Honoring My Sister | A Year of Grief and Transformation | More Human More Kind

Welcome to More Human, More Kind. I'm Heather Hester, and today's episode is quite special. It will be deeply personal and a look at the micro and macro effects of the past year on a very personal level and on the collective. Do you ever wish that you could take a peek inside another person's psyche? To see the behind-the-scenes intricacies of another human's heart. In doing what I do, I get to observe and talk to a lot of people, and one of the most fascinating truths is that the person you see on the surface is often but a sliver of the deep, beautiful soul that lies beneath. The light and the shadows, the exquisite quirky authenticity that is only reserved for a precious few. This, this is where humanity lives, both in a singular sense and as the collective. The soft and ruthless soul. If you're really observant or approach with genuine curiosity, you'll gain access to the dazzling messiness beneath that practiced smile. That's where the good stuff is. The dark and the light, the humanness, the kindness. That is where we're going today. One year ago on April 29th, I lost my sister Corinne to FTD, frontotemporal dementia. She was my ally, my confidant, and a bold and beautifully independent spirit in our family. This past year has been a journey through intense grief, transformation, and resilience. Today, I invite you to join me as I honor my little sister. Along the way, I'll explore the multifaceted nature of grief, discuss personal and societal upheavals, and find pathways to hope and action. This is a space for reflection, truth, and connection, and perhaps even permission for you to feel and express your own deeply hidden grief. As Jamie Anderson said, "Grief is love with nowhere to go." One of the cruelties of FTD is that you lose your loved one a little bit at a time. From the time Corinne was diagnosed at age 42 to the day she passed 5 years later, I lost her dozens of times as her personality changed, as her memory became fuzzy and then unreachable, as she lost her ability to have a conversation and express herself, and then her ability to speak. As she lost the ability to communicate through facial expressions or touch. As she lost her ability to connect through sight and touch. And of course, when at last her heart ceased and she took her final breath. With each of those losses, I grieved. And each time grief came to me differently. Different emotions, physical expressions, forms of denial or rejection. Sometimes the grief was so intense, it took my breath away. At others, it was more like a subtle underlying constant current. At times I could physically feel a deep wrenching ache in my heart. And at others, it was a white-hot anger at the injustice and cruelty of it all. And through all of this, a chasm of isolation suddenly grew because at the root of our bond was our shared understanding of where and what we came from. No other human on Earth could empathize or understand to the depths our lived experience. And with each fiber of her brain that this horrific disease claimed, we lost She faced the unimaginable hell of a degenerative disease. Me? Well, I lost the one person who really knew, who validated and helped me put words and feelings with all of the emotional wounds and scars of our individual and collective childhood and young adulthood. And even though I encouraged, even begged her to let go of her physical body in those final months, the finality of her death rattled me deep to my core. It was at once a sharp pain and a deep, deep ache. I was angry, filled, filled with rage. I wanted to wail and sob and scream. And I wanted to unleash every emotion named and unnamed for both of us. I found it most curious that on one occasion, the week before she passed, and then again on the day of her funeral, I was asked why I was so angry. Both of those people were of the belief that it was a statement about my lack in Christian faith that I could be so angry about Corinne's death. And they said as much to me. Let's just say that their callous judgment during a time that called for, at a minimum, space and tenderness, helped me further my own personal spiritual journey, a space that we will explore further on a not-so-distant episode. I've given these encounters a great deal of thought since then, and still feel as strongly today as I did then. Grief evolves. So while there are still flashes of the anger of injustice— so while there are still flashes of the anger of injustice, it has now morphed into a deep sadness that ebbs and flows. I expect I will always feel a degree of this face of grief because not only were we robbed of each other, She was robbed of her life, of all of the possibility. She never got to finish chasing all of her big dreams. She never got to know how ridiculously amazing, talented, loving, and just cool all of her nieces and nephews are. And she would've been the most fun big kid aunt. And her friendships were abruptly cut short. All who knew and loved her lost. To me, this is just fact, and feeling angry about losing her has nothing to do with faith of any kind. The light she carried within was not one of warmth, but one of refracted brilliance, one that, while filled with sharp edges, shared brightness and a certain clarity, joy, and knowing of deep feeling with the handful of people that she allowed access. Grief in its arrival, many expressions, and eventual healing is nonlinear. It is deeply personal. It can reduce you to fetal position, blinding tears, A soulful ache that has no relief, or simply existing as the days float by, disconnected from the body because the pain is too great. It can and will fill all of the cracks in between. It asks that we see it, sit with it, get to know it, feel its discomfort, and surrender to it. Grief is one emotion, and yet also all of them at once. While we most often think of grief and grieving with relation to death of a physical body, it can also show up in the aftermath of loss of relationships, identities, freedoms, certainty, and even in the smaller instances of plans gone awry, disappointments, and material losses. It was certainly a mind-expanding moment for me when I realized the myriad of ways that grief existed outside of physical death. Learning to grieve and allow space for it to come and go as it needed was life-changing. And the rest of today's episode is going to explore these other types of grief. But for this moment, I hope that in sharing my grief for my sister ever so briefly, you allow yourself these realizations as well. Grief shows up and lives differently within each of us. The first step to healing and having a growth experience with grief is to allow it, no matter how messy and uncomfortable it may feel. A friend recently shared the idea that in America especially, we are grief-phobic. Not only are we terrified to experience it and to feel it, we also have no idea what to do when we encounter it in another. My hope is that in sharing my experiences with grief, of losing my sister, You may see grief as part of the human experience. That instead of running from it when it comes near, you embrace it. That the next time grief shows up in your life, whether it is deeply personal or in acknowledging another human's loss, you will know this: a well-worded monologue is not necessary. Grief doesn't need a private space to be expressed. A messy, "Hey, this really sucks and I'm so sorry," is always preferred to silence or awkward avoidance. As for your own grief, there isn't a right way. If you feel like wailing, wail. If you need to rant, rant. If writing and writing until you were out of words feels good, Do that. Doing instead of stuffing it down is better for you every single time, mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler have done numerous studies on grief over the course of decades, and their summary is this: Grief reshapes life. It is not something we're meant to "move past." Once you experience loss, the reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not "get over" the loss. You will learn to live with it. Two weeks after Corinne passed last year, my first book was introduced into the world. I had always dreamed of writing a book. Between dozens upon dozens of journals over the course of my life to the paid writing of my craft, my book loomed on the horizon for many, many years. As the pieces of this particular book fell into place, the proposal and outlines, the publisher and editors, the writing and rewriting and rewriting, I grew ever more excited and nervous and hopeful. I knew I was offering a piece of my heart, an intimate glimpse into my family, and an offering of hope and empowerment for anyone who read it. It felt all at once terrifying and thrilling. As the official publication date of May 14th neared, so did the realization that Corinne's time on this earth was soon going to be complete. Even though I had prepared myself as much as I could personally and professionally and left an open space for all of the possibilities with Steve and the kids, I realized immediately that there is no way to be truly ready for a loved one to leave this earth or for a beloved project not to enter it as it should Needless to say, I canceled all of my launch events save one and left the way Parenting with Pride was introduced to the world and received by her up to the fates. I was devastated that I wasn't able to give this book the launch I had envisioned, and I was also fully aware that I was giving myself an incredible gift in that moment. And in the many that followed, I allowed myself the space and presence to grieve. By canceling everything, I had time to sit with the full range of grief losing Corinne brought: the sadness, anger, disappointment, rage, despair, and the deep, deep exhaustion. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I realized that I was also grieving the disappointment surrounding the launch of my book. It certainly felt odd at first, holding and allowing two very different types and feelings of grief. But the more that I paused and allowed them both to exist, the more I was able to process and breathe. That permission to pause that I often bring up, it worked beautifully here, and it allowed me to see, feel, and sit with the beauty of the slow and winding unfolding of grief. Of course, being almost a year removed from those first hard days, I can now see the gifts more clearly. Two of them are clarity and reframing. Clarity to see the possibilities on this side of the grief and reframing to see launching in a different light. I plan to share more about these gifts in the next few months, but suffice it to say, a relaunch is on the horizon filled with renewed energy and purpose. Now, I really grappled with whether to talk about the election during this episode as I reviewed the past 12 months of my life, because it is certainly a topic deserving of its own episode. However, as these topics rolled around in my mind the past few weeks, they all kept bumping into their common denominator: grief. I believe it is still so important to continue to validate the stress, fear, anger, and nervous system exhaustion of 2024, as well as the deep personal care and healing work I encourage you to do in order to move forward. I also believe it is important to name and acknowledge the grief so many of us felt in those days and weeks following November 5th. A full episode could and probably should be spent detailing every reason for our grief, acknowledging the losses as well as the terrifying and devastating accuracy of what so many of us warned was coming. As I checked in on my kids during those first few days, Grace told me at one point that she was just cycling through the stages of grief. I remember thinking at the time how healthy it was that she could articulate how and what she was feeling, as well as why, even as it was so frightening at the same time. So I thought I would run through a version of the stages of grief adapted for both personal loss like mine of Corinne, and societal or political grief, like the loss of rights, stability, or trust. The first stage is denial, and here's how it may show up for you in personal grief. At first, it's hard to believe that their loss is real. You might feel numb, like you're watching life happen from a distance. Denial helps protect you from the full force of the pain all at once. Here's how it might show up for societal grief. When rights are stripped away or institutions fail, many of us initially react with disbelief. This can't happen here. Surely it will get better. Denial gives people time to emotionally catch up with new, painful realities. The second stage is anger. Here's how it might show up for personal grief. As reality sinks in, anger often rises as the unfairness of the loss, at the medical system, at God, at loved ones, at yourself, you fill in the blank. Anger can feel isolating. But it's actually an important and healthy part of processing pain. I'm going to repeat this for those who see this as a sign of spiritual brokenness or vapidness. Anger can feel isolating, but it's actually an important and healthy part of processing pain. Here's how anger might show up for societal grief. When freedoms are taken away or injustice escalates, anger is a powerful collective force. It shows up in protests and activism and in deep conversations. Anger signals that something valuable has been violated and it demands a response. The third stage is bargaining. Here's how that might show up for you in personal grief. You may find yourself replaying what-if scenarios. What if I had called sooner? What if we had tried one more treatment? Bargaining is a way to wrestle with the helplessness of loss and to try to make meaning. Here's how it might show up for you for societal grief. In societal or political grief, bargaining sounds like, "Maybe if we just wait, things will calm down." "If we vote differently next time, it will be all fixed." It reflects the human need to search for solutions when control feels lost. The fourth stage is depression. Here's how that might show up for personal grief. When the weight of the loss fully settles in, deep sadness often follows. Depression and grief can feel like emptiness, disconnection, and an overwhelming awareness of all that has changed. Here's how depression might show up for societal grief. As the scale of injustice or loss becomes undeniable, Despair can take root. Feelings of hopelessness, burnout, and fatigue are common. This is the moment when many people retreat inward, mourning what feels broken beyond repair. And finally, the fifth stage of grief is acceptance. Here's how that might show up for personal grief. Acceptance doesn't mean getting over the loss. It means learning to live with it. To carry it with you in a way that still allows for life, love, and new meaning. The pain softens and becomes woven into who you are. Here's how that might show up for societal grief. In societal grief, acceptance means recognizing the truth of where we are and choosing to act anyway. It's the decision to engage, to hope, to build, even in the face of setbacks. Acceptance allows for movement forward, fueled by clarity rather than illusion. Here's what it comes down to: grief, whether personal or collective, is not something we fix. It's something we live through. Honor, and allow to transform us. And from that transformation, new possibilities for love, justice, and connection emerge. After all, hope is not a passive thing. Hope is an active commitment to keep moving forward, even when the way is hard. Hope strengthens our capacity to hold the tension of opposites and to grow our resilience. Grief has so many shapes. It's not only the aching absence of someone we love. It's also the quiet heartbreak of watching the world shift in ways that feel unfamiliar, unsafe, or unjust. As I've moved through this year of personal loss, I've also felt the deeper, quieter grief that so many of us are carrying. The grief for rights lost, for truths bent, for communities threatened. Part of healing, part of honoring those we love and the future we believe in, is facing that grief honestly. So I want to spend a few moments naming some of what we are grieving together right now, because when we name it, we can begin to transform it. Let's start with one of the most fundamental rights in a democracy, the right to vote. The SAVE Act, SAVE Act, Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act, was passed in the House of Representatives in April 2025. It requires proof of U.S. citizenship, such as a birth certificate or passport, to register to vote in federal elections. However, the SAVE Act doesn't safeguard elections. It risks silencing the voices of millions of eligible Americans. Deepening the erosion of democratic participation. Another place where loss is showing up powerfully is in how we treat people seeking safety and our immigration policies. In the early months of the second Trump term, policies echoing the 2018 zero tolerance immigration strategy have resurfaced. These policies treat vulnerable people not as human beings seeking safety, but as political pawns. It marks a moral and humanitarian regression. When we allow cruelty to replace compassion at our borders, we lose part of our national soul. As I heard someone say just earlier today, "We are a nation of immigrants and we are a nation of laws." Let's make that our goal. Beyond our borders, we're also seeing threats to one of our most sacred freedoms: the freedom to speak, to assemble, and to dissent. Think back to what we've discussed in the 4-part Foundations of Freedom series. Since 2021, over 30 states have introduced or passed laws restricting public protests. In early 2025, the federal government voiced support for expanding these anti-protest measures nationally. Freedom of assembly and protest are cornerstones of democracy. Suppressing dissent under the guise of "law and order" erodes the First Amendment and chills civic engagement, especially among marginalized communities. When protest is criminalized, democracy is not just weakened, it is betrayed. And finally, even our places of learning, our universities and classrooms, are becoming battlegrounds where ideas, inclusion, and critical thinking are under attack. This is a direct attack on academic freedom, a value that ensures students and scholars can pursue truth without political interference. Targeting DEI programs specifically also signals hostility toward marginalized groups within academia. When we censor classrooms and punish institutions for promoting diversity, we are not protecting education. We are suffocating it. Grief isn't just personal. It's also collective. We grieve the erosion of the rights, freedoms, and values that anchor our society. And that grief can and must turn into action. It's heavy, I know, but naming what's real is the first step toward reclaiming what's possible. So let's talk about where we go from here, about hope, about action. About choosing to move forward with open eyes and open hearts. Stay informed. Engage with reputable news sources and fact-check information. Participate in local organizations and initiatives. Contribute to or volunteer with organizations like the League of Women Voters, Election Protection, Fair Election Center, or Protect Democracy. Finding ways to act, even in small ways, helps transform grief into momentum. It reminds us that we still have agency, even when so much feels uncertain. And speaking of transformation, if the renaming of this podcast to More Human, More Kind felt sudden or surprising, I hope hearing that all this past year has held offers a little more context. This shift, like everything else, has been born from deep change, deep grief, and a deep calling to step forward more fully as myself. Every experience, every moment, personal and collective, have led me to knowing an every fiber of my being that it is time. It's time to evolve beyond Chrysalis Mama, to step out and be seen as me, Heather Hester. Chrysalis Mama was the perfect name when I started all of this back in 2018. It was the perfect descriptor of who I was at that time and what I was doing in the world. It mirrored the work I have been doing all of these years—protective and transformational. And now it is time to step out of the chrysalis as myself. It's time to share my personal growth and offer you the space for the same. It's time to reflect my personal evolution and commitment to authenticity. It's time to talk about current events and not around them. It's time to allow more of my thoughts to be heard and self to be seen, even if that means that some will not like it. Grief often precedes or has a hand in transformation. As John Green said, "Grief does not change you, it reveals you." So what does all of this mean going forward? Well, in addition to the renaming of this podcast from Just Breathe Parenting Your LGBTQ Teen to More Human, More Kind, I'm undergoing a complete rebrand. In the next few months, you will see a brand new website, new ways to work with me and connect with community, and a new message honoring a broader mission. Several people have asked if I plan on visiting Corinne's gravesite in Ohio on this anniversary of her death, or Angel Day as we call it in our group of friends. I contemplated for weeks and I finally realized I never felt the draw because Corinne is not there. She is here with me. She is in the laughter of my kids, in the snowflakes of her beloved mountains, in the sweat of a good workout, and in the whisper caught on a warm ocean breeze. She is at once at peace and watching over us. We carry our grief and through it we carry the ones we love. In choosing to hope and daring to act with kindness and courage, we honor them. And we create the world they dreamed of too. I invite you to walk this road with me, with courage, curiosity, and kindness. I find peace and calm in the memories of who Corinne was on this earth. Her spirit guides me to embrace authenticity, to stand firm in the face of adversity, and to extend kindness even when it's challenging. It is my wish to honor her by embodying these values, fostering connections, and striving for a more human, more kind world. And I invite you to join me in this movement. If this episode resonated with you, please share it with someone who needs it. Subscribe to the newsletter to stay up to date as I introduce my new website and relaunch of Parenting with Pride. Join the Kind Circle community on Patreon for deeper connections. Thank you for sharing this space with me today. Until next time.