Kay Barclay

Coming 2026
The Long Way Home
A heartfelt memoir about growing up, family, and the long journey of coming to terms with grief. The Long Way Home explores how the past shapes who we become, and how healing often begins when we finally come home to ourselves.

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Beyond the Pages

Sometimes the truest parts of a story live outside the printed words.
In this space, I share some moments and memories that shaped my writing and continue to shape my life. These reflections offer a look behind the scenes—where healing deepens, faith grows, and the journey continues.

Photo taken by the author, Ballinger, Texas — 2014

Learning to Breathe Again
^{(A reflection drawn from Remember to Breathe (December 7, 2025)}

There are moments in grief when breathing feels like a choice—something you have to remind yourself to do, one steady inhale at a time. In the quiet after losing Jennifer, I didn’t realize how often I held my breath. How often I braced for the next wave of memory, the next ache of missing her, the next reminder that life had shifted into “before” and “after.”In those early months, I moved through the days the best I could. I showed up where I was needed and did the things that had to be done, but everything felt different. Fragile.And yet, even in that uncertainness, small moments began to glow.
A brief stillness.
A gentle sunrise.
A memory that didn’t break me—but held me.These moments were the beginning of learning to breathe again.Remember to Breathe was born out of those sacred pauses—the ones that helped me rediscover presence, grace, and the fragile beauty of each day. Through loss, through faith, through love that stretched far beyond goodbye, I learned that healing doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in small, quiet moments that tell you to slow down, pay attention, and let yourself feel both the sorrow and the goodness.One of the passages in the book reflects:
“Grief teaches us to breathe differently. Not deeper or stronger—just differently. It reminds us that every breath is borrowed grace, and every moment is a chance to remember the love that shaped us.”
There were many days during Jennifer’s journey where time felt suspended—long hospital waits, quiet car rides, days when the world outside kept moving while ours stood still. In those moments, I began to understand something I hadn’t known before:Some of the most heartfelt experiences in life are the ones that unfold slowly, quietly, in the in-between spaces where we simply sit with what is.Another passage from the book speaks to:
“Healing didn’t come in grand gestures. It came in the smallest moments — the soft rhythm of breath beside me, the touch of her hand, the awareness that even in heartbreak, something holy was happening.”I didn’t write this book as an answer or a solution. I wrote it to honor what Jennifer taught me—that life is fragile and precious, that presence matters, and that even on the hardest days, we can learn to breathe again.If this part of our story speaks to you—if you are grieving, remembering, or simply trying to find your way after loss—I hope the pages of Remember to Breathe offer a place to rest. A reminder that you are not alone.Thank you for being here.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for remembering with me.

The Fog Still Comes - But Joy is Allowed
^{(December 23, 2025)}

I've learned there is no predictable pattern. There are days when grief feels like a quiet companion, and days when it feels like fog so thick I can’t see my way forward. What I didn't expect to find was how grief and joy would eventually live side by side, how both could exist in the same moment.For several months after losing my daughter Jennifer, I went through the motions. I did what needed to be done, talked when I had to, showed up where life required me. Everything felt different—it was different. I kept reminding myself to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other. Most days, that was all I could manage.And then one day, I'm not sure when exactly—I realized I was feeling something other than numb. It was a quiet, unexpected sense of peace, like my body had finally exhaled after holding its breath for several years. I felt...okay. Not happy, not healed, but okay. In that okay-ness, I found I could feel Jennifer's absence and also feel grateful for her life and her beautiful children. Both at once.That’s when I realized that sadness and joy weren’t taking turns. They were both living inside me at the same time. Joy didn’t replace grief. Grief didn’t take away joy. For a long time, I believed that feeling joy again would somehow betray Jennifer’s memory. But in that moment of peace, I understood that joy is not moving on. Joy is moving forward. It’s letting love continue inside us, even when our hearts are broken.The fog still comes. There are still days when I feel her absence like an unbearable ache. But there are also days when—in a beautiful sunrise, in her children's laughter—I feel her presence. I feel the gift of her life. And that gift invites me to keep living mine.I used to think healing meant “getting over” the loss. Now I understand that healing means learning how to carry it. Learning to live with both the love and the sorrow, and learning to let joy in without pretending the pain is gone. This is what I want people to know.I’m still figuring it out, one day at a time. Some days I’m okay. Some days I’m not. But I’m learning that allowing joy—even in the smallest moments—is not forgetting Jennifer. It’s honoring her. It’s carrying her forward.