We met in Boston, I was an undergraduate at MIT, studying biology. Tom was across the river at Boston College, immersed in a PhD program in physics. Boston is a city built around students, and in that shared space of curiosity and learning, our paths crossed.
In the beginning, we teased each other, biology versus physics. Beneath the joking was something serious and steady. We were both trying to understand the world. We asked questions, not just about science, but about meaning. What grew between us wasn’t rushed or dramatic. It was thoughtful. It was quiet. It was a meeting of minds.
Our marriage was simple and extraordinary all at once. If I had to describe it in two words, it would be pure bliss. We were deeply happy in the most ordinary moments. My mom used to say we were like two peas in a pod, and she was right.
We didn’t need romantic comedies. Our real life was better.
We imagined growing old together. Living long enough to see our great-grandchildren. Smiling through it all. That was the future we assumed we were walking toward.
ALS changed that path.
When Tom was diagnosed, our children were still so young. Sophia was nine. Emma was six. Zach was just two. Fear filled everything at first. Not a loud fear, but a heavy one. How would I care for Tom? How would I raise three children at the same time? And how would I live without the person who knew me better than anyone else?
Tom was my home. Losing him felt unimaginable.
Our first visit to the ALS clinic gave us something we didn’t know we needed, room to breathe. For the first time, we felt less alone. ALS United Mid-Atlantic became a steady presence, guiding us through a world we never expected to enter. The help was practical, paperwork, benefits, home care, but it was also something deeper. It was reassurance. It was compassion. It was knowing someone would walk with us, even in the hardest moments.
ALS United Mid-Atlantic and its care team often enter lives at their most fragile moments. Though the full impact may not always be seen, the compassion, guidance, and steadiness they offered reshaped our journey in ways I will never forget.
Tom died the night before the ALS United Ride in June 2014. At 6:20 p.m. on Friday, everything shifted. When my dad asked what he should do, I told him to load the bikes onto the car. I said I would cry on Sunday. On Saturday, I would ride.
That day, I wasn’t emotional so much as empty. I couldn’t lift my head. I couldn’t meet people’s eyes. There is a photograph from that ride where my friend Melissa is holding my hand, and I am staring down at my feet. That image feels true to the moment, moving forward without really knowing how.
I think about Tom every day. I still talk to him every day. Sometimes tenderly, sometimes in frustration. I have faith. Tom did too. I believe our story didn’t end when his life did. I believe this is a pause, not a conclusion. And that belief helps me keep going.
Tom made me better. He saw the world with kindness, depth, and integrity, and loving him changed how I see everything. I try to live the way Tom would live. I teach our children the way Tom would have taught them. I often say, “If Daddy were here, this is what he would say.” And I know, because for fifteen years we were such a strong team.
Tom’s presence is woven into our daily lives. We talk about him openly. His photos surround us. He lives on in our children, especially in Zach, who is now fifteen. Zach is a reflection of Tom in ways that still surprise me, his curiosity, his love of technology, his deep sense of justice. He was only four when Tom died, yet somehow these traits found their way into him. Love leaves imprints that time cannot erase.
Love does not end when someone is no longer physically present. I will always love Tom. My children know that. Our family is close, and Tom is still part of it, always. Love like that does not let go.
We continue to show up for the ALS United Ride every year because it matters. Because ALS United mattered to us. Because there are families who don’t yet know they will need this support, but they will. We ride to honor Tom, to stand with this community, and to remind one another that even in loss, connection remains.
This Valentine’s Day, I think of love not as something loud or fleeting, but as something steady and enduring. A love that teaches. A love that guides. A love that holds on, even when everything else changes.
I hope Tom is proud of how I’ve guided our children these past eleven years. I hope he knows that his love still leads us forward.
Because this is love that never lets go.