I Don’t Want To Wait: A letter of gratitude For Kimberly, and the beautiful family who carries James’s light forward

Lauren Nixon-Matney • March 28, 2026

I Don’t Want To Wait:


A letter of gratitude 



For Kimberly, and the beautiful family who carries James’s light forward,



Retro-inspired pixel art scene of a couple resting in bed beside a CRT television, looking out a large window at a star-filled sky where a constellation forms the outline of a family. The image reflects themes of memory, love, grief, and legacy, central to the Searching for Stars multimedia memoir project.

For Kimberly, and the beautiful family who carries James’s light forward,


There are moments in life when someone we have never met still manages to leave a quiet imprint on our story. A kindness, a presence, a way of loving the world that travels farther than we realize. Your husband was one of those rare people whose light reached beyond the boundaries of his own life and found its way into the hearts of strangers like me.


This letter comes from that place.


Years ago, in 2011, I went through an ectopic pregnancy that nearly took my life. I lost the baby and part of my fallopian tube, and the doctors warned me that I might never be able to have children. What followed was a long, strange, and disorienting season of healing. My body was recovering from surgery, and my heart was trying to make sense of a kind of grief that is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it.



The curtains stayed closed most days during that time.


Not always because it was night outside, but because it was a dark season inside. Sometimes grief has a way of dimming the world for a while.


Jamie and I spent those months mostly in bed, binge-watching TV while life slowly stitched itself back together around us.


During those months of bed rest, when the world felt very small and very quiet, I found myself returning to old reruns of Dawson’s Creek. It was something simple. Familiar. A small pocket of comfort on days when everything else felt uncertain.


Jamie sat beside me through every episode. We watched the entire series together during that season of healing, and without realizing it, the show became tied to that memory of love sitting quietly beside me in the dark.


Sometimes a television show becomes more than a television show.


Sometimes a song becomes tied to a season of life so deeply that years later it still echoes through memory like a quiet lighthouse.


The funny thing is that when we streamed it on Netflix, the original theme song wasn’t even there. Licensing had changed somewhere along the way, and a completely different intro played instead.


Jamie and I both looked at each other immediately.


“Wait… that’s not the song.”


Anyone who grew up with Dawson’s Creek knows the real one.


That opening melody is practically etched into memory.


And even though the version we watched that year was different, the echo of the original still lived somewhere in the background.


At the time it was just a television show.


Eventually, I would realize it had quietly become something else entirely.


Years passed.


Life moved forward the way it does, slowly and then all at once.


And somewhere along the way another small thread of inspiration appeared on a tiny pixelated app we like to call Instagram.


The path that led me there actually started with another artist whose work has inspired me for years.


Christina Sutra has this beautiful, earthy creative spirit that radiates kindness and imagination through everything she makes. One day she shared something with genuine excitement. Kimberly Vanderbeek had reposted one of her reels.


She shared a video afterward about what a cool world it is when creativity and kindness cross paths like that.


Curious, I clicked over to Kimberly’s page.


And almost immediately I understood the excitement.


Kimberly’s page carried a kind of calm that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it.


There was a groundedness there. A quiet sense of presence. Motherhood, nature, spirituality, family life all woven together in a way that felt sincere and unforced.


The kind of energy that makes you pause for a moment and breathe a little slower.


I followed her almost immediately.


For a long time, that’s all it was. A quiet corner of the internet where I occasionally stopped to absorb a little bit of peace.


Over time, through her posts, I began to see glimpses of her husband as well.


James.


At first it was just small moments. A reflection here, a story about fatherhood there, a glimpse of family life.


But the thing that kept standing out was the way he spoke about the people he loved.


There was a softness to it.


A sincerity.


The kind of presence that doesn’t try to perform goodness but simply lives it.


And the more I watched their world unfold through those little windows of social media, the more something about it felt familiar.


Not because I knew them.


I didn’t.


But because the love between them was visible in the quiet ways that real love tends to show itself.


In the way he looked at her.


In the way she spoke about their family.


In the way their children moved through the world. Curious, thoughtful, grounded.


You could feel that they were building something beautiful together.


A life full of intention.


A life full of light.


And sometimes when you witness that kind of love from the outside, it does something strange to the heart.


It reminds you of the places in your own life where love has quietly carried you through the hardest seasons.


For me, those memories went all the way back to that dark bedroom in 2011.


Back to Jamie sitting beside me while Dawson’s Creek played softly in the background and the world slowly started to come back into focus again.


Not long after I had been following their story for a while, something strange happened.


The kind of strange that you don’t quite know what to do with afterward.


A few years ago I had one of the most vivid dreams I can remember.


In the dream I was standing in a quiet room filled with warm light. Kimberly was there, in a bathtub, giving birth. The room felt calm and peaceful in a way that dreams rarely feel. Everything moved slowly, like time itself had softened.


James was beside her.


He was holding her shoulders, brushing her hair back, kissing the top of her head, and whispering encouragement while she breathed through the moment. There was nothing frantic or fearful in the scene. Only steadiness. Love. The kind of calm strength that makes the world feel safe.


From where I stood, I could see her shoulders above the water and his hands gently resting around her.


And behind them was this incredible light.


Not harsh.


Not blinding.


Just a radiant warmth pouring into the room like sunrise.


The dream felt less like watching something happen and more like witnessing something sacred. A moment where love was so present that it filled the entire space.


When I woke up, the dream stayed with me for days. It felt too vivid to ignore and too strange to fully explain.


About two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with our daughter Gracie.


Maybe it was just the wild mystery of hormones.


Maybe it was my mind weaving together the quiet inspirations I had been absorbing for years.


Or maybe it was simply one of those strange moments where the human heart recognizes beauty so deeply that it echoes into places we don’t fully understand.


Either way, the image of that light never really left me.


And over time it became something I recognized again and again whenever I saw their family sharing pieces of their life with the world.


That same light.


When the news came that James was battling cancer, it felt like the kind of moment that makes the whole world pause for a second.


When he passed, the sadness rippled outward in ways that were hard to explain.


Not just because of the loss of a public figure.


But because it felt like the world had lost someone who genuinely believed in kindness, presence, and family.


Someone who believed that life was meant to be lived with intention.


In the days that followed, I saw a video one of their daughters shared.


It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks.


She spoke calmly, thoughtfully, with a kind of wisdom that seemed far older than her years. At one point she said something that struck me deeply. She talked about how people often say, “I know what you’re going through,” when someone loses a parent.


And she gently explained that they don’t.


Because every grief is different.


Every loss is its own story.


She was right.


I lost my own father years ago, and even now I would never presume to understand the exact shape of the grief she carries.


Grief has a strange way of revealing both the best and the hardest parts of the human heart.


I know that from experience. When I lost my own dad, it broke me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.


Loss invites many voices into the room. Comfort, questions, memories, and sometimes opinions that were never really needed in the first place.


But grief doesn’t need commentary. It needs kindness and light.


There was another profound moment in her message that stayed with me even more.


She spoke about something her dad had told her.


He told her to keep believing in miracles.


Even when things didn’t turn out the way everyone had hoped.


And when she said those words, something inside me shifted.


Because suddenly it felt so obvious.


The miracle he believed in was sitting right there in front of the camera.


In her courage.


In her calm.


In the wisdom she was sharing with the world.


She is the miracle.


All of them are.


The love he poured into the world didn’t disappear when he left it.


It lives on in the family he helped raise.


In the light that still shines through his children.


And in the quiet strength that continues to ripple outward through the lives he touched.


It’s strange how words and songs follow us through life.


Sometimes they arrive during ordinary moments and attach themselves to memories so quietly that we don’t even notice at the time.


And suddenly an entire season of life unfolds again in the space of a few notes.


Now that silly TV show intro carries something else.


A reminder.


A reminder that life moves quickly, that love matters deeply, and that the moments we share with the people we care about are never as small as they seem at the time.


That familiar line still drifts through my mind sometimes.


A reminder that if you look hard enough you really can find beauty and light in the dark.


I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over.


Maybe that’s the quiet lesson hidden inside all of this.


Not to wait.


Not to wait to tell people they matter.


Not to wait to recognize the light in the lives around us.


James seemed to understand that instinctively.


Through the way he loved his family.


Through the way he showed up as a husband and a father.


Through the kindness and presence people continue to describe whenever they speak about him.


Even someone who never had the chance to meet him can see the constellation he left behind.


A constellation made of love, courage, and the beautiful family who carries that light forward.


And sometimes, when the world feels heavy, it’s comforting to remember that light has a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.


An image of a pixelated Searching For Stars Stamp attached to a letter of light for Katie Wilcox, 8bit retro art, nostalgia art

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DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

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Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
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