Starting a blog seems like a very 2005 thing to do. So why am I doing this here and now?

Last fall I used my Facebook account to send a message to my wife and her son. Nothing special—just a product I saw that might help the sagging fences in our yards.
Less than a minute later, I clicked to go somewhere else.

“Your account has been suspended.”

Wait, what? Why?

I was shocked. I had been on Facebook for 17 years. I used it to share content, build relationships and keep in touch with family and friends. I stayed out of politics, never shared anything I didn’t know to be true and tried to be one of Facebook’s “good guys.”

The message continued: the account would be deleted in 180 days and provided a link to appeal the decision.

I clicked the link.

I was asked to upload a copy of my driver’s license.

I immediately checked to make sure this was legitimate—that I wasn’t being scammed. It was. I sent the image and received an immediate response:

“We received your response. You will be notified of our decision within 48 hours. There will be no further appeals.”

No chance to comment. No chance to explain that, if they believed I violated a policy, it wasn’t me—or it was a misunderstanding. No chance to recover the 17 years of content I had loaded into their platform.

A couple hours later, my account was restored.

No explanation. No “thank you for being a part of our community for 17 years.” Just, “you may now access your account.”

I accessed it—and immediately downloaded everything I could.

I realized how much I had trusted someone else to hold onto things that mattered.

About the same time, I was inspired to write a children’s book. You can read about that here. The book is based on stories about my family dogs. It was fun. But it covers 27 years in 55 pages—and more than half of those pages are pictures. There are many more stories to tell.

And then there’s Alex’s story.

But I couldn’t. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that words just would not leave my mouth.

I have plenty of words now. About Alex. About her life. About cancer. About grief. Some may help other people going through the same things. Some might only help me by saying publicly what I’ve held inside.

We created The Alex Lebovic Foundation to become Alex’s legacy—the one she didn’t have a chance to complete herself. These stories are part of that legacy. So they belong here.

One more story.

Shortly after Alex died, I went to a grief counseling session. The topic for the day was the “other things” you lose when you lose a loved one.

For example, if you lose a husband, you might also lose the person who took care of your car or your lawn, if those were tasks he handled. So in addition to the hole that loss leaves in your heart, you have to replace the practical things that still need to be done.

I thought about that. What have I lost?

A voice inside said:

“You’ve lost your future. How do you replace that?”

Alex and her brother are my legacy. And to the extent these stories are Alex’s legacy, they’re mine as well.

That’s why there’s a blog in 2026.

Not because the world needs another one. But because there are stories that shouldn’t be left behind on a platform that can disappear without warning—or kept inside when they might help someone else.

These stories are part of Alex’s legacy. In sharing them, they become something more than memory. They become something that lasts.

If this resonates with you, you’re welcome to follow along.
And if you have a story of your own, I’d be glad to hear it—there’s a place to share it below.