I report from the far side.
Never a victim. Never on a pedestal. Beside you.
Here are the cold facts:
- Age: 60.
- Credentials: Licensed Professional Counselor in Arizona. Master’s in counseling, 28 years.
- Service: U.S. Army Reserve 1990–1998, 91D Operating Room Specialist.
- Frontlines: Mobile crisis with suicidal and unhoused individuals; infant mental health (ages 0–4); currently managing 14 clinicians serving children in DCS custody.
- Survivor: Domestic violence survivor (1993).
- Coach: International Certified Life Coach (July 2025).
I tell you this because I do not come to this work as a casual observer with three months of affirmations. I come with nearly three decades of trauma and crisis on my hands.
October to May. Seven Months.
Robert had his first stroke in October. The second one came in May.
On May 25, 2025, he died.
But the grief did not start on May 25. It started seven months earlier, when the man I loved became someone who could no longer hold his own spoon.
Every person who called asked the same question: “How is Robert doing?”
I answered with blood pressure readings, medication dosages, physical therapy updates. I gave them reports.
Nobody asked how I was.
And frankly, I didn’t want them to. Because if they had asked, the answer would have broken the dam. I weighed 80 pounds more than my body wanted to carry. My lower back seized every single morning when my feet touched the floor. I sat in my driveway for four minutes every evening before going into the house, breathing in the cold air, wondering if I had anything left.
I pressed pause on Kim. No doctor appointments for me. No rest. No dreams. Just the spreadsheet.
The Turning Point: 20 Minutes
You cannot pour out of a bucket full of holes. You just can’t. You think you are being selfless. But underneath the time issue, I think there is something deeper: fear that if you look at yourself, the house of cards falls.
One morning I agreed to try a 20-minute daily at-home cellular protocol (PEMF). Not a miracle. Not a cure. Just twenty quiet minutes with feet on the plate, letting pulsed electromagnetic fields support microcirculation and energy while my nervous system dropped out of fight-or-flight.
Then I added clean hydration. Then pure botanical support.
Small things. Embarrassingly small.
My back stopped seizing. The fog started lifting. For years I'd carried other people's worst days for a living. Then I carried Robert's. Somewhere under all of it, I'd stopped looking for me. And then I remembered: I'm still in here.
Iceland at 59
Six months after Robert passed, I got on an airplane and flew to Iceland.
I stood in the wind between moss-covered lava fields and waterfalls that roared like freight trains. I wasn’t running away from my life. I was stepping back into it.
I had my health back. I had my strength back. My name wasn’t just “Robert’s caregiver.” It was Kim.
Starting over doesn’t mean your life is over. Sometimes it means you finally get to create a life that feels like yours.
If that resonates, I’m here. Let’s talk.