College Town At Christmas 2025: "Healing & Comfort In Work, Family, Friends & Travel To Places I have Never Been Before"

There’s a quietness that settles over a college town at Christmas as I look to the holiday season in Bowling Green, Ky. The students leave, the traffic thins out, and the same streets that buzz with life in September feel suddenly gentle, almost reflective. This year, that quiet will feel deeper to me than ever before. Maybe it’s because 2025 has been the hardest, longest year of my life—a year that reshaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand. When Patty’s (my wife of 39 years) Parkinson’s began taking more from her, caregiving stopped being a choice and became a calling. I didn’t know then how much strength, patience, and love a human heart could hold. I didn’t know how much it could break, either. Parkinson’s is a thief—slow, steady, unrelenting. Every day it stole little pieces from her: her strength, her independence, her voice, and finally her life on May 1st, 2025.

Those last months, I learned what real devotion looks like. I learned how quiet a house becomes when the person you love most slips away piece by piece. I learned that grief begins long before death ever arrives. And when the moment finally came, when Patty took her last breath, the world didn’t just feel emptier—it felt rearranged. After she passed, I found myself needing purpose again. Something to ground me. Something to get me out of the house. So I went back to Walmart, part-time, working the door in asset protection. Greeter, door host, security—call it what you want. I call it rebuilding. Every shift pulled my muscles of discipline and routine back into shape. Every customer reminded me that life keeps happening around us, even when our hearts feel frozen in place.

And then came the trip—up to New Jersey to see my son, Tony, and his wife, Danielle. My anchors when the seas get rough. Patty always loved that our boy built a life for himself, and being around his family lets me carry a piece of her with me. There’s comfort in watching life continue—in their home, in their conversations, in the way they include me without hesitation. Grief doesn’t disappear, but love can still surround it. The other day, for the first time in my 63 years, I stepped into New York City. December lights, skyscrapers, crowds, the 911 Memorial, the Empire State Building, the roar of Penn Station—all of it overwhelming and beautiful. I thought about Patty as I walked those streets. She would’ve smiled at me taking it all in like a wide-eyed kid from the South. She would’ve said, “Go on, Galen. You deserve to see things.”

She was right. I did. And I still do. Christmas this year will feel different. There’s an empty space at my side that no season, no trip, no celebration can fill. But there’s also a warmth that comes from knowing Patty’s love didn’t end—it just changed forms. It lives in the memories. In the stories. In my son. In the journey she set me on long before illness knocked on our door. This holiday, I’m holding sorrow and gratitude at the same time. Sorrow for the woman I lost. Gratitude for the life we shared. Gratitude for Tony and Danielle, for New Jersey hospitality and her family-my new family for the warmth and love as well as for acceptance that they have extended to me on my trip. And for all the new experiences in New York City, and for the quiet of a college town waiting for me back home at Christmas. I carry Patty with me into every place I go. And this Christmas, in a season built on hope, I’m learning how to carry myself again too.