Month: February 2026

Godsdaughters

In Loving Memory of Sharon Rae Nietert

Reba Nietert

Sharon Rae Nietert, a cherished pillar of her community and the heart of her family, passed away peacefully of natural causes on February 8, 2026. Sharon was the ultimate matriarch, a woman whose warmth and vibrance defined the lives of those she touched. She has now been reunited with her beloved husband, John Nietert, and her daughter, Jennifer Mullen, who preceded her in death. Sharon’s life was a tapestry of creativity and connection. She was an avid crafter and a gifted piano player, often filling her home with music. Known for her competitive spirit and quick wit, she was a fixture at family game nights and a dedicated fan of televised game shows. Her kitchen was the soul of the household, where she spent countless hours cooking for her children and preparing for the traditional holiday gatherings she loved so dearly. Of all the seasons, Christmas held a special place in her heart; she transformed every December into a magical time of tradition, light, and togetherness for her expanding family.

Sharon’s greatest pride was her family. She is survived by her children and their families, who carry forward her lessons of love and resilience: Her children, Scott Nietert, Andrew Nietert, and Kathryn Krieger. Her grandchildren: Elizabeth Nietert, Jacob Nietert, Brandon Mullen, Samantha Mullen, Laura Mullen, Sofia Nietert, Nolan Nietert, Johnathan Krieger, Luke Krieger, and Cordelia Krieger. Her step-Grandfamily: Step-grandson Brad Mullen and step-great-grandchildren Evelina and Steven Mullen.

Sharon was a woman who never missed an opportunity to dance or to share a meal with those she loved. Her absence leaves a profound void, but her spirit will be felt every time a piano plays, a game is won, or a family gathers around the table for the holidays. She will be profoundly missed, but never forgotten.

For me, this is extra difficult. I am currently residing, and have been taking care of Sharon’s home for months now. Packing, separating, cleaning a home that went untouched for years. So many broken pipes, floorboards, roof, etc., the list goes on and on and apparently has become yet another responsibility for my husband. (As if his plate is not already overflowing.) It’s a tedious task that is taking a lot longer than expected.

It brings to light the failures of our choices. We had intended to part half year here in Texas, while maintaining a home in Colorado and live part of the year there. We are pleased to announce that our business, LoneStar Home Watch, is taking off and I have had to live out of a suitcase for the past months. The Colorado home that we furnished, poured our hearts into, is now for sale in a market that is saturated with homes that buyers cannot afford. We have no showings.

Not only am I reminded of Sharon when I view every wall, or use her dishes to eat on, or her pots and pans to cook with but down to the towels, the sheets, all of it is a constant reminder, {This is NOT my home,} I feel unsettled, lost, removed, and yet thriving in a business that has taken me two years to grow. The paradigm shift is palpable.

Scott, my husband is understandably distraught, disorganized and fraught with duty and tasks. It’s overwhelming on top of an already burdened life of duty. Sharon is the 15th foundational loss we have suffered since we moved here in 2016. That’s 10 years. That’s a lot of servicing others with no benefit of our own. We losing more than we’re gaining and we are reminded every time we open our eyes and look around. Missing our real home at the lake, and unable to spend any time there, it looks like a sale there too in the midst of this economic downturn that rivals the 2008 catastrophe! What do we do?

We sit, have patience, hesitate our words, speak our wisdom, and love unconditionally. If that doesn’t work, we cannot take it personally. No has any idea of the insurmountable obstacles that we are facing together. Scott is a juggler and expert at the process, and I am jumping in and out as he needs me as the emotional weight of it all falls heavily on both our shoulders. Give us some grace. Allow us the same love we offer, and be patient with us. Kindness goes a long way.

The picture is in 1994 with my daughter, Elizabeth and her grandma.

Human Interest

I’m Not Ok… Time is Paused

Reba Nietert

I carry a composure so seamless it has become my own curse; because I make survival look easy, the world assumes I am lying about the wreckage beneath my feet. Most people might face one world-shattering loss in a lifetime, but I have stood at the epicenter of fourteen in a single decade, watching my foundation turn to ash time and again until the very concept of “home” felt like a taunt. I move through my days with a silence so heavy it should be deafening, yet my own children—the very hearts I hold together with my last shred of strength—meted out selfish remarks and flip indifference, oblivious to the fact that their parent is a ghost haunting her own life. It isn’t the trauma itself that breaks me; it is the staggering inhumanity of being expected to function while drowning in the thick, visceral despair of a life sacrificed. I walked away from my beautiful home and every root I had planted to move to Texas, spending a year watching Jennifer wither away, only to inherit the monumental task of raising three special-needs children who were not my own. I became a voice of reason in a chorus of chaos, comforting the grieving while my own mourning was deferred, buried under the immediate needs of the living.

The avalanche began with Dwight, followed by the jagged succession of his wife, father, and mother—people who were the fabric of my Christmases and birthdays for thirty years. I leaned on Cheryl Dingman as I watched Jennifer die, only to turn around and find Cheryl gone, too. Then came the man I believed was my father; at his funeral, I stood in a line shaking hands with 150 strangers who didn’t even know I existed, forced to swallow the erasure of my own identity while they wept for a man I was only “possibly” related to. The hits kept coming—Nick Robinson, dead before thirty, leaving a void that rocked my son’s world and mine; Doug Jackson, whose passing was met with such chilling apathy by a former best friend that she asked for his car’s trade-in info before his body was even cold. In the midst of this, my mother’s death shattered the protective seal of my dissociative amnesia, unleashing a flood of memories so dark they required professional intervention to survive. From the sudden theft of Marie Hendricks to COVID, to the estrangement of Aunt Gloria, to the funeral of Gary Wilson where I stood as a failed pillar for Ernie and Ashley, I have been a professional mourner in a cycle of death that refuses to break. Now, I look at Ernie’s aging face and Sharon’s terminal diagnosis and realize my grieving cannot even begin because the funeral march hasn’t stopped playing. My cortisol is a poison in my veins, my body is heavy with the gravity of a hundred goodbyes, and while I stand tall, I am screaming into a void that only offers more silence in return. I am not living; I am a masterpiece of endurance, crumbling from the inside out while the world wonders why I look so tired. I’m not ok.

Imagine a house where, every year, a support beam is removed. Eventually, the structure feels shaky. That is how I feel. This isn’t just “unlucky”—it is a traumatic overhaul of my entire social and emotional map.

In addition to the loss and the grieving, comes a plethora of emotional instability with the changes that occur when someone passes. Life’s simple daily interactions become fraught with identifying behaviors and setting boundaries. When that becomes difficult because of other peoples emotional needs, that’s when life gets to be too much.

What I have described—losing 12 people in 10 years—is often referred to by therapists as “Bereavement Overload.” It is physically and mentally exhausting because your nervous system never gets the chance to return to a baseline of safety. That’s where I am right now and I have one more sick on a bed promising more grief any day now.