I Protect the Family.

The way I woke up with the lyrics “I protect the family” playing in my head today felt heavy and familiar. I didn’t know if I’d be able to put it into the right words—but here goes.

Four years ago, we laid my kind, strong, loyal cousin to rest. He wasn’t just my cousin—he touched so many lives. A friend. A son. A husband. A father. A brother. All of the things. Jon was an all‑around great human, and I will cherish every single memory I have with him. Even the time he left me hanging tending bar for a wedding because his “knee hurt”… only for us to later find out he went to see a lady. Anyway—that isn’t really what this story is about.

What I woke up feeling this morning was the heaviness—not just of the holiday, but of how everything changed after that time. Even though we laid Jon to rest four years ago, the family and a few close friends gathered at Uncle Bob’s to celebrate. What we didn’t know then was that it would be the last time we’d all be together like that. As a family. Loving each other unconditionally. Because the very next morning—everything changed.

Christmas Eve morning, Austen was in the shower and I was finishing packing to head up north to his parents’ house for the holiday. My phone rang. It was my cousin Tyler. I thought it was a little weird, but I obviously answered. And the words that came out of his mouth shattered me.

“Linds, Uncle Jerry died.”

I paced around the room asking, What? You’re kidding? No? He told me what happened, and when I hung up, I fell to my knees on the living room floor—just like you see in the movies. As I write this, I’m right back in that room with tears streaming down my face. Austen came in, and I couldn’t even speak. All I could think about was my mom and my aunt—and how God could possibly do this to our family.

I made Austen stop so I could see my mom. I just needed to know she was okay. Then I stared out the window, hugging my emotional‑support llama blanket for the three‑hour drive. The whole Christmas was a blur. But the heartache didn’t stop there.

On December 26th, we were driving back home when I got another call from my cousin, Tanan.

“Lindsey, you gotta get a hold of your mom. My dad’s not going to make it.”

At that point, all I could think was this can’t be happening—THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING. I called my mom and then spent the rest of the drive staring out the window in disbelief, praying so damn hard. Messages and calls with my cousins confirmed it—he was in rough shape, and it didn’t look good.

For context, Uncle Bob hadn’t been feeling well. He had gone into the hospital before Jon’s funeral, and at that point, he didn’t even know his brother had died. The next morning, I got the call that he was gone.

I was broken. So broken. But I felt like I had to be strong for everyone else. I had to protect the family. So I put on a brave face—as brave as I could—and kept moving forward. I didn’t express my own grief. I think, at the time, I didn’t believe my pain was valid. I know now that it was. It is. It still is.

Losing Jon was hard and so unfair. Losing Uncle Jerry was hard—but there was also a strange sense of peace with it. Losing Uncle Bob was the hardest for me. He helped me through so much. He co‑signed my first car. Gave me a job. A place to live. He always had my back.

December 9th, 2021 was the last time I got to sit with him, have a conversation, and share a beer. He asked me to stay for one more, and I said I needed to get going—but I’d be back for fish fry. I never made it back before all of these ships sank. And I’ll never have Friday fish with hashbrowns like that again. That really hurts.

Losing all three of these men reshaped our family dynamic. Grief brings out intense emotions in people, and that hurts too. The way the family doesn’t talk anymore. After we lost Grandma in the 90s, things shifted—but now it’s really different. And I don’t like it.

This season, I’m not only grieving the people we lost—but also the family that still remains. I miss the Christmas Eves at the bar so much. That place was such a staple in my life. My best Christmas memories come from there. What I would give for one more Knapp Family Christmas at Grandma’s.

We go into this Christmas without Austen’s dad, and that hurts deeply. I don’t think I’ve fully let it sink in that he’s gone yet. Maybe I’m not ready. Or maybe I’m still trying to protect the family. But I know I need to feel this. I need to process it. Because not doing so—especially after everything that happened in 2021—made me physically ill for months.

Our bodies hold unprocessed emotions. And those emotions can turn into very real, physical symptoms that doctors just can’t quite put their finger on. Thank God for holistic healing—because without it, I honestly don’t know where I’d be.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: we don’t get over these things. We just keep moving through them. The ups and downs. The ebbs and flows. And sometimes—out of nowhere, or around the holidays—the grief comes rushing back.

And that’s okay.

We were lucky enough to love these people so deeply that their absence hurts this much. And for that… I’m grateful.