Where the Glue Sticks

A reflection on family, fading connections, and what it means to become the glue yourself

May 18, 2025

There’s a moment in life when the silence after a funeral feels louder than the ceremony itself. It’s not just grief, it’s the realization that something bigger has shifted. Traditions evaporate. Group texts go quiet. And you start to wonder…

What held us together in the first place?
And what now?

This isn’t just a story about loss. It’s about becoming. About stepping into the space left behind when the anchor is gone. If you’ve ever felt like the last one trying to hold a circle together—this one’s for you.

“Searching for a new pack isn’t weakness—it’s instinct.”

This reflection began on a quiet desert morning, sitting in the stillness, coffee in hand, listening to the breeze whisper through pine needles of a neighboring tree. I found myself swept into memory and meaning, tracing threads of family and wondering what holds us together—and what happens when that thread starts to fray. The thought immediatly came to mind “where the glue sticks”

Our grandmother Joann recently passed, and yet I still feel her presence here in the desert. It’s subtle—but real. Like she’s smiling, just beyond the ridge, watching us do what we’ve always done: playing in the sand, making memories, enjoying each other’s company. I miss her dearly. Maybe one day I’ll write a post just to celebrate the moments we shared especially with the amazing brothers she had.

As I sit here, I think of my Uncle Kevin—her son. Of the warmth that rises each time I visit him and Aunt Terry out here. When the whole family is together—their girls, Melanie and Lisa—it feels like a return to something familiar and grounding. There’s laughter, comfort, shared meals, and stories that ripple out from the past and settle into the present.

But even in those moments, I feel the undercurrent of impermanence. I look at him and wonder… what happens when he’s gone too?

I’ve seen this pattern before. Too many times, actually.

With my grandmother Karen, the spell broke almost immediately. The family that once gathered like clockwork for smörgåsbord slowly unraveled—no more reunions, no spontaneous visits, just a quiet drift into distance.

With my grandmother Juanita, it was different, but just as telling. Her mother—my great-grandmother Eva—was the true glue. She was the one who pulled everyone in. When she passed, the center loosened. The gatherings didn’t stop completely, but they changed. There were no more celebratory songs around the piano at Christmas, no more laughing choruses that echoed through the house. People still came, but more out of obligation than joy. That may sound harsh, but there’s truth in it—and an important pattern to notice.

Connection fades not all at once, but in layers. First the heart of it goes. Then the music. Then the reason.

The thoughts continue as I write about this, a louder question started forming:
What if I’ve been the glue all along?

Not in some grand, self-important way—but in the small, persistent efforts. The invites. The check-ins. The family camping trips. The texts sent out to revive old traditions. I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried—to pull people back together. And if I’m honest, it’s exhausting. Like dragging people uphill who don’t even realize they’re slipping.

Somehow, I’ve also found myself becoming the family historian—the one who digs through old records, pieces together timelines, and unearths stories long buried in silence. Mysteries once clutched tightly by those who lived them slowly come into the light. Maybe that’s what gives it all meaning: holding onto the story when others let go, keeping the past alive not out of nostalgia, but because it still has something to teach.

But there’s a limit. After a while, the rubber band you keep stretching—hoping it might pull everyone closer again—becomes brittle. It dries out. It snaps. And when it does, the silence that follows is both relief and grief.

Maybe I’m not the glue.
Maybe I just carry it for a while—until it’s too heavy.

When the elder passes, the glue gets tested. Not just the bond, but the will to keep bonding.

And I’ll admit… sometimes I stop seeing the value. It starts to feel like pulling people uphill—like calling out to a crowd that doesn’t answer back. You stretch the same rubber band over and over again, hoping it’ll pull everyone closer. But eventually, it dries out. It snaps. And when it does, the silence isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. Hollow. Familiar.

I’ve been there more times than I can count.

And maybe that’s what made the thought hit me so hard: What if I’ve been the glue all along? Not because I wanted to be, but because someone had to be.

I’ve tried to keep things together—not for credit, but out of some internal pull I can’t quite explain. I’ve organized the gatherings, rekindled the group threads, sparked the phone calls. I’ve gone digging through family history, tracking down timelines, asking the questions no one else wanted to ask. Not just to know, but to understand. To piece things together that were falling apart long before anyone admitted it.

Maybe that’s what glue really is: the one who holds the story, even when the cast forgets their lines.

But I’ve learned this, too—glue gets tired. It breaks when it’s stretched too thin. And sometimes, you have to let go. Not out of bitterness, but because the energy has shifted.

So I seek something new.

Not a replacement family. Not a perfect tribe. But a pack—one that meets me halfway. One that doesn’t just wait to be gathered, but gathers too. A bond not built on blood or legacy alone, but on shared effort. Shared presence. Shared momentum.

Maybe I am the glue. But even glue needs something worthy to hold.

If this resonates with you, consider this your pause point.

Who were your elders? Who held it together?
What happened when they were gone?
Are you trying to be the glue now—and is it time to rest your grip?

Whatever it is… you’re not alone in the search.