Happy Birthday to My Ten Year Old Blog & Newsletter

Nine months after my son Charles’ death by suicide, I was still struggling to get out of bed every day. My limbs felt so heavy, it was hard to walk, and even harder to run. But I did.

I had written an article for the newspaper that had taken six months to complete, totaling 1,200 words. It took me so long to write it because I was still processing the loss and I had told myself I wouldn’t send it to the editor until I could end it with a message of hope.

At the first of February 2016, it had not yet been published, but the rush and satisfaction of having completed it in December left me with a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.

I was running one morning

Like most of my runs back in 2015 and 2016, I started off with leaden legs and was usually crying. However, once I got into the zone after a mile, I felt a rhythm, a kind of in-motion meditation, and a sense of peace.

When you are desperate for a moment where the pain of loss isn’t pinning you to the floor or robbing you of your breath, that’s gold, and it drove me to continue running because I craved that half hour of peace. It was worth the effort of getting out of bed and out the door to be outside.

And it was cold that year, 12-18 degrees Fahrenheit (-11.1 to -7.8 degrees Celsius) with wind to lower it more on most days. That cold air, though, helped. And I would find out later that cold resets your brain.

While running, I got the idea to start a blog

But didn’t everyone have a blog? Shushing my negative voice, I asked myself, “What should I name it?” And the name came instantly.

Emotionally Naked.

No brainstorming lots of different names. My first hit was it, and it was like a lightning bolt.

That has never happened before or happened since. And as a person who spent decades as an advertising copywriter, I have named many products and generated hundreds of pages to name them.

Brought up in the south, my brazen authenticity wasn’t exactly embraced or encouraged growing up. In fact, I was often admonished for it.

Most teachers, family, and friends spent their time trying to tame me into a more genteel young lady who didn’t rock delicate Southern sensibilities. Except for my best friend, Martha, who always accepted me as who I was.

But after my son’s death, all bets were off

I’d lost the most precious thing in my life, one of my children. And I wasn’t going to stay quiet and crawl into a shell. Instead, I was going to stride into the harsh spotlight of advocacy and speaking, which at that point in 2016, no one really wanted.

Despite all the years of making lunches, staying up at night when they were sick, and doing all we could to help Charles with substance use disorder and depression, he was dead at age 20. I refused to stay silent, cover up how I felt, or try to put lipstick on our family horror story.

No one was going to stuff me back in my “don’t-say-how-you feel” box of Southern gentility. My mom was worried I might be too vulnerable. She soon realized it was rocket fuel for healing. And yes, it is a lifetime journey, but it does soften if you put in the work.

The relief to finally be out with it was liberating. I have never felt such peace.

I ran home. I started the blog—this one that you are reading now. The domain name wasn’t available, but I would get it years later and trademark emotionally naked.

It saved me. Writing to all of you, that is.

Reading your comments, your notes, and your messages. That community, that tribe of people going through this at the same time I was priceless.

Then one day a commenter said, “How do I subscribe?” And then someone else asked the same thing and then another.

I thought, “Who would want to subscribe to this?” Apparently tens of thousands. That’s when I started the newsletter; at first, the newsletter was sent out daily for about 4.5 years. Now it’s once per week.

It would be mere weeks after starting the blog that the newspaper article I had written went viral. In its original location online, it had over 3k comments.

It took 6 months to reply to all of the comments, but I answered every single one. (Here it is in the newspaper, but it’s often behind a paywall.)

And here we are

Ten-year-old blog and ten-year-old newsletter just this month, February 2026.

It feels like a long time. And it feels like no time at all.

But there is so much heart, healing, and evolving packed into these posts. This live journal gave me a timeline and helped me write my book.

The blog is still here even though I write more often for my business website, the 3,600+ posts here still get lots of visitors, comments, and messages. And I’m still here advocating for mental health and suicide prevention and helping others find their purpose after loss.

And even though my son is not here on earth, his story lives on, and he still inspires me every day. I made a promise within hours of my son’s death that the last chapter of his life wasn’t the last chapter of my own.

I have kept that promise. And you all have helped me keep it.

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