweeds magazine and other ventures.