Grief isn't just something that I feel—it's something I carry. It reshapes my daily rhythms, interactions, and my very sense of self. When grief entered my life through sudden and unexpected loss, its impact was immediate, profound, and relentless. As an agency owner, my artists and employees rely on me for guidance and stability. So, I quickly found myself asking: How can I continue to show up effectively, day after day, while navigating such deep personal loss?
In September 2020, amidst the isolation of COVID, my husband died suddenly from a heart attack. There was no diagnosis or symptoms to provide us with any warning; in fact, just six hours earlier, we had been joyfully hitting golf balls together with our 7-year-old son after a newly typical day of remote learning. And, just three minutes prior to his death, I had watched him pull from our driveway in his car, healthy and vibrant, heading to catch his train to the city. Yet just after 6am on the morning of September 24th, 2020, barely daybreak, blue lights filled that same driveway with what seemed like an entire precinct of police cars.

What followed after I opened their faint, but firm knock on my door were two questions: “Do you know Andreas [last name]?”. “Yes”, I responded, still half asleep. “How do you know him?”. “He’s my husband”. Then came three words…those three words: “I’m so sorry”. I don’t remember much of what came after, except that my body could no longer hold me upright and my knees buckled beneath me. My life, in that moment, changed forever.

Though his death wasn't COVID-related, the pandemic amplified my already unimaginable loss with unbearable isolation. Unlike a loss following a prolonged illness—which brings its own unique heartbreak—sudden loss shattered my world without any warning or preparation.

I've always prided myself on being reliable and a strong advocate for my artists. But grief has profoundly challenged that identity. It forced me to acknowledge new limitations and redefine my boundaries, both personally and professionally. During those first paralyzing few months, I was incredibly grateful to have a team and a roster of artists who showed up with compassion and carried the business forward when I couldn’t. Their support allowed me the space to begin healing—and reminded me just how essential it is to have a support system you can lean on, or to create one if it doesn’t yet exist. Showing up for work during this upheaval wasn't about ignoring my pain or powering through; Rather, it was an opportunity to put my humanity first.

In My Journey, I've Learned a Few Essential Lessons:

1. Asking for Help—Even When It Feels Impossible

At first, asking for help felt overwhelming and nearly impossible. I have been the “I got it” person most of my life, so this one continues to be the most challenging for me. But leaning into community, asking for support, and allowing others to help is vital. Delegating more, entrusting your team and artists with greater responsibility, and clearly communicating when you're unable to manage everything helps immensely. It's crucial to explicitly state your needs because people genuinely want to help but often don’t know how. No one knows what to say, let alone do.

**2. Redefining Your Priorities**
Grief profoundly shifts priorities. Now an *only* parent raising my son alone, every professional commitment—especially travel—is weighed against its emotional and financial impact. Every decision is evaluated based on necessity and its alignment with these heightened values. By being transparent with my team about these shifting priorities, I have aimed to foster a deeper understanding and framework of support - another hard lesson for this life-long overachiever.

*Two-headed Viking Monster*

3. Creating Space for Grief

Grief cannot be outrun. Allowing space to feel it openly and transparently and sharing my experiences with my colleagues hasn’t weakened my leadership—it has humanized it. I am not by any means a master of some miraculously reclaimed focus or purpose, but I now strive to set clear, manageable daily or weekly goals to avoid feeling overwhelmed. I regularly check in with myself, creating flexibility to handle moments when a grief tsunami intensifies, and encourage a team culture where mental health and emotional honesty are openly supported.

4. Expect and Embrace Reciprocity
As a fiercely loyal person, I’ve stood by my artists through their own life transitions—moves, births, lulls, and losses. But when I experienced profound loss myself, I realized how vital it was to ask for, and expect, that same support in return. Grief made it all the more important to humanize my role as an agent. We're not miracle workers or saviors, or machines—we’re people. Holding space for the reality that agents need support too has changed how I show up in my work, and it’s deepened my relationships with those who understand that care is a two-way street.

5. Check In—And Keep Checking In

Just two years before my husband passed, we tragically lost one of our beloved artists at Big Leo Productions, killed by a drunk driver in a hit-and-run accident while he was biking near his Seattle home. It was my first experience losing an artist, colleague, and friend. Celebrating him meant returning his beautiful, printed portfolios and promos to his family—tangible pieces of his legacy for those who loved him most. As everyone left Seattle, I realized the quiet isolation that was about to set in for his family.. I don’t know what compelled me to be so mindful of it at that moment—it just struck me how people always come together so powerfully in those first few days after a loss, and then life pulls them back into their own routines, leaving the grieving behind to navigate the silence alone. Reaching out months and even years later to his widow became deeply meaningful, reminding her—and me—that neither she nor he was forgotten. Little did I know how intimately I would soon understand her heartbreak.

I've learned that while it's human nature to want to help, grief isn’t something we can fix. Platitudes rarely comfort; often, they unintentionally dismiss the depth of someone’s pain. What truly helps is simply reminding someone their person is remembered, that they existed, saying their loved one's name, and acknowledging their pain—even when, or maybe especially when, work must continue.

In the few years since, I've also begun to consider several practical steps that I had previously, albeit unintentionally, procrastinated. My husband and I, both business owners, didn't have a will or a succession plan—his passing was completely unexpected at just 46 years old. I was forced to ask myself both personal and professional questions: Do I have a succession plan? Any or enough life insurance? Do I have an authorized person to sign checks for the artists in my absence? Is there someone familiar with my company's SOPs whom I trust to manage operations if I need extended time away? As I mentioned, I've always advocated fiercely for my artists during their life changes, but I’ve made it a priority to create structures that will help support flow back to me when needed and to the company I’ve spent over 22 years building.

I would like to think that experiencing grief firsthand has made me a more empathetic leader. When someone on my team faces hardship, loss, or battles a health issue, I work hard to be flexible with working hours, to adjust responsibilities, and provide support from within. I check in regularly without pressure, ensuring they feel safe to express their needs and boundaries. I strive to foster an environment in which taking necessary time away is normalized and supported, because I know that I need it, too.

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