Influencers, media personalities, and social media users on every side are seizing upon this Iran conflict ( call it what you like, but it looks like war to me ) to profess opinions as facts, insist they know the "true reasons," Trump attacked, and vilify or ridicule anyone who disagrees. While they bicker, a different kind of conflict is quietly unfolding for military families.

The dread hit when we realized someone we love is now in an active combat zone. Fear followed. It’s only a matter of time, we all knew, before casualties would be  announced. None of the other noise mattered. 

We did our best to go about our days - to call our clients, attend our meetings, negotiate deals- whatever our careers may entail. Parents of young children mustered extra resolve as they worked to shield their children from their fear. 

And then it came.

First it was four confirmed casualties. Then six. 

Every military family held its breath.

We scoured news reports. We texted our person. We prayed for a reply. We saw the bases get hit. We learned the base our person is on was hit. We stared at our silent phones, or we texted one another; “Have you heard anything?”

And in those moments, we all faced a nauseating realization: 

If we pray that it wasn’t our person, that means we are praying it was someone else’s. 

In order for our person to be ok, someone else’s family must be devastated. 

It seems like a normal prayer to pray until it’s framed like that. 

Before the names were announced, before those six doorbells even rang, people were pronouncing those losses to be in vain, or to have served no purpose in protecting America.

In my world, I recalled what I knew of the protocol from 21 years ago, when my doorbell rang. When my husband was killed. 

It took about 12 hours from the time of death to the time my doorbell rang. Maybe 13. I believe they had a policy about not arriving before 6 am. 

Business hours. 

So I figured, if our doorbell didn’t ring in 12 hours, even if we hadn’t heard from our person, our family would be spared. 

This time. 

We heard from our person several hours later. 

We exhaled. 

We prayed for forgiveness;  our relief felt wrong. We prayed that the families of those six fallen would be wrapped in grace. 

And then started the next round of waiting in dread, as the base was hit again, and no word was received. 

Whether a military family supports this war or not, we will all cycle through this process perhaps dozens of times before our person returns home. 

Maybe that’s my message here:  The people we pass every day may be carrying burdens we cannot see: grief, sacrifice, memories that haunt them. Military and first responder families live with those realities more than most. So if there is one small thing we can do, it’s this:

Loathe the war- we all do. 

But love the warrior.

Marrying Lou was a dream come true for me. Losing him was my nightmare. Writing helped me flip that script, to build a new dream.

I didn’t become a writer on purpose. I became one because I was trying to survive my nightmare.

My husband deployed to Iraq, only to be murdered by a fellow soldier. That soldier was ultimately acquitted, even after offering a guilty plea. I was already decimated by the murder of my husband. The trial nearly kept me that way.

I loved everything about being Barb Allen, Lou’s wife.
I hated everything about being Barb Allen, Lou’s widow.
And I hated most of all that our four beautiful boys would grow up without the love and leadership of their extraordinary dad.

I had to find something to hold onto - something strong enough to pull myself and my children through the aftermath.

Writing became that lifeline.

At first, it was a way to tell the true story behind the headlines. Then it became a way to speak for myself in the face of harsh judgment. Eventually, it became a way to help others make sense of their own loss. That path led to three books of my own, a career as a ghostwriter, and now, a dream I never imagined: turning How to Woo a Widow into a film.

The screenplay is written. A director is attached. The pitch deck is nearly complete.

How to Woo a Widow is a fictional love story, but it’s built from real moments -mine and those of others I know -after loss. It’s funny, painful, and hopeful in the same messy way real life is.

And this dream isn’t just about making a movie because doing that is awesome…The actual process is packed with impact, too.

I’m going to fill EXTRA roles with people who’ve stood beside me, inspired others, and navigated their own loss. I’m going to open the shooting process up to survivors of military, law enforcement and first responders who are interested in filmmaking. I’ll have designated mentors there to walk them through the sets, introduce them to cast and crew, and experience a moment they will carry for a lifetime.

The set will have mementos of people our cast and crew have loved and lost, and we will honor their memories together.

How cool is all that???

I didn’t choose the plot twist life threw at me. But I do get to choose how to flip the script.

You can, too.

If you’re carrying a story born from pain, resilience, or reinvention—and you feel the pull to finally write it - I’d be honored to help.

Let’s talk about turning your story into your signature book.

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“I side with humanity” is the newest catchphrase being used by people who really mean, “I side with some humanity but not all humanity. The phrase emerged in response to the aggressive ICE surges and deportation practices. 

Narratives of good, innocent people being ripped out of their cars and sent to holding facilities, families being pulled apart, people afraid to go out in public lest they be “kidnapped” by ICE - that’s what started the latest outrage and campaign to pronounce anyone who supports the deportation of people in this county illegally. 

What escalated the implication of this phrase from the usual blanket pronouncements against Trump and anyone who voted for him, to pure vitriol and new levels of loathing is the deaths of two protestors. 

It is natural to be upset that two people were shot to death. No one in their right mind would dispute that. What is frustrating, though, is the tunnel vision these tragedies narrowed so many people’s sight to.

Contrary to what the liberal media, propaganda dispensers, and politicians vomit out at us, it is in fact possible to feel and think two things at once.

It is possible to feel sadness over things like the deaths of the two protestors, or  the anguish of innocent children caught up in the deportations, and to support the Border Patrol, ICE agents, and the overall sanctity of our borders. It is indeed possible to recognize and feel sorrow over the plight of all the desperate, innocent people seeking refuge in this country and want the solution to that to involve law and order. It is even possible to want to see immigration reform and be angry at the practice of saddling American citizens with the cost of caring for millions of people who receive free health care, phones, housing, and education while our paychecks cover less and less each month - while the politicians making those decisions make millions in the stock market and other areas. 

Feeling and thinking two things at once does not mean you don’t “side with humanity.” It means you side with all of humanity, instead of only the people you agree with or like. It means you care about all injustice, instead of just the select incidents that fit a narrative. 

I, for one, am sick and tired of being held in contempt because I don’t value one innocent life over another. Palestine vs. Israel, Ukraine vs. Russia, good people here legally vs. good loving people here illegally, black vs. white, trans vs. the rest of us….. Each time I see or hear one tragedy or another I have a very hard time with the notion that I am only “allowed” to grieve for the “right” victims. 

I wonder how many people who “stand with humanity” recognize the ICE agents as human beings, with kids and spouses and siblings and people who love them, too? Would they have been happier if an ICE agent was fatally struck by a vehicle, rather than defending himself? I wonder if they care about the thousands of Christians being slaughtered in Nigeria even though those stories are not headlines? Or the courageous Iranians being executed probably as I type this? 

I know a lot of them do, in fact care. Just not as loudly as they care about defending people who are stalking, harassing, and attempting to mow down other human beings who are performing lawful duties. 

I wonder, too, if standing with humanity extends to the humanity growing inside a mother’s womb, or is exclusively reserved for the woman whose womb it is.

Two can play at that game - a game no one ever wins.

So here’s an idea:

How about we stop letting that game play us, and we start thinking rationally, instead? How about we stop letting ourselves be sold the lie that we can’t associate with people who disagree with us? How about we realize that most of our disagreements are not about humanity, or what we want for ourselves one another, but about our ideas on how to achieve those outcomes? 

And then let’s stop letting all the politicians and all the media play us like Nancy’s husband  plays the stock market?

When your moral outrage dismisses the suffering and rights of people whose only offense is to fall on the other side of the political point you want to make, you don’t really “stand for humanity,” after all. 

Almost everyone I meet has a story they want to tell someday.

“Someday when work slows down.”

“Someday when my health is better.”

“Someday when I am in a better place.”

“Someday” is comforting. A convenient lie we tell ourselves to excuse our refusal to follow through on the promises we make.

Here’s the truth most people don’t want to hear:
If you wait until you feel “ready,” your story will never be written.

I heard Jesse Itzler describe it this way:

Ready, Fire. Aim!

And while that is certainly not the right strategy for all of life, it does have its place in many areas.

If my husband Lou and I had waited until we were more financially sound, or had higher paying jobs, to have kids, We would never have had the experience of being parents together. He would never have held his babies before he was killed, and I would not have the profound honor of being their mom, even when I wasn’t “ready” to raise them without Lou. 

If I’d waited until I was “ready” to write my books, I would never have heard from the man who approached me out of the blue one day, to tell me how grateful he and his family are that I wrote my first book, because it has helped them heal from their own tragedy.

I might never get emails from people telling me how one of my books made them laugh when they needed it.

And I would certainly not now be embarking on another dream I am not “ready’ for - bringing my book How to Woo a Widow to life in a film. 

The people who write meaningful books, essays, or memoirs don’t start because they have everything in place and life is perfect. They start because the dread of regret outweighs their insecurities and excuses.

There is a cost to waiting.

Time doesn’t just pass; it edits. Details blur. Emotions soften or harden in ways that change the truth of what happened. The rawness that gives your story power quietly fades. You don’t lose the memory- you lose the nuances and visceral memories that flow onto the pages when it is still fresh.

Writing isn’t about reliving trauma for entertainment. I meet extraordinary people. I remember meeting one of several veterans I’ve met, whose stories  become books and films. The unimaginable heroism and trauma this vet

eran survived had survived still smoldered in his eyes, behind his bright smile and scathing wit. 

I once shared with him that, in the early days of my loss, when I was invited to speak and appear on news shows, at some point I realized those people were not interested in me. They were interested in eliciting the raw pain for their viewers or audiences.

Dance, Monkey.

That veteran’s eyes popped, his body tensed. And he roared with laughter. “Yes! That is exactly what it is like.” 

Writing your story should not feel exploitative or gratuitous. It will drain you at times, yes. But it  should leave you feeling cleansed and stronger for it, not newly broken and retraumatized. Your readers should feel inspired more than traumatized, themselves. 

It’s about making meaning out of what tried to break you. It’s about giving structure to chaos, language to the unspeakable, and perspective to experiences that still whisper in the background of your life.

Your story matters. 

You don’t have to start with a book.

You start with a moment.
A scene.
A sentence you’ve been carrying around for years.

You write badly at first. Everyone does. You write emotionally. You write inconsistently. That’s not failure. That’s the process. 

You don’t need more time. You need a smaller starting point.

Fifteen minutes a day.

A skilled writer can work with you to recognize the threads that need to be pulled, and to pull them respectfully.

Your story is your experience, but sharing it is also your duty.

If you’ve ever been helped by someone else’s story, why not pay that forward and help someone else with yours? 

I’ve watched people delay their writing for decades, only to realize too late that what they lived through could have helped someone else feel less alone. Less crazy. Less broken.

You don’t have to publish tomorrow.
You don’t have to share everything.
But you do have to begin.

Because the version of you who survived the hardest chapters of your life deserves to be heard. 

Not later.
Now.

If this resonates, consider sharing it. And if you’ve been waiting for permission to start writing-this is it. If you want to write your book but have not found the right person to help you - let’s talk!

I’ve never met Aron Ralston, but I am 100% certain that, prior to April 26, 2003, if you’d asked him, “Hey, Aron, you think you could ever break your arm on purpose, and then saw it off with a dull pocketknife?”  - he’d have laughed in your face and told you you were crazy. “Hell no,” or something to that effect, would be his answer. 

And yet, that’s exactly what he wound up doing. Not because he’s crazy, but because he knew he’d die if he didn’t.

No, he wasn’t a character in any of the SAW movies. He’s just an everyday dude. A normal person like you and me, who found himself in the most abnormal situation a person could imagine. 

Walk with me on the shortcut path of that story and the lessons it holds.

It was just a normal day doing something he’s done countless times. Aron packed up some light gear- he was only going for a few hours hike, (technically, he was going canyoneering, pretty much a hike through canyons) so he wouldn’t need extra supplies. No need to tell anyone where he was heading, either, so often did he head out on such adventures. 

A gorgeous day had dawned by the time he parked his car at southeastern Utah’s Bluejohn Canyon. His hike unfolded much as he’d anticipated. Breathtaking scenery, muscles stretching and endorphins kicking in. Then, with one step, catastrophe struck. 

In the course of descending into  a canyon, a boulder dislodged, crushing his lower right arm beneath it. Aron was now trapped below anyone’s line of sight, in a desolate area that few people visited in the first place. The odds of anyone happening upon him were virtually nonexistent. 

He had two burritos and about 12 ounces of water with him. 

For the next five days, Aron rationed those meager supplies. When his water ran out, he drank his own urine. He froze during the frigid evening and night hours. All attempts to extricate himself failed. That boulder was too big, too heavy, and too stuck. Knowing he was about to die, Aron carved his name in the canyon wall and recorded a farewell video to his friends and family. 

Then he slipped into sleep, assuming he would not awake. 

But he did wake up. And his mind was full from a vision his sleep had brought - a vision of him happy, living his life - with one arm. 

His arm was beyond salvation. It had already begun decomposing. He was exhausted, dehydrated, delirious, and yet he had a renewed hope. He realized he had one small chance to survive : He’d have to amputate his arm to free himself and escape death. 

The details of his next acts are both inspiring and horrifying - how he first broke his own bones and then used his dull pocketknife to amputate his arm. In a film made about him, those details are painfully played out. 

If he’d amputated sooner, he later learned, he would have bled to death. If he’d waited any longer, he would not have survived.

Aron’s salvation was not instant once he escaped from that boulder. Somehow, he pushed himself to hike several miles and rappel over 60 feet before being discovered. His story is one of sheer bad luck, terror, and courage. It’s a story that has stayed with me throughout the two decades it happened, as my own sudden devastation struck not too long after.

Like Aron, tragedy hit my family on a gorgeous morning when we had no reason to believe it would be anything other than a normal day. Figuratively speaking, I recognize the similarities our catastrophes carry. 

Like Aron, I once believed my situation was hopeless. And like Aron, I have had to sever some painful ties in order to move forward.

I carried the lessons from this story with me, too. Here are some of those bullet points:

• We are capable of overcoming more than we ever imagine ourselves to be.

• Salvation does not always arrive on our preferred timeline.

• In suffering, we discover our own strength.

• Recognize when something we are attached to must be left behind, for us to survive.

• Even the smallest chance is worth fighting for.

• Don’t wait for tragedy to strike, to recognize what truly matters in life. 

And  I would be remiss not to throw this in..

Our stories matter. Our struggles, trauma, and suffering hold lessons that not only help us, but those we share them with. My three books address all these lessons from different viewpoints. 

The books I help my clients write, share theirs.

And the books I’ve read have helped me on my way.
I’d love to help you write yours. Drop me a message and let’s discuss!

“Barb, the doctor gave me my diagnosis, and I knew my life could be over in 6 months.” 

This news from my client stunned me.

“Siera’ is one of my book writing clients. She is professionally at the top of  the food chain, running a company worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Her life is something most of us can only imagine- global travel, meeting with kings, presidents, and princes. Her story is one I salivated over writing from the moment I heard her speak. In fact, by the time she was done delivering her 45 minute talk, I had outlined 8 chapters of the book I knew I would write for her one day. The only detail in between me and writing her book was that we’d never met, she had no idea who I was, and I did not have the top tier ticket allowing me to meet the speakers at that event. 

But I knew we would somehow meet. And we did. I’ll share that story another time. 

We stayed in touch for several months. We met in person at different events, and each time, Siera told me that this would be the month we start her book. 

Then next month arrived, and another month after that… I wrote a few more books for a few more people. I enjoyed each of those projects but I really wanted to write her story. So I’d message her every few months. 

It was over one year before she signed a contract and paid a deposit. Finally! I thought. We are doing  this. And then… we didn’t.

A few more months went by with a wall of silence. Siera ghosted the ghostwriter - even after paying a significant deposit. Eventually I accepted that something changed, and she wasn’t going to write her book with me. At least, not anytime soon. What a shame, I thought. But there was nothing else I could do, and I wasn’t about to chase after anyone.

I wrote a couple more books, wondering from time to time what had happened, hoping she was okay.

More months went by until.. Ping! My phone chimed its little WhatsApp chime. Siera was back.

She’d spent the past several months in a life or death battle. Her cancer diagnosis had been sudden, unexpected, and devastatingly serious. She has an aggressive disease in advanced stages. In the hospital, she told me, when she was told she may not survive, one of her immediate regrets had been not writing her book yet.

She had so much to say. So much to share. So much to pass down and around. And in that moment she thought she’d missed her chance to do so.

She built a global company. Traveled the world. Met countless people who will be recorded in history. Revolutionized an industry. She’s overcome immense adversity and trauma. And yet, in spite of seeing a life resume packed with extraordinary achievement, she saw her life flash before her, thinking of the book she never wrote. 

Hearing this reminded me of the gut feelings I’d had, that drew me to the event where I met her. I heard her speaking. I remembered the way I knew I’d write her book, and I made a promise to myself that I would stick with her throughout whatever comes next, until we write her book.

So, every once in a while I reach back out to her. Her health issues remain serious. Her business remains all consuming. And her book remains unwritten. I don’t know if it will ever be written at all, but I won’t give up on her. I’ll continue writing for new clients, working toward the production of my film, and living my life to the fullest I can, hoping her book does not become the greatest story never told. 

What are you holding back from doing in your life? What’s that thing you repeatedly return to in your mind, but never take action on? What are your reasons you tell yourself you “can’t” right now. 

And will today be the day you flip that script, to go all in on every moment you have left?

I was so lucky to have that job.

I knew it. I was grateful for it. It was the first time since my husband was killed, that I felt like I had a real purpose again. I was excited to be able to help veterans and their dependents tap into VA and government benefits they’d all earned.

There was one time, for instance, that a veteran I worked with for two years, through a denial and an appeal, before his claim was approved. I almost fell off my char when I logged into the system that day, to check on the claim’s status, and saw all those zeroes in there. After years of perseverance, we’d done it. His claim had been approved. The VA had deposited years’ of backpay in his account- and he didn’t know yet.

I got to call him with the news. I can still hear him and his wife’s shocked voices, feel the tears through the phone. That day, they knew they would not lose their home. That day, they knew they’s be able to buy groceries, and presents for their grandkids. That day, I knew I’d played a role in something important.

But most other days, it was not like that.

Forget about the part where the office was located in the same cemetery my husband is buried in. Overlook the way I had to hear TAPS playing several times a week, and learn how to barricade all the trauma those things brought forth within me.

That was bad enough. But there was also the part where my four kids, young teenagers and pre teens, were stuck home alone all summer while their friends and cousins vacationed with their families, took day trips, hungout with each other, and did all the things my kids couldn’t. Sometimes I’d come home to mayhem, because my kids friends got dropped of while I wasn’t there. I couldn’t even be mad at the chaos. My kids deserved some of that.

I will also never forget the day I arrived home 30 minutes late, because I stopped for groceries. There, at the top of the driveway, in the chilly pre-dusk air, sat my youngest, wrapped in a blanket, tears streaming down his face, waiting for me to get back and worried I was late.

The full time hours were not a good blend with my status not as a single mom, but a widowed mom, with no help, no backup for my kids, no one else there every day to play with them, lead them, hug them.

It was brutal. But I had bills to pay.

That job not only gave me a purpose, it helped pay the bills.

Just.

I could pay the mortgage and car payments. But although it was a helpful salary, it was still very small. As my own survivor benefits dwindled more and more, I realized the gap was still too large. I was going to have to find a way to make more money.

So that was one issue with my job. The other was that.. I hated it. I hated not owning my own time. I hated the politics. I hated the cemetery, and the office drama.

I was dating the man who I eventually married. The relationship was very new back then, but he was already introducing me to a world full of people just like me- who didn’t fit into the conventional work force most people settle into and appreciate. People who said ** it and went all in on their own pursuits - and succeeded.

It was like a curtain had been pulled back and a whole new world revealed to me. My boyfriend offered me the option of joining forces with him to launch a podcast and build a business.

I debated for months, until one day I heard the secretary talking to one of my vets on the phone: “Oh, Barbara is booked for hte next couple weeks. Her schedule is full every day. But I have an opening on this date, three Tuesdays from now, at 10 am.

And my next three weeks flashed before me. I pictured myself doing the same thing, in the same office, in the same chair behind the same desk, and knew that three weeks from then I’d be sitting right there. I knew my kids would be home alone after school, that I’d be falling asleep in their band concerts, crying on my way to work, choking back nausea hearing TAPS play, and dealing with the same politics and office drama.

I knew I wanted to be doing anything else, three weeks from then, on Tuesday at 10 am. And every Tuesday after that.

So I made the decision to take that leap, and I left that job.

I felt guilty, knowing people had moved mountains to help me get that job. I felt reckless, knowing I had to figure out a new income and knowing I burned a bridge.

But I also felt.. alive.

I felt hopeful. I felt grateful to my boyfriend for giving me the chance to be with my kids again, and to build a new dream with him.

That was about ten years ago. It has not been an easy road. we have had breathtaking highs and soul crushing lows. We have struggled. We have soared. And everything in between.

I am still far from my own goals, professionally speaking. But the life I have been able to experience these past ten years - the sunrises I got to soak up, the breakfasts I got to make for my kids, the hikes with them, the sick days I was there for, the people I;ve met, the confidence and humility I’ve gained… priceless.

And sometimes, when I realize it’s 10 am on a Tuesday, I think back to the choices I’ve made.

Where are you this Tuesday, at 10 am? Where will you be next Tuesday? Wherever that may be, I hope it is somewhere, doing something, that makes you feel alive:)

I must actually be crazy. And I was also desperate for a tissue as I felt tears about to fall. What was I thinking, to come to another capital court martial? It was too soon since the words "Not Guilty" shattered my world.

Again.

I was so intent on not crying that I didn't even notice the young JAG Officer slide in beside me until he asked, "Are you Barbara Allen?"

I tensed, prepared for him to tell me I had to leave. I knew the military was not happy with me writing Front Toward Enemy, detailing not just how the Staff Sergeant in Iraq murdered both my husband and the Commanding Officer, but how the military judicial system made a mockery of the case. I was not exactly a welcome sight in the military courtroom.

I nodded yes, ready to rumble. But the moment took an incredible turn.

Confusion crashed into me as he appeared to be struggling with his words. We were the only two in the courtroom, other than the victims' families a few rows ahead of us. I had not introduced myself to them. I did not want to intrude as I observed and recorded this court martial. The air was heavy with the weight of their pain. Maybe this JAG officer felt that, too.

"I just read your book." An exhale, a soft sigh, as he dragged his eyes up to meet mine. "It changed the way I work with victims and their families, and I'll carry that with me."

He left as abruptly as he'd appeared. I don't think I even replied, just sat there in shock.

My brain scrambled to interpret the emotions colliding inside me. When it decided that I felt overwhelmed, moved, grateful and devastated all at once, I had to take my own deep breaths to avoid breaking down as the courtroom filled with people. When it decided that I felt overwhelmed, moved, grateful and devastated all at once, I had to take my own deep breaths to avoid breaking down as the courtroom filled with people.

Writing that book had began as a private journal. I thought one day, when my kids were grown, they could read it. Maybe it would help them forgive me for what I knew would be a childhood littered with their mom's mistakes and pain. But as the trial progressed, as things took one horrifying turn after another, I knew I had to tell the story myself.

As my husband's killer smiled at me before walking away a free man - with back pay- I knew no one would ever know the truth unless I told it.

So I researched. Our case. Other cases. I completed my Masters in Criminal Justice. And I published the book that broke me to write.

I paid thousands of dollars to self publish, back then. I took the personal attacks from people mocking me, accusing me of being a glory hog, of using my husband's murder for my own personal gain. Until that moment in that courtroom, nothing good had ever come of me writing it.

And in that moment, I knew that if nothing else good ever did - it was worth it.

I knew that other victims and survivors would benefit from that young JAG officer's fresh awareness of their pain. And that meant - means- the world to me.

It didn’t resurrect my husband, or give my four boys their dad back.

But my book was impacting lives

The books I’ve been featured in, or written for myself or clients since, amplify that impact in ways I would never have imagined.

Now I am on the brink of bringing one of my books to life in a film.

If I can take all that pain and struggle and turn my grief into greatness - so can you.

If I can make profound impacts with my books, so can you.

You can absolutely amplify your impact with your book, too.

Not just a book about your expertise but about you.

Think for a moment, of all the knowledge and wisdom you have, that have nothing to do with your business or what you are known for. Think about how you don't ever go deep into those topics because you are so busy teaching what you do instead of sharing who you are.

You don’t realize that you could also be just like the people I learned from, when my life felt hopeless and I prayed for the wisdom to turn it all around.

That officer I met in the courtroom that day- he didn’t say it was one of the news shows I’d been on, or the articles about me, or even a talk I’d given, that opened his eyes to the plight of victims and their families - maybe one those got his attention, but it was my book, that influenced him to create such a powerful impact.

Your gifts don’t begin and end with the companies you build, the stages or fields you shine on, the films you are in or the millionaires you help create - they go way past that, into the hearts you touch and the faith you inspire and the beauty you help unleash in this world.

You wouldn’t leave money on the table, would you? So stop leaving impact on the table. Someone out there is ready to use your book, to change their life.

Let's write it together.

Just the thought of unpacking the Christmas decorations sent me into a panicked sweat. To this day I can see Lou’s smiling face as he took the lights from me. I was “not allowed” to put them away in my haphazard manner. Lou loved the process of organizing pretty much anything, and Christmas lights were always methodically recoiled so as to be smoothly used next year. 

I couldn’t open that box, or hang our ornaments. I didn’t even want to get a tree at all, but of course our four sweet young kids deserved the happiest Christmas available to them. Of course they would have a tree and presents.

Typically Lou and I wrapped our kids’ gifts together. How was I supposed to get through wrapping them alone? 

I hated everything.

I hated everyone.

I hated my life.

And I really hated Christmas. 

There was nothing anyone could do to change that. But some people surely did their best to try.

While I fled to the Arizona mountains for Thanksgiving, my brother-in-law unpacked those decorations and decorated the tree with the kids. 

My sister-in-law came over to help me wrap the gifts. 

My family did not protest when I showed up late and left early.

And I made it through.

I was so grateful to everyone who just allowed me the room to breathe and get through whatever way I could.

That space and that grace is the best thing you can give to someone you know, who is grieving during the holidays.

Don’t let their smiles and good cheer fool you. The moment they are alone they will shed a river of tears that’s damming up behind that smile. 

If it’s a spouse that’s passed, the gift you give someone might be the only gift they get with their name on it this year. It won’t matter what it is. It will only matter that, after shopping, wrapping, and giving gifts to others, they have not been forgotten. 

No matter who someone is grieving, the simple act of showing up will be a gift. Show up to help them wrap presents. Show up to sit in their kitchen and have a cup of coffee with them. Show up long after the holidays pass, and silence descends again. 

I know people this year who are spending their last precious moments with a cherished mother. I know someone whose mother just passed. I know someone else whose husband died suddenly last year on December 26th, and now faces not just her first Christmas but the first awful anniversary of that event.

And I am someone who, although abundantly blessed, will always have to work to embrace the Christmas spirit.

Two things can be true: I can be profoundly grateful for my life today, and the people in it, and I can still acknowledge my own grief for the husband I lost and the life we planned, that was lost with him. 

I can enjoy the holidays and dread them at the same time.

The more time that passes, the more people forget that - that grief remains. They no longer understand why you may feel pockets of sadness, or breathe a sigh of relief when January 1st rolls in. 

I didn’t understand either. Until grief became a part of my life.

If you are grieving this year - be it a fresh grief or a longstanding grief, I hope people in your life show you the grace so many have shown me. I hope someone speaks the name of the person you miss. Shares a memory. Acknowledges their place in your life. 

And if you are wondering how you can help someone who is grieving, I hope this article helps.

Love him or loathe him, Charlie Kirk was a human being. He was a cherished son, a brother, husband, and father to two precious, innocent young children. That truth should matter more than anyone’s politics. And yet, the public reaction to his murder made it painfully clear how easily we forget that. 

I haven’t spoken out about this.

At first, I was battling the flashbacks and resurfaced wounds his murder brought up for me. I was about Erika’s age, with four very young children (my oldest was just 6 years old), when my husband was murdered.

It was a long time ago but still, anyone who’s ever lost someone- especially to murder or other sudden, traumatic event - knows what I mean when I say it can feel like just yesterday sometimes. 

Lou and his CO, Captain Phillip Esposito, were murdered before social media was a thing. Facebook was still in its infancy. MySpace was the thing then, and I did not have a space on it. 

Perhaps social media would have helped us. Perhaps with viral attention, the military would not have been able to get away with the way it treated our case and figuratively murdered Lou and Phil all over again. Perhaps not. I’ll never know. But as I sit here today I think I’m glad social media was still so small, because I was spared the volumes of hate that fuels it. 

I can still remember how nauseating it was to have people comment on the online articles about Lou’s murder, stating “he must have deserved it,” and such. It took me years to overcome the pain of being judged by strangers and by people I knew, for how I so clumsily navigated my grief. 

I cannot imagine how I would have handled those comments magnified by social media.

I was so outmatched by the enormity of it all: Lou was not just my husband and the father of our children. He was my best friend. Being his wife meant everything to me. I was not even close to strong enough to manage my grief, let alone a capital murder trial in the military, national news reporters pretending to care about us just to fill a news cycle, learning how to mother four of my own precious innocent young children, and all the ways things changed in one heartbeat. 

I made mistakes. A lot of them. I was awkward, vulnerable, manic, suicidal, desperate, and very immature. I laughed during the court martial hearings because if I didn’t I would cry. I hooked up with a new man less than a year after being widowed, because he was the only one who came over and sat with me while I cried. He played with my kids, helped me take care of them, and told me the lie I needed to hear, that “Everything will be okay.” 

Oh, how I was judged, and scorned, and shunned over the years. 

So my heart has been breaking as I see the way Erika Kirk has been treated - because I know what that is like.

I don’t know a thing about her. Probably not any more than most of the people spewing hate at her. All I know is that her husband was assassinated on stage for the world to see, and she’s been catapulted out of his shadow, into the limelight. 

All I know is that it would have been so powerful if people could have resisted the urge to use her for likes- if they could have set aside whatever need they have to pounce on tragedy- and shown some grace.

How inspirational that would have been.

But I didn’t speak up because I was too weary of the noise, and I saw others with much bigger platforms speaking up. 

For a moment it looked like grace had a chance. 

Until yesterday, when our president used his platform to spew hate at another man who was murdered, and in so doing cast a veil of shame on the entire Conservative movement. 

Rob Reiner and I probably would not have been friends, even if we had ever met. I have my own strong thoughts and feelings about his liberal views and actions, and he would most likely have wanted nothing to do with me.

But the man was murdered.

With his wife. 

Probably by their son!

And rather than just keeping his mouth shut if he could not summon the grace to offer condolences to the family, Trump posted what I believe to be his most asinine, cruelest post of all time, mocking a murder victim and bragging about himself. 

I voted for Trump all three times. I stand by my position that our nation is far better off with him in office, than with any Democrat in the current Party. But that does not mean I agree with all he says or does. I am not blind, or ignorant, or living in an echo chamber like so many people like to tell me. 

To the Reiner family, on behalf of so many, I apologize for that post. 

It does not reflect who we are, or the true heartbeat of the people across the aisle from you. 

May the Kirk family, and the Reiner family, find some grace in these graceless times. 

You’ve been dumped. Or fired. Or shunned. 

That hurts, doesn’t it. 

If you’re like I used to be, you are mad about that. 

How dare he?

How could she?

Why would they?

And even……

**** them, then. Followed by social media stalking (if you haven’t been blocked) feverishly searching for something about their lives that shows karma has caught up with them. 

Lord knows I have been dumped and shunned like it was my job. 

Because you see, I don’t try to piss people off… it’s just my gift. 

I’ve found that the more transparent I am, the more dialed in to my own goals and the more uncompromising on my own well-being I am, the more people who don’t actually have my best interests in mind loathe me. 

But there are plenty of reasons people have purged me from their lives. Even, sometimes, a person I thought was very close to.

Even people I am related to. 

Here are some of those reasons : 

1. POLITICS. Because “tolerance” doesn’t mean tolerant of my beliefs. Lol

2. His new, much younger wife hated me long before we ever even met. One of us had to go soooo…. 

3. I said or did something really stupid, and an apology was not accepted. 

4. He found someone hotter and cooler than me. 

5. What I thought was a minor disagreement, was a deal breaker for them. 

6. Sometimes I’m left with absolutely no idea why I’ve been purged. 

What are some reasons you’ve purged someone from your life? What are some reasons you’ve been purged yourself?

Want to know what I only recently realized about the real reason all purges take place? 

Once you understand this, it will be impossible for you to be mad at anyone who dumps you: 

Your purpose in each other’s lives has been fulfilled, and it’s time to let go. 

That’s it. 

As brutal, embarrassing, hurtful, or cold as it may feel, that’s what it all comes down to. 

We don’t have to feel that way ourselves. We can be surprised or confused, or hurt. But when you allow enough space to grow, when you allow yourself some deep breaths and some perspective, you realize that you’ve let people go, too, before they thought it was time. You’ve said goodbye or ghosted people who were not ready for that goodbye, because that’s what you needed to do for yourself, or they were a page that had to be turned in order to write that next chapter in your life. 

Sometimes, we are that page that needs to be turned in someone else’s book, in order to write their next chapter. 

It’s hard to be mad about that, because when we truly care about someone we want what’s best for them, even if that’s hard to give - even if it means what’s best for them is purging us.

I swear, this epiphany changed everything for me. 

Past grudges I didn’t even know I was still holding on to, were lifted. I felt instantly lighter without changing anything in my life except this belief. 

People I’ve been so mad at, whose memories were always accompanied with bitterness or sorrow, are now people whose time in my life I am grateful for  - even though they purged me. 

(Well, okay, in full disclosure, there is one person whose time in my life I am not sure I will ever feel anything but regret about - but that’s it!)

This new outlook is the gift I did not know I was going to give myself this Christmas. It did not come wrapped in a beautiful package. It came wrapped in something the opposite of that. But I love it anyway.

I went from holding on to bitterness, shame, anger, and hurt, to gratitude, just like that. 

Life is messy. I’ve been knocked to my knees more times than I can count. And I have been blessed with a string of people that were there to help me get back up. People that shared laughs and tears and adventures and heartbreaks with me, before we drifted apart or one of us purged the other. 

I am so grateful for each and every one of them (or almost each and every one lol). And I would love to believe that when they go back and read the chapters of their lives that I was in, they wouldn’t have wanted it written any other way. 

Wherever I go from here it will be because of the people who have been there for me along the way. 

I hope you give yourself this gift this year, too.

Even if it’s wrapped in the ugliest package - open it. 

My heart is bursting with happiness and breaking with sorrow at the same time this month.

You’d think I’d be “good” at this by now. After all, it’s been a little more than 20 years since I had to find the words to explain to my four little boys that daddy would never come home.

Four separate conversations, doing my best to explain something my own head and heart rejected at every level, with four little boys who were the center of their dad’s life.

My oldest was just six. My youngest was a few months away from his second birthday. Then we had a 5 year old, and my son Sean, whose birthday is the same as his dad’s and his dad’s dad, and was just one month away from turning four.

The levels of comprehension are so different at each age. Within hours of my world collapsing, while I was still trying to process the news myself, I had to figure out how to communicate that to each of them.

There was no grace period between the funeral and the first cruel event after: Fathers Day was within weeks. It was baptism by fire, so to speak. Within weeks of learning my husband was dead- that he had in fact been murdered by another soldier in Iraq - I had to figure out how to shepherd my boys through Fathers Day while all of our hearts were still under siege.

Next was Sean’s fourth birthday. I had to somehow give him the happiest fourth birthday party, while navigating the momentous pain of not being able to wish Lou a Happy Birthday, too - ever again.

The moments have not ceased since then: birthdays, holidays, graduations, parent teacher conferences, report cards, awards, trouble, puberty, drivers licenses, broken bones, smashed cars, first loves and heartbreaks, pets dying, proms, teenage angst, school projects, and leaving home to start their new lives…. all of it. I’ve had to develop unique coats of armor to get through each moment four times over.

Each experience helped harden me for the next, until finally no one suspected my smile masked such debilitating pain.

Even when I finally began to piece my own life and heart and soul back together, there is no circumventing the reality of loss and pain when it comes to the “He should be here” moments - like next week.

Next week- on October 18th, my one of our sons will marry the love of his life. This is the son who shares his dad’s birthday. He has his dad’s eyes, and his sense of humor, and the same immeasurable love of life. He and his bride remind me so much of me and Lou in our youth - how much I depended on Lou to keep me centered and learn self-confidence, and how much he leaned on me to have his back at all times.

I don’t even have to close my eyes to remember being on our back deck, having one of the very brief, and very few ‘What if” conversations we had before Lou deployed. I can see Lou in his white Yankees t-shirt, his dark blue gym shorts and his ever present Sambas, leaning on the rail while turning his face into the sun. I can hear him admit his greatest fear- that if something did happen, he’d miss out on the kids’ lives and they wouldn’t even remember him, or how hard he worked for them or how much he loved them.

Next week, he will miss seeing his son get married.

And that… sucks.

Yes yes.. I know he “is here in spirit” and that “He is watching from heaven,” and whatever else people will feel compelled to say to me.

And yes, I believe that.

But you’ll have to excuse me for as moment, when I wish he was actually here.

The truth is, I am sick and tired of “getting through” moments that should be nothing but beautiful. I am exhausted from the struggle of feeling guilty for wanting Lou here, even as I have a new, profound, and strong love standing beside me now. As if by missing Lou I am betraying my husband now. And I am really just over seeing the empty space by my sons’s sides, where their dad should be.

Judge away, if you’d like. But anyone who tries to convince me that they don’t feel the same, no matter how much faith they have and how much they have put their lives together, is lying.

Even Christ himself hit his knees and begged God to spare him from pain, before marching bravely towards it.

That pain, in the end, was worth it, as it lead to so much beauty.

So, too, will this pain.

I share this with you for two reasons:

One is selfish - I really needed the ugly cry I got as I wrote this. I feel better now. Thank you.

The other, and why I am sending this instead of deleting it - is because I know someone who needs to know they are not alone in their grief will read this. Or someone who may not have understood why another is not “over it” yet.

The greatest gift you can give yourself in grief, is grace. Even when grace is not shown to you.

If you are grieving someone you love, know that you don’t need permission to acknowledge that grief. Know that you are not wrong, or weak, or that admitting that pain does not mean you don’t understand your faith and love your life today.

There is no “end date” to missing someone you love. Stop letting anyone convince you otherwise. Two things can be true at once: You can feel pain from missing someone and you can love your life as it is today. In fact, there is exquisite beauty to be found in that pocket, in between.

Lou wasn’t in Iraq yet. But he was up in Fort Drum, about 5 hours away, preparing to deploy. I was alone- again- with all four kids. They were ages 6, 5, 3, and 1. I was alone to mow the yard, clean the house, grocery shop, cook, clean, entertain and care for our kids on top of working as a Realtor.

I was not yet back in full health after a severe case of pancreatitis that had been so extensive it required multiple hospital stays, emergency surgical procedures, and immediate intervention when it impacted my liver.

We lived an hour away from family. I was beyond stressed, worried about my husband deploying, feeling alone, unqualified for my life, and even a little resentful that I was not able to experience life with my husband present, rather than on video calls.

I was, in short, indulging in a full-fledged pity party.

I was going to be late to the dog’s vet appointment if I didn’t get out the door right now.

One of my kids was in the van already, waiting to go. Two others were ready, jumping around and bumping into one another in what they thought was hilarious play but what my brain perceived as ear-splitting mayhem. My little guy was squirming around in my arms as I tried to slide his shoe on. Where was the dog?

Frustration grew when I realized the dog was nowhere to be found. She must have run off after a deer when the door was left open. I had approximately 90 seconds to get out the door now, if I wanted to be only five minutes late. Thoughts of throwing my hands up with a “*** it” mindset fled when I reminded myself I would get charged for missing the appointment anyway. And the dog needed some meds for the infection that had ballooned up around her stitches- from however she’d managed to impale herself the week before.

“No,” I scolded myself. “You will not cry. You got this. Suck it up, be a Big Girl, find the damn dog and get the kids in the van… MOVE IT!”

Ignoring the one tear that escaped before my self-adjustment, I tied my youngest’s shoes, whistled again for the dog, and looked down just in time to see my other son waddling out the door on feet encased in opposite shoes.

“Buddy,” I said in the best impression of patience I could muster, “Your shoes are on the wrong feet. You’ll have to switch them when we get in the van.”

“Mommy,” he came back at me in an almost precise imitation of my own tone, “I didn’t put my shoes on the wrong feet.. these are my feet!”

It took me a moment to process his reply. Was that condescension in his five year old voice, as he summoned all his patience to explain to me that those were his shoes, on his feet. Therefore I was wrong, and he was right.

I caught myself just in time. Before I snapped back at him to stop arguing with me already. To just get in the van and do what I told him to, because Mommy is falling apart and cannot take one more drop of stress.

His dad’s hazel eyes, tucked beneath ridiculously long lashes, stared solemnly back at me, waiting for me to grasp his logic.

My sons had no idea how hard I was struggling. How could they? Why should they?

They’d grown accustomed to daddy’s long trips with the military. Better than I had, that’s for sure. So much for the “It’s the National Guard, not the regular military, I’ll only be gone one weekend a month, and two weeks a year…”

Sigh.

In that moment, it hit me.

It hit me that I wasn’t living a sad, unfair life. It hit me that I’d come so close to missing the gifts my kids presented to me no matter what version of mayhem those gifts were wrapped in.

It hit me that children, if we allow them to, will take our hands and guide us right back to what matters most in this life.

My son, with his left shoe on his right foot, right shoe on the left, stood more balanced and firmly in his convictions and in shoes than I did in that moment. His gait may have been less smooth, his shoes may eventually be corrected, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from running to the van and climbing in.

The dog reappeared out of the woods, leaping into the van behind the boys. If I hurried I would only be about 8 minutes late. That should be okay, because the vet was always behind schedule anyway.

Suddenly, I cared less about the dishes I hadn’t had a chance to put in the dishwasher, the sticky spot someone’s spilled apple juice left in my cupholder, the dog’s muddy feet traipsing all over the van. None of that mattered.

My life may have felt “crooked.” It may have felt like I was trying to balance it all out, but I was always “off.” But in that instant my son’s logic felt like it applied perfectly to my life..

This isn’t the “wrong” way it was “supposed” to be.. it was our way. It was the way millions of military families lived. One spouse left to manage life alone, while the other missing out on that precious chaos to serve our country.

The rest of that day followed pretty much the same recipe of chaos. But rather than allowing it to overwhelm me, it just made me laugh.

It was funny, what my son said. It made me laugh at how hard it was to argue with his logic, and how little he cared about what foot each shoe was on.

Done is better than perfect sometimes, I suppose.

Just a few weeks later, my doorbell would ring. I would be informed that my husband had been killed in Iraq. And that silly moment of insanity would be something I’d give anything to have back. Knowing I’d be able to call my husband and laugh about it later..I’d give anything to have my family whole again…

In the aftermath of our loss, my kids wound up offering up plenty more of those little moments that helped me reconnect with life and with them. They continue to stretch me to this day. Even though they are out of the house, living their own lives. They stretch my patience, my sanity… and my heart.

In my third book, What Not to Wear to a Murder Trial (and other tips tragedy taught me) I have a chapter titled “Little Leaders.” It shares more of the lessons my kids taught me, and what kids everywhere can teach all of us.

I’d love to hear some of your stories: How did something a young child said break through the BS in your own mind, to help root you in what matters most?

Email me that story, and I’ll share it on my Instagram :)

Somewhere around ten years after my husband was murdered, and 7 years since his killer smiled at me as he was set free, I sat down for an audit of sorts. I wanted to unpack everything I had been through, analyze how I had met each challenge, identify what I’m glad I did and what I wish I’d done differently.

From there, I peeled back even deeper layers.

I still do this periodically. Sometimes I sit down to speak with the kind of friend I know will give me a no B.S. opinion. Every now and then I find a professional counselor.

It is always a brutal but refreshing process. How can I appreciate the full view if I don’t sweat my ass off climbing that mountain, right?

One such session, in particular, left me with feedback that branded itself into my soul, in a way. It is something I try to live up to today, and which I see played out daily on a national and global stage.

This person worked with hundreds of people who’ve experienced trauma and grief. She is a keen observer of how different people respond to such experiences. She is also a friend of mine.

She knew my story. She spoke to people who knew me. I filled her in on all the ups and downs that were less public. She told me this:

Millions of people experience trauma and grief. Some use it as an excuse to be mean, others use it as an opportunity to step into courage and faith.

She told me from all she knew about me, I had never been mean even in my worst days. Was I perfect? Absolutely not. Did I handle myself with pure grace?

Nope.

But for all my flaws and stumbles and cringeworthy moments, my intent, at least, was pure.

That shot right through me in the best of ways.

I am the first to admit I am a profoundly flawed person. I have said and done things that hurt people. I have my vices. I have made a giant jackass of myself in very public ways. I have dragged my kids through extra stages of trauma through my own relationships and decisions.

It doesn’t matter to me that my intent is always pure. If the outcome of my behavior causes harm to myself or others, I feel terrible. I strive to make amends. I do my best to never repeat that same mistake.

I don’t believe my own pain and loss serve as a premise to harm others.

I have met a lot of people who have experienced pain and trauma on unimaginable levels. Some emerge as leaders in grace, courage, and faith. Others reveal darker sides of themselves.

And that is where the difference lies, as well, in America.

One part of America responds to events they don’t like by burning buildings, destroying statues, assaulting innocent people, vandalizing businesses, issuing death threats or wishing death upon those who disagree with them, and is absolutely at peace with severing all ties with anyone who dares object or question those behaviors.

That part of America, for four years, was celebrated, given blank checks on their behavior, and hailed as courageous in the media and by the most outspoken Democratic representatives. Indeed, many talking heads on multiple platforms encouraged more of this behavior. It became the norm to display props depicting the severed head of Trump, to denounce those of us who refused the shot as “grandma killers” - even when the NY governor’s actions directly led to the deaths of actual grandparents.

That part of America shrugged off rioters chaining police stations closed and setting them on fire with people inside, thought nothing of statues being toppled and labeling people they’d known all their lives as “racists”, or this or that kind of “…phobe.” It denied people access to their business without proof of being vaccinated. It replied “Well, people have felt oppressed for so long, or they are so scared of this or that… what did you expect to happen?”

The other part of America responds to events they don’t like by praying on sidewalks, lighting candles, inviting respectful debate, and firmly refusing to yield their own rights to make decisions for themselves and their families, while not begrudging others the right to o the same.

Live and let live, so to speak.

Yes there are outliers on both sides. No not every Democrat is behaving like a monster and not every Conservative is behaving with grace.

The prevailing messages and examples being set, however, mark a stark contrast.

One side holds a criminal up as a martyr, using his tragic death as cause to incite and inflict unspeakable terrors down upon our country.

The other holds an innocent, law-abiding, pillar of his family and community up as a martyr, responding to his tragic murder with candle light vigils, prayers, and calls to lean into faith and forgiveness.

The two sides are not the same.

I might lose subscribers for saying this. That’s unfortunate- I’d much rather share your response with this community, than close the door on dialogue.

Had I not traveled my own road through trauma and grief - had I not been tested over and over again, and fallen so short, I may be calling for retribution, myself.

So while I can’t bring myself to say I’m glad to have been through all I have, I can say that I am grateful for learning the difference between hope and hate.

—
Barb Allen
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It’s been less than two weeks since Erika Kirk woke up as a wife, and went to bed as a widow. Less than two weeks since she first looked upon her two babies with the agonizing awareness that they will not have their adoring father in their lives, apart from videos and stories others tell. And less than two weeks since she gazed upon the unfamiliarly still body of the man she loved with all her heart - since she saw the gaping wound delivered by an assassin’s bullet.

That level of pain and shock is impossible to come close to understanding without experiencing it yourself. Love comes with a cost. We will either lose the people we love, or they will lose us. There is no way around that.

Whether it is a parent losing a child, a sibling losing a sibling, a husband losing a wife - whomever is left to face each new sunrise with grief beside them where the person they loved once walked, faces a gauntlet of challenges between themself and the beauty on the other side of darkness.

So many of us remain trapped in that gauntlet. We don’t know how to escape:

How do we accept our loss? How do we find meaning in life after that loss? How do we stop being so mad? How do we do all the practical things we now have to do alone? How do we raise our kids without their father? How do we grow old alone? How do we stop feeling so alone? How do we overcome the aftermath of this loss and how do we make the pain stop?

Some of us spend decades or a lifetime seeking those answers. Erika Kirk answered all of those questions in just eleven days.

Faith and forgiveness.

No pill, no bottle, no spa day, or glamorous trip can lead us through loss. No amount of throwing ourselves into work can fill the cavernous void in our hearts. Avoidance may allow us to “forget” the pain for a moment, but it does not heal it.

Only faith can heal.

Only faith can grant the strength to forgive.

Only faith and forgiveness allow a wounded heart to be full again; not just full, but fulfilled.

Yes, one can learn to live with the pain. One can rebuild and even love again, without faith, but much of that new life will be built on an illusion. It will be fragile. Bitterness will seep into your soul. It will emerge in subtle or not-so-subtle ways. Maybe you turn inward. Guarded. Maybe you lash out at others. Maybe you justify unhealthy habits as “self-medicating.” Maybe you doom yourself to a lifetime of self-pity .

Or… you can find faith. You can surrender to the pain not as a means of giving up, but of giving in. Of acknowledging that we are all part of a greater plan, and that even the worst kind of pain can have a beautiful purpose.

Like Erika showed us all last night.

In front of the entire world, Erika acknowledged that her husband wanted to help young men - just like the one that killed him. And then, she allowed us all to witness a very personal experience. Like a mother laboring to give birth, Erika labored right there in front of us all, vulnerable in her grief.

Gripping the podium, head bowed, tears brimming, Erika epitomized a grieving widow. A moment later, head held high, eyes flashing, she pushed through her pain to announce her forgiveness for her husband’s killer.

In that moment, she taught us all how to not only survive our grief, but turn it into greatness.

She is not magically free from her pain. She cannot bring her husband back home. She will not awaken from this nightmare. She has a lifetime of grief and loneliness before her.

But she is not alone where it matters most.

She is not weighed down with bitterness.

She is not surrendering to self-pity.

Erika Kirk is looking grief in the eye and she is not blinking.

I don’t think she designed her message as a love letter to other widows, or survivors of homicide victims, or any person surviving through grief. She might not even be aware of how she taught everyone who is trapped in grief’s gauntlet, to find their own way out.

More likely, she intended to inspire our country to come together. She spoke to represent her faith, and to invite others in. She spoke to honor her husband. She might never know how that ripple effect can help other broken hearts heal. But I hope one day, she finds out.

—
Barb Allen
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Are you finally ready to write your book but still wondering how? Message me and let’s make it happen! Either click away at the button below or email me with some details about your memoir or non-fiction book idea. I will get back to you as soon as possible. Let’s Work Together

On the eve of 9/11, when so many Americans relive their loss and trauma, we have again been rocked by tragedy. 

There is no comparing the two events. I am in no way equating this shocking murder of Charlie Kirk to the murder of thousands of Americans.

I am, however, unable to let this pass without throwing my thoughts into the ring.

When I hear or see news of sudden death and loss, especially in the event of murder, I cannot help but feel it on a visceral level.

As I am sure so many of you can relate to- when we live through our own traumatic events, we are forever more acutely aware of others stepping their own first steps into that particular version of hell. 

I feel every one I am made aware of. 

And tonight, I feel deeply for Charlie Kirk’s young wife, children, and the rest of his family. 

I do not know specifically what his wife - who must now suddenly absorb being called a “widow” is experiencing. I do, though, know what level of pain and evil will be waging a war to destroy her heart and soul.

To turn her away from God. 

To blame God.

I know the absolute agony she will forever carry, of raising her beautiful children without the presence of their loving father.

I know the absolute shock and struggle to wrap your mind around how someone intentionally chose to end her husband’s life.

I cannot fathom the added level of horror the entire family will experience, with the actual act spread around the internet. Just like the family of Iryna Zarutska will have to navigate. 

I remember the slice of incredulity and pain I felt when people hopped online to comment that my husband “must have deserved it.” That the only reason a soldier would kill his superior officer is if that officer deserved to die. I wish I could wrap my arms around the Kirk family, and protect them from the same. 

Charlie Kirk inspired, moved, and energized millions of Americans. 

He also enraged millions of Americans, simply for speaking his beliefs and inviting open conversation with anyone who wanted to debate him. America is now officially a country where free speech is exercised at the risk of persecution and even death.

I am so sorry Charlie and his family paid such a steep price for this right. 

Now his family will have to endure their loss, his sacrifice, being used as talking points. They will have to hear unhinged lunatics blaming him for his own murder. 

They also have - at some point- to endure a trial. To constantly relive this day. To hear new details unfold. To learn how preventable it was. How senseless. 

Only their own faith will pull them through.

No one can walk this for them.

Charlie, now, is absolutely walking in the light of God. His mission, in many ways, will now grow even stronger.

He has been made a martyr.

I did not agree with everything Charlie said. 

But I respect him for having the courage to say it. And for inviting anyone to challenge and debate him. 

It is now upon us to do whatever we can to lift his family up, and ensure his sacrifice is not in vain.

—
Barb Allen
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Writing my books has turned into a life changing decision for me. 

First and most importantly, hearing from people who have been moved and inspired by my books means everything to me.

Like the young JAG officer (military attorney) who approached me one day while I was attending another capital court martial.

I didn’t even notice him slide in beside me, so immersed was I in the seriousness of the occasion. Rows in front of me sat two grieving families: mothers, fathers, widows, and siblings rotated in and out of their nightmare. Across the room sat the man who stole their sons, husbands, and brothers from them. He showed zero remorse. 

As I sat, reliving my own hell, praying these families would see the justice ours did not, and studying this trial so as to better understand how the system should actually work, that officer managed to catch me off guard. 

“Ma’am,” his whisper may as well have been a cannon firing. It startled the $*** outta me. 

“Are you Barbara Allen?”

My recovery was swift. I was no longer startled. I was poised to defend my right to be there, so sure was I that he was about to kick me out. It’s safe to say the military was not a fan of me. I had not gone quietly into the night after they let my husband’s killer go. They did not appreciate the front page NY Times articles, the FOX and CNN interviews, the constant climbs I climbed up every mountaintop I could find, to scream out the story of my husband’s murder and the military’s betrayal of him. 

I was certain this guy had been sent to escort me out, just like the Secret Service escorted me out of the brunch I’d been invited to.

“Yes,” I pushed out through an obviously hostile smile.

“I read your book. It changed the way I work with victims and their families. God Bless you Ma’am. “

And just as quickly as he’d appeared, he left. 

If I never achieved another thing in my life, I thought, I would rest easy, knowing that everything I’d been through, all we lost, Lou’s sacrifice, and how hard it had been to publish my book - had served a purpose. If other families would receive compassion and competence because of my book, I had indeed turned my pain into purpose.

Of all the profound feedback I have ever received from any of my talks, interviews, or books, that memory remains the most precious to me.

Impact lives, offering hope, or an escape, or a laugh, or keeping Lou’s memory alive - all of those things have been achieved through writing my books. Professionally, new opportunities arose. I have been featured in two other people’s books. I’ve won an award, been invited to speak, and now I write books for other people. 

I’m also in the process of turning one of my books into a feature film.

So I am well aware of why I write books. And I thought it would be a good idea to ask some of my clients how they feel now that they’ve published their books: Was the investment worth it? Do they have any regrets? Have they experienced any notable results? 

I knew I was opening myself up to hear things that I didn’t expect. And I was right.

I did not expect to hear the depth of impact the experience has had. 

Here are a few of the results that were shared with me:

“It’s been one of the most rewarding parts of my journey as a speaker. Having my own books has given me the ability to offer more than just the message from the stage.” 

“They’ve (my books) become an extension of my heart, my story, and my mission, reaching people in ways I never could within a single hour.”

“My book opens doors to meaningful dialogue with both past and future clients.”

Those are just some of the highlights. I am so glad I asked for this feedback. I could write pages of reasons for you to write your book. From your legacy, to opening exciting new professional paths, to enhancing credibility, the list goes on in myriad ways. But most importantly, someone out there is desperate to learn what you have to teach about your areas of personal and professional expertise. They are waiting to read it written in the precise tone you have to offer, because no one else has connected with them  yet. 

You will never hear directly from everyone about how your book quite literally helped change their life, or moved them to tears. But you probably will hear from at least one person. And that will be the greatest ROI you could ever ask for.

—
Barb Allen
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What is the point of creating and posting content when you have a tiny email list, or only a handful of social media followers, and it seems like no one ever comments on or engages with your content?

It’s such a waste of time and energy.

It’s so frustrating.

Right?

I get that. Believe me - I do.

It feels like I’ve been in the trenches for years. I’ve done so much work and still it feels like I’m watching others sail past me while I just keep treading water. I interviewed over 250 people and wrote 250 articles on each of those people, to post with their episode of my podcast.

I got the only standing ovation at the TEDx event I spoke at.

I published three books of my own. Won an award for one.

I won the NYS Press Association Award for Best Column of the Year.

I’ve attended dozens of events and spent thousands of dollars on coaching.

I’ve been featured on pretty much every news station.

I hosted three live events.

And so on.

And still here I sit in relative obscurity.

Maybe part of that is because I do things like admit that- Because I’m pretty sure most coaches and “Influencers” will tell you to never admit something like that.

Whatever.

I’m not talking to them. I’m talking to you.

If they believed in me and wanted to help, they’d share my content and support my film.

But they - mostly- are not. You are. So I’m going to share a story I heard this weekend that I believe will inspire you, relight that flame that is flickering out, and remind you why you do what you do.

Dave and I attended the Life Surge event. If you have not been to one- find one close to you and go. Speakers like Ed Mylett, Nick Vujicic, John Maxwell, Daymond John and so many others joined by Danny Gokey performing, poured so much into us I’m still processing.

One speaker shared a story that hit home on this very topic of sharing your message even when no one is listening. I’ll condense it here, but you’ll get the point:

A pastor’s son loved his dad so much, and believed in his message. He’d do anything to support his dad’s work, which he knew was also the Lord’s work.

But even he could not understand why his dad insisted on sending the choir out to perform that night. It was pouring down rain - the kind of rain that floods rivers and outpowers even the fastest windshield wiper setting. Five thousand empty seats faced the empty stage in the middle of the field. But his dad did not relent, and the choir got dutifully drenched as they sang their hearts out.

Everyone else took shelter in their vehicles. Even the son. The choir fled to their cars, too, blasting their heaters and doing their best to dry out.

Only his dad remained. And for fifty minutes, the speakers boomed with the sound of his dad’s voice, preaching as if every seat was occupied, and thousands more stood. His dad, the son thought, must be crazy. Why bother- why pour so much passion and heart into sharing a message to an empty field? It would have seemed crazy on even the most gorgeous of evenings - but in a storm like that?

Certifiably insane.

Fifty minutes later, his dad got back in the car and they drove home.

They never talked about that night again -

Until.

Decades later, the son sat by his father’s hospital bed. The tumor that had stolen his dad’s ability to speak had not succeeded in stealing his dad’s spirit.

“Sir” a nurse said, “You have a visitor.”

They were not expecting any more visitors that day, but his dad waved to the nurse to allow it.

A young man swept in and dropped beside the pastor’s bed.

“You don’t know me,” he pushed out through his tears, “But one night, years ago, I sat alone on a hill. I was going to kill myself..”

The young man went on to share how he’d been in such a dark place that he’d selected the precise spot he would end his life. But he decided to sit under a tree and wait out the rain before continuing to that spot. In those moments, he heard the pastor’s voice speaking of hope, and love, and life, and faith. That message felt like it was just for him. He’d fallen to his knees, prayed, and found the strength to rebuild his life. He was now a pastor himself, with 67 people in his small congregation.

The pastor’s tears could have spoken for themselves. But when the visitor left, while the son wiped his own tears away, the pastor looked over, smiled and gave a thumbs up to his son.

That story hit me. And if you are still reading I imagine it hit you, too.

Don’t ever stop sharing your message.

Even if you feel like no one is listening.

Don’t let social media “likes” impact your purpose, one way or another.

Someone out there is counting on you to show up today. You may never know their name or their story. But that is the true test, the true differentiator between those who do what they do because they know they are called to do it no matter what, and those who are swayed from their purpose.

Which are you?

—
Barb Allen
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The President, VP and Secretary of State All Asked Me a Question They Did Not Want Me to Answer

(Continued from yesterday) …

Condoleeza Rice was the first stop in the guided tour. My youngest- I called him Menace for a reason - refused to surrender the potato chips he’d pounced on. The brunch had turned out to be a smattering of appetizers 99% of kids would refuse. My kids were starving. Even I was not about to take those chips from him.

The sight of all four boys - little Lou’s in their suits and sharp haircuts - melted me. I did my best to return Condoleeza’s bright red lipstick smile. And then, leaning right over the top of my kids’ heads, she asked, “How did your husband die?”…

I initially thought I’d misheard her. Surely, she would not expect four little boys to have to hear their mother describe how their father had been killed. Not in such a public place, in front of total strangers. Or ever, really.

But the lipstick smiled larger as my reply was awaited.

Drawing on every ounce of the small reserve of grace I’d built, I pasted my best non-bitchy face on and gave a little shake of my head, nodding toward my children. “In an explosion,” I fired curtly back while simultaneously maneuvering my kids as a unit a few steps away from her.

I hoped she was better at reading people or feigning empathy as Secretary of State in diplomatic situations than she was in that moment. She’d probably have shown more emotion at her favorite ice cream stand if they told her they were out of her favorite flavor, given how deftly she shifted gears. As if relieved to have made it through what she considered to be her duty for small talk, she motioned for us all to slip into our photo-op positions, and cheerfully waved us on our way.

The next family walked in. We walked out. Our next stop was President Bush.

Cell phones had to be surrendered for this photo op. We would rely on the efficiency of staff to send us our photos at a later date.

My kids were cheerful and interested in what was happening around them, even if they were too young to understand what a Secretary of State is or, as in my youngest case, what a president is. And I had not told any of them that the president, the vice president and Secretary of State were all responsible for sending their dad to Iraq. I did not mention that any one of them could overrule the military’s decision not to award their dad the Purple Heart, but had not done so.

That would come later. This moment on that day was about my children being shown at least the illusion of respect their dad was not.

I’d barely had a moment to process the absurdity of Condoleeza’s question to me when our family was called for our presidential photo op. Surely, I thought, the president would have more of his wits about him than his secretary of State, and would not ask me such a stupid question. But to be on the safe side, knowing my reserves of grace were virtually depleted and wholly committed to giving my children this experience, I intentionally entered last, behind my in-laws and my kids, hoping to avoid any conversation with GW at all,

GW, however, had other plans.

I remember thinking he was much taller than I realized. His eyes smiled with the rest of him, and he projected warmth as he extended his hand to me.

I have not figured out how to describe what it feels like to shake the hand of the man you believe used your husband as a pawn in his political games, and, although he did not directly murder my husband, his decisions put my husband in the situation that got him killed.

For nothing.

“How are you doing,” he asked, as if we were in his backyard BBQ, and I’d just walked up to him at the grill.

It’s a miracle I didn’t break a tooth, given how hard I ground my jaw shut in an attempt to get through this photo-op without causing a scene.

“Good, thank you,” I smiled back as I tried to reclaim my hand and herd my kids in for the photo op.

For reasons I may never understand, the president was not ready to let my hand or the moment go. His grip tightened. He pulled me closer.

“No,” he looked straight into my eyes, “I mean- How are you really doing?”

Was he for real? Was he really interested in knowing how I was doing, after watching my husband’s killer smile at me when he was acquitted in a sham of a trial? Did he really want to know how I was doing, raising our four sons without their incredible, loving, hilarious, strong dad? Or what it was like to feel so betrayed by the military, and by him?

Of course he didn’t really care about any of that. And yet, he was insistent. My grace reserves fell into negative status as I compromised truth with manners, biting out:

“Oh, how am I really doing? Well, Sir, I’m really enjoying my perfect life. Thank you so much for asking- twice.”

If I ever unbury the photo from whatever bin it’s in, I’ll show you how he angled away from me, as if to block me out. He’s a professional, so he recovered enough to release me even as all softness in his eyes yielded to contempt. And while he didn’t blatantly kick us out, he did skip the small talk after the photo, that the other families got.

Two for two. We had one stop left. Vice President Dick Cheney was the last stop on the receiving line.

I wondered what fresh hell I was about to navigate through, and questioned my sanity for pursuing this occasion so heartily.

It did not take long to discover that the VP was in lock-step with the other two.

“How did your husband die?” he asked, as if asking if I caught the score of a ball game last night.

Brunch was over. The presidential address to our group had happened. This was the last photo-op and the last of my nerves had been severed.

“Seriously?” I may have hissed the word more than I spoke it. Louder than intended. “Are you people for real? All the times we were told our case is the most important in the military- and aren’t you guys supposed to know about the most important things in the military? Aren’t you briefed on the families you let into these things? And none of you know my husband was murdered? And his killer set free?”

Now, it’s been about 16 years since this event happened. My recall may not be word-for word. But it is absolutely sentiment-by-sentiment, cause and effect perfect. Especially with Condoleeza and Bush. Those two conversations are branded into my brain. By the time I reached Cheney, though, I was disassociating myself from the moment in a last ditch attempt to keep my mouth shut.

I failed. Wholly. Completely. With every measure of contempt the moment warranted, and a smattering more.

A small nod over my shoulder. I felt the men step forward before i saw them, so focused was I on overseeing the VP photo-op. To his credit, Cheney didn’t bother pretending the contempt was not mutual. I was not invited to join his photo op.

The cameras clicked, a polite but firm hand on my shoulder was accompanied with a “Ma’am, this way” and my kids and I were escorted out of the room, back to our coats, and out of the White House.

I stood in a hot shower until on the brink of burns.

A new president moved in months later. Gold Star families were invited to a Halloween party with the Obamas. My two oldest did not want to go- Mom, we just met a president! I just want to do normal things and be with my friends on Halloween!”

One son wanted to go. My youngest didn’t care about any of it, either way. One of me, four kids. I could not be in two places at one time and no one was around to watch my three kids while I took one to the White House. So we did not go.

I still feel bad that my one son never got to wear his banana costume and boogie with a president. We’ve never been invited to meet another president and it is unlikely we ever will.

I can’t decide if that is a good or bad thing.

This story is included in my first book, Front Toward Enemy, a memoir/expose about my husband’s murder and the failure of the military judicial system *

—
Barb Allen
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They asked. I answered. And the Secret Service escorted me out.

Condoleezza Rice was the first person to ask that day.

She was the first person my boys and I were escorted to during the brunch event for Gold Star family members.

I know a gold star sounds like some sort of award, or sought after recognition. And yet it is anything but; A Gold Star Family member has lost an immediate family member: son, daughter, spouse or sibling, in active duty military service. In our case it was my husband Lou, who was murdered in Iraq by the staff sergeant.

While every president routinely meets with Gold Star families who request a visit, President George W. Bush’s staff spent three years stalling my request.

At first it was: “We’re sorry but the president is not currently accepting visitors.” I got that email less than one week before a picture of GW, surrounded by smiling American Idol contestants in the oval office, was smeared across front pages, in the infancy of social media.

Then it was one “schedule delay” after another, all the while other Gold Star wives shared their pending visits in our chat room conversations. One day, I received a phone call from a restricted number. That was nothing new- I was in the midst of the 3 ½ year court martial process against my husband’s killer and routinely received calls or emails from one politician. attorney, media member, or someone who wanted to tell me about meeting Lou.

This call, though, was different.

“Ms. Allen,” whispered the voice. “I can’t talk long. But I work in the Pentagon, and want you to know that people are paying attention to what you’re doing. We are rooting for you. Don’t give up.” The caller gave me her name and a number to reach her privately. Then she ended the call. I never heard from her again. The number she provided went to voicemail with her voice. She never returned a call.

Another time I received a call from a man who stated he worked in the White House. Processing presidential visit requests, he said, was part of his job. And while requests from Gold Star families are normally placed in “Personal request” files, my request was in the “Political request” file. “They do not want you getting in to see the president,” he told me. This time the number I was given to call back worked. I spoke to him once more as I pursued my request. The second time I called, however, I was informed that he had been fired.

Those two calls baffled me. They didn’t make any sense and seemed like some sort of spy movie thing. The next call came about 2 ½ years into the process of me requesting this visit. There I was, navigating a grocery cart so packed people cracked comments about me being a prepper. They weren’t wrong, really. I was prepping. Just like I prepped every week, to feed four young boys and our four dogs for another 7 days. The ringing of my phone distracted me enough for the dude who’d been racing to beat me to the checkout to slide in ahead of me, smug smile on his face.

“Mrs. Allen,” another unfamiliar voice that somehow managed to sound exactly the same as every other “important” person calling to feed me some more bullshit said. “ This is so-and so from the White House and I am pleased to invite you and your children to meet the president.”

Well, finally, I thought even as I waited for the catch. I didn’t have to wait long.

“The president will meet you at 10 am tomorrow morning. OK, my mind scrambled to process- that’s not going to be easy to get the kids packed, piled into the van and to drive 5 hours to DC… I can find a hotel if I hurry… But even as I was figuring all that out, the man dropped his bomb…” In Green Bay, Wisconsin”

It was 4 pm in New York. This guy knew where I live. He had my file right there. He knew I could not make that happen. Still, he feigned regret and surprise, claiming he was sorry I couldn’t make it after having put so many requests in. As if I’d simply changed my mind.

I didn’t really want to meet the man who I believe lied about the Iraq war - among other things- and did so knowing American lives would be lost. At least, not unless I could have a meaningful conversation with him. But I did want him to have to look my four boys in the eye, knowing his lie sent their dad off to be killed. And I was curious to see if he would have anything to say about the capital court martial still in motion.

So I did not give up. And then, shortly after the man who murdered my husband smiled at me as he was acquitted, I received a formal invitation to a White House Brunch for Gold Star Families.

I was able to add Lou’s parents and one more- his sister- to the invite list. After all the defeats over the past 3 ½ years, all the emotional crashes I’d been through, this felt like a victory. Even as I packed the boys’ suits, drove to DC, and we all froze our faces off walking from our drop-off to White House security, I mentally reminded myself that today was not about me. It was about my kids having the photo to remind them that they once stood toe-to-toe with a president. That they stood there representing their dad, and the president had to acknowledge that for just one moment.

I vowed to myself not to speak my mind, knowing they would not care and it was not the time or place.

And I almost succeeded in keeping that promise. ….

Part 2 tomorrow…. Condoleeza Rice was the first stop in the guided tour. My youngest- I called him Menace for a reason - refused to surrender the potato chips he’d pounced on. The sight of all four boys, little Lou’s in their suits and sharp haircuts, melted me. I did my best to return Condoleeza’s bright red lipstick smile. And then, leaning right over the top of my kids’ heads, she asked, “How did your husband die?”…

—
Barb Allen
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