Like many of you, I spend the last few weeks of the year in reflection. Did I accomplish everything I set out to do? Am I a better human than I was on 12/21/24? What am I going to change in the new year? How am I going to make the most of the next 365 days?

And some of you will spend the next week remembering loved ones who are no longer with us. The people who impacted our lives so dramatically that their absence will never fully be accepted or forgotten.

I want to use this entry to return to a post I shared at the end of last year that many of you may not have seen if you weren’t subscribers at the time. This entry is in remembrance of my Aunt Wendy, one of the most influential women in my life outside of Mimi Lacy, and the beautiful place she called home. High-growth marketing topics will return in the next edition.

♥️ kyle

On the Power of a Hug and Living in the Present

I call Indiana home now, but I was born in Spokane, Washington. Most of my extended family still lives in the Northwest. Distance could have screwed up those relationships over time, but it never really did. That has a lot to do with my parents and a decision they made early on to keep us close to family.

Almost every summer, we traveled west. Those trips became the highlight of my childhood. They were something to look forward to, something that made summers that much more special. We saw cousins, which is entertainment in itself…

And then there was the river.

In the 1990s, my Aunt Wendy and Uncle Duane bought a piece of property between Priest River and Sandpoint, Idaho. Over time, it became the meeting place for our family. They poured years of work into it, slowly shaping it into a place that could support all of us. As families grew and life changed, the property changed with us.

As a kid, it felt like an adventure. Flying across the country was already amazing (I think the kids say “so much rizz” or “bet” or something like that), and the destination made it that much better. I could tell friends that I was born in Washington, that my cousins rode dirt bikes and wakeboarded, that summers meant river water and long days outside. It felt like a different world, and in many ways it was.

I still get the slight flutter in my stomach when we round the last curve in a road and hit the gravel drive leading to the house. I can feel the drop from concrete to gravel, the crunch of rock under rubber… the smell of the dust, pine, and water.

It’s magical.

The property mattered for reasons that had nothing to do with the sun and wakeboards. It mostly gave us time together… three to five days between school and other summer responsibilities. We ate meals, telling the same stories over and over again. We laughed. We cried.

My mom’s side of the family cries a lot, and I say that with all the love.

At some point in the mid-2000s, the place was given a name: The Magic Cabin. And it stuck because deep down, it was true. Weddings happened there, including my own… truly magical life milestones. But the real magic was never the cabin, the river, or the property.

It was Wendy.

Wendy lived for those gatherings. She was always the first to sit down and ask about your life, how you were doing, and how you felt. She had a way of making you feel fully seen. She was fully present and engaged in every second the family spent together.

And arriving was always the best moment.

Whether we met her at the airport or the river property, Wendy was there with a hug. It wasn’t just any hug; it was the kind you felt, a hug that told you you were loved and that you mattered.

I know there are a few of you still reading who immediately thought of that one person with the hug magic. Hold it. Stop reading and be fully present in the feeling. Never, ever forget it.

Wendy was so good at being present and engaged, which extended far beyond the summer trips to the Magic Cabin. She would write, call, and text. She went out of her way to invest in your life.

That was Wendy. It was how she moved through the world.

And it wasn’t just the moments I remember; she was like that her entire life, from childhood to the very end, when she passed away after an 18-year battle with chronic lymphocytic leukemia in 2021 (fuck cancer).

And if you would like to help me f’ cancer please consider donating to The Wendy Fund or join us for our crazy gravel bike race up Mt. Spokane every summer.

Her passing left a hole in our family, and unsurprisingly, the Magic Cabin feels a little less magical without her. Still, we keep going back. We try to hold the place with the same care she did, working to keep the Magic Cabin a little more magical for our kids.

Because one of the greatest joys of my life is that my kids had a chance to know her (if only briefly), they were lucky to feel her presence. They were granted a few of those magical hugs. That matters more to me than I can easily explain in words.

So, as welcome another new year, I find myself thinking of Wendy and all her magic.

The magic of simply living where she was.

The magic of really caring.

The magic of FULLY living in the moments we're now all nostalgic for.

The magic of a simple but meaningful hug.

The Magic Cabin is still there. The river is still beautiful. And Wendy’s way of living is something I try to carry forward, every chance I get.

So, here’s to living inside the moments that will one day become memories.