We went to Texas Roadhouse today.
It’s a place we’ve continued to visit fairly often since Joshua died just over seven months ago. We went when he was still alive and working there, proudly wearing his title of kitchen manager. Even during a busy shift, he would find a moment to come to our table, just long enough to share a quick hug or crack a joke about what we ordered or tell us what not to order that day. You can’t see much of the kitchen from the dining room, just hints of motion beyond the wall, but we knew he was back there, in his element.
After he died, we kept going. Not out of habit, but because it felt sacred. The staff who knew him would stop by and share a story, a smile, and a hug. When they spoke his name, it was like a little part of him was still standing there beside them. His presence hung in the air, woven into the hum of that place.
His sign, the one that once hung at the entrance with his name and title, is no longer there. That’s not new. It came down a while ago, and now it rests in our home with his things. It’s part of the quiet shrine of his life that we hold onto. But even with that piece with us, something about today felt heavier.
The shift has been gradual, but today it was impossible to ignore. New faces have replaced familiar ones. Fewer people recognize us. Fewer know Joshua’s name when Daniel, my nine-year-old, still asks with wide-eyed hope, “Did you know Josh?” More and more often, they don’t.
Then today, we nearly slipped in and out unnoticed. And it hurt in a way I didn’t expect.
I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat, trying to remind myself that it’s okay. That time moves on. That people do too. I don’t expect anyone else to hold onto his ghost. But at the same time, I don’t want to let go of the belief that Joshua helped build something lasting in that place. That his impact mattered. That he helped lay part of the foundation those walls still stand on. And I know there are still a handful of people who are still there who feel the same.
It’s just such a hard place to be. I want to keep going. I want to support the ones who are still there, the ones he trained and worked beside. But each time, it gets harder. Because the place that once felt like an extension of him now feels farther away. And I’m caught in the in between, trying to honor his memory without anchoring myself to the past too tightly.
We went to Texas Roadhouse today.
It’s a place we’ve continued to visit fairly often since Joshua died just over seven months ago, but our connection to it began long before. We went when he was still alive and working there, proudly wearing his title of kitchen manager. Even during a busy shift, he would find a moment to come to our table, just long enough to flash a smile, share a quick hug, or crack a joke about what we ordered. You can’t see much of the kitchen from the dining room, just hints of motion beyond the wall, but we knew he was back there, in his element.
After he died, we kept going. Not out of habit, but because it felt sacred. The staff who knew him would stop by and share a story or a smile. When they spoke his name, it was like a little part of him was still standing there beside them. His presence hung in the air, woven into the hum of that place.
His sign, the one that once hung on the wall with his name and title, is no longer there. That’s not new. It came down a while ago, and now it rests at home with his things. It’s part of the quiet shrine of his life that we hold onto. But even with that piece safely with us, something about today felt heavier.
The shift has been gradual, but today it was impossible to ignore. New faces have replaced familiar ones. Fewer people recognize us. Fewer know Joshua’s name when Daniel, my nine-year-old, still asks with wide-eyed hope, “Did you know Josh?” Most of the time now, they don’t.
Today, we nearly slipped in and out unnoticed.
And it hurt in a way I didn’t expect.
I swallowed hard around the lump in my throat, trying to remind myself that it’s okay. That time moves on. That people do too. I don’t expect anyone else to hold onto his ghost. But at the same time, I don’t want to let go of the belief that Joshua helped build something lasting in that place. That his impact mattered. That he helped lay part of the foundation those walls still stand on.
It’s just such a hard place to be.
I want to keep going. I want to support the ones who are still there, the ones he trained and worked beside. But each time, it gets harder. Because the place that once felt like an extension of him now feels farther away. And I’m caught in the in between, trying to honor his memory without anchoring myself to the past too tightly.
Texas Roadhouse will never be just a restaurant to me. It is where he grew into a leader, where he took pride in what he did, where he built relationships and left his mark.