Carolyn Keeney

Grief, grit, and gratitude. These three words define the past year and a half of my life—not because they make a memorable phrase, but because they have transformed me in ways I never could have imagined.

The roller coaster called grief began on January 3, when I unexpectedly lost my mom. I had just started a brand-new job after spending 25 years in one I loved. Overnight, I was learning a new role, moving my dad into memory care, and planning a celebration of my mom’s life. The silence each morning, when our 8:00 a.m. “good morning” call never came, was overwhelming. That absence left a void I still feel today.

A little more than a year later, I lost my dad. And this week, I unexpectedly lost my childhood friend Julie, who also shared a special bond with both of my parents. Grief has a way of arriving in waves, just when you think you’ve found your footing… BAM.

The chaotic, often dysregulating space between grief, grit, and gratitude has been both overwhelming and profoundly life-affirming. So many of the people who carried me through this season entered my life just as unexpectedly as my parents and my childhood friend left it. Their presence reminded me that even in the midst of profound loss, new sources of strength, grace, and connection can find their way to us.

One of those people is James, one of my brother Chris’s childhood friends, who was also close to both my mom and dad. We hadn’t seen each other in decades, yet on the very day he buried his own father, he came to my mom’s memorial service to honor her. In the midst of his own grief, he chose to show up for ours as well. A year later, he and his wife, Evangelia, opened their beautiful home for my father’s reception. Their generosity is something I will never forget.

Why am I sharing such deeply personal experiences? Because this past year has taught me how profoundly important it is to show up for people and to tell them what they mean to us while we still can.

It’s easy to send a quick text or email. Heck, these days AI can even write the words for you. All you have to do is hit “send.” But how do we make sure the people in our lives truly know what they mean to us? How do we help them feel seen, heard, understood, and deeply appreciated?

Maybe it’s mailing a handwritten letter instead of sending another text. Maybe it’s leaving a surprise on someone’s porch (thank you, Jenny, aka my bestie & porch-drop off extraordinaire!), tucking a flower beneath a windshield wiper, making a check in phone call (thank you Kim Hinson) or simply sitting beside someone in silence. During COVID, we found creative ways to care for one another despite the distance. I worry we’ve lost some of those intentional, time-consuming acts of kindness. Let’s bring them back. Because when life gets hard, it’s rarely the quick text we remember. It’s the people who took the time to show up. 

When life became unimaginably hard, I also chose grit. While planning my father’s memorial service, I was in the last few weeks of completing Andy Frisella’s 75 Hard program. I used to joke to friends and family that  I wasn’t doing 75 Hard…I was doing 75 Harder. Looking back, I’m incredibly grateful I stuck with it. The daily discipline and system gave me something steady to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.

I am grateful for the many other people whose love and kindness carried me through what has felt like an unending season of loss.

For example, on the very day my father passed away, my good friend Amy insisted on driving me up to Long Beach for a conference I had committed to supporting. Alongside my incredible coworker, Kari Swift, she remained by my side for the next three days through customer dinners and some of the heaviest moments of my grief.

Showing up clearly runs in their family. When my dad was hospitalized with COVID, Amy’s younger sister, Holly, didn’t hesitate to suit up with me in full protective gear so she could be there for me and my dad.

I’m also deeply grateful for my dad’s lifelong friend and former law partner, Rick Waite, who was by my father’s side in his final moments when I couldn’t be. His presence was a gift to both my dad and my family. At my father’s memorial, Rick honored him with one of the most eloquent and heartfelt tributes I’ve ever heard.

Shortly before my father’s service, Catapult Learning co-sponsored an inspiring leadership retreat in Solvang, CA with the USC Rossier School of Education. The keynote speaker, Dr. Trudy Arriaga, introduced us to George Ella Lyon’s poem Where I’m From and invited us to write and share a few lines about where we are from.

Weeks later, I completed my Where I’m From poem, which became the tribute I shared at my father’s memorial service. What began as a simple writing and community-building exercise became an unexpected gift. It gave me the framework to honor my father by telling the story of where I come from and how he helped shape the person I am today. 

Then there’s Cindy, who is still saved in my phone as “Cindy Silverado,” after the memory care community where my dad lived for a short time. She entered my life as the Medical Director but quickly became a trusted friend and confidante. Time and again, she called so I could speak to my dad on speakerphone and persuade him to take his insulin. She stayed by his side during medical emergencies when I couldn’t be there and was with him in the hospital, alongside my closest friends, during his final hours. Someone who entered my life as a stranger became one of my greatest sources of comfort and strength during one of the hardest seasons of my life. 

The truth is, we can’t always be there in person for the people we love. But we can always choose to show up however we can—with a phone call, a meal, a ride, a handwritten note, a visit, or simply by sitting quietly with someone in their grief. Those moments of presence, however small they may seem, can make all the difference.

I am profoundly grateful for everyone who showed up for me throughout this incredibly difficult season. And for this moment in time when I can finally slow down enough to share my gratitude.

Happy early birthday, Dad. Thank you to you and Mom for the love, values, and foundation that shaped who I am. And to everyone who has carried me through this season of grief, thank you. 

You have reminded me that where I’m from isn’t just a place…it’s the people who love us, lift us up, and help us find our way home. I am forever grateful to be from all of you.

Walking the .005 Wire

At a recent Sales Summit, thought leader and motivational speaker Rob Jeppsen delivered a powerful message about the impact of just .005 seconds in our lives.

He illustrated this with a striking example from the 2024 Olympic Games, where USA sprinter Noah Lyles won the 200-meter race by a mere .005 seconds. That infinitesimal moment—achieved by the simple act of leaning his torso forward—was the difference between silver and gold. One small, deliberate adjustment made all the difference.

Those who know me well understand that the past season of my life has been filled with .005 moments—moments that altered my course in ways I never could have imagined. Looking back, I realize they began in August, when I confided in a friend that I wanted to shake the proverbial tree branches of my life. I am, after all, a firm believer that thoughts become things.

The branches shook—hard. And in many cases, they snapped.

A few examples:

• After 24 years in a meaningful career with people I loved, I heard the words: “.005 … we have to let you go.”
• A call from my dermatologist after a routine biopsy: “.005 … we found squamous cells; they need to be removed.”
• A conversation with my freshman son: “.005 … I’m unhappy; I want to transfer.”
• And then, the text that shattered my foundation: “.005 … your mom has passed away.”

Life is filled with these pivotal moments, both devastating and transformative. We see this concept reflected in movies like Sliding Doors and books like 212: The Extra Degree. In history, a slight deviation—like the plane and helicopter collision over the Potomac River—can lead to unimaginable consequences.

But here’s the good news: Just as one small shift can create chaos, it can also bring about incredible course corrections.

For me, those .005 moments have led to:

• A new job that I love
• A successful procedure—the cancer cells are gone
• My son resetting and applying to a more suitable college
• And my mother, my daily confidant and best friend, no longer suffering

This past season has been nothing short of transformative. When I told my friend I wanted to shake the branches of my life, I didn’t anticipate how drastically they would fall. But here I stand, learning to embrace the change, finding silver linings in even the most painful shifts.

Grief is relentless, but so is hope. Even in darkness, we can look for signs, for opportunities, for moments that propel us forward. If you’ve ever lost someone or something deeply cherished, you understand—we become seekers. And when we seek, we find.

At that same Sales Summit, Jeppsen reminded us that thoughts become things. What we choose to focus on, even in the smallest increments, can reshape our world.

So I ask you: What will your next .005-second decision lead you to?