I’ve been letting this settle slowly, the way the best truths do.
As the news moved through our Jam family and emotions rose everywhere…
Tears, disbelief, that familiar ache of endings; what I felt most strongly was gratitude.
Deep, steady, unmistakable gratitude.
Not the kind that bypasses feeling, the kind that holds it with reverence.
I keep returning to Bob Weir as a life offered in devotion to the music, with an influence that keeps unfolding.
Not frozen in one era. Not defined by a single chapter. A man who kept choosing to carry the music forward…
Again and again; allowing it to grow, shift, and breathe with time.
Of course there was the Grateful Dead, where so many of us first felt the door open. But Bobby never stayed in one place. He let the sound evolve. Through Dead & Company, he created a bridge between generations, between past and present. Inviting new listeners into the circle without ever diluting its soul. And through projects like Bob Weir & Wolf Bros, he showed another side of his profound devotion: stripped down, intimate, rooted.
Different expressions. Same heartbeat.
I wouldn’t be here without my lifelong best friend, Lisa. She’s the one who handed me this music before I knew what it would become in my life. Because of her, I found myself at my first show in Hamilton in 1992. Young, wide open, unaware that something ancient and communal was quietly threading itself into my bones.
That night wasn’t just a concert. It was an initiation.
For many, the music became a companion. A teacher. A place where listening mattered more than certainty. Where presence was everything.
This year felt like a culmination. Standing at GD60 knowing that this could be Bobby’s final show-carried a weight I didn’t fully understand. Until now.
I almost didn’t go. Life, logistics, hesitation hovered. I am so profoundly grateful that I listened to the deeper pull and showed up.
I took my final photo of Bobby onstage that night. I didn’t know it would be “final” when I lifted the lens, but something in me knew it mattered. I share that image with you, not as a keepsake, but as a moment of witnessing. Of gratitude made visible.
Bobby at GD60Bobby Weir 08/02/2025
A gentle reminder to Bobby’s truest fans…
Behind every life lived in service to the world is a family who holds the quieter realities.
I want to gently and with the utmost respect, acknowledge Bobby’s family. I’ve only personally met his daughter Chloe, who shared him not only with us, but with the spaces in between tours and stages. There is a particular strength in loving someone whose calling belongs to so many.
If you find yourself struggling, there’s a Tibetan meditation I practice called Tonglen. At its heart, it’s very simple. You breathe in what is heavy. You breathe out what is healing. No fixing. No forcing. Just presence and love.
So this is my invitation to our Jam family.
If grief is moving through you, let it come. Breathe it in softly. And as you exhale, send gratitude… For the music that held us when we didn’t yet know how to hold ourselves. For the years Bobby stood at the center of this strange, beautiful continuum and kept the pulse alive. For the way the songs kept changing without losing their truth.
For the past that shaped us, the present that holds us, and the music that carries on. For The Dead.
They were never just about music. They were about learning how to listen. How to gather. How to trust what unfolds when we stay present.
That teaching doesn’t end.
It lives in us now.
In how we show up.
In how we choose gratitude.
In how the music keeps playing…
Inside our hearts. Inside the memories at the shows we were blessed to experience. The beauty-full moments between shows and the friends we made along the golden road…
Happy Sunday. I hope you’ve found a few moments this week to breathe, laugh, and connect with the people who bring warmth to your life. Today, I want to share a story close to my heart. It is a journey that reminds me just how important our oldest friendships are. These are the bonds that have weathered the years and carried us through life’s highs and lows.
Have you ever thought about the friends who have shaped your life? They are those rare people who know you better than you know yourself. They are the ones who’ve seen you at your best and your worst. They stay by your side, no matter the miles or years that come between you. If so, you know that there’s a special strength in these connections. It’s a quiet resilience that seems to carry you, even through life’s hardest chapters.
Childhood Bonds: Friendship and Survival
My lifelong bestie Lisa has been in my life since I was just a few months old. We grew up as neighbors in farmhouses nestled beside each other, isolated but never alone, because we had each other. Our early years were filled with laughter and adventure, yet they were also shadowed by hardship. Both of us experienced loss at a young age: Lisa lost her father, and I lost my little sister. We didn’t fully understand the sorrow. However, we felt its weight. It settled into our lives in ways we couldn’t yet express.
For me, home wasn’t always a place of comfort. I grew up navigating the shadows of poverty, tension between my mother and my adopted father, and his ongoing abuse. But Lisa was there, a constant light, my safe harborto protect me from the storm. Together, we found a way to laugh and play, even when life felt heavy.
As we grew, Lisa’s family moved to the city. I stayed in the countryside. We endearingly referred to ourselves as country mouse and city mouse. She would come up to the lake. We’d swim, sail, and escape into a world of freedom. I would visit her in the city. It was a place that was daunting but alive with vibrant energy. We became part of each other’s worlds, grounding our bond even as life carried us down different paths.
Rediscovering Joy: A Summer in Vegas
Lisa kept our bond strong through the years. She shared stories of her life and her adventures following the Grateful Dead. She found a profound sense of community there. She insisted that these were “my people” and that I needed to experience it myself. Her stories stayed with me, especially during those years when I was working hard, trying to rebuild after my divorce. I was focused on survival, and giving myself permission to have fun seemed impossible.
But then, something shifted. I told one of my sons I was thinking of joining Lisa for a summer of Dead & Co. concerts at the Sphere in Vegas, and he quickly replied, “You don’t have time for that.” His words stung; they reflected how much I had forgotten to live for myself. Life is in session, I realized, and sometimes, we have to be bold enough to dive in. So, I made a decision that felt both freeing and intimidating—I went to Vegas.
That summer became a new chapter for me. Lisa and I shared an Airbnb oasis, complete with a pool, hot tub, and endless laughter. Family members visited. Our kids came. Lisa’s mom, who had always been like a second mother to me, visited too. Friends from all walks of life joined us. Each day felt like a reunion, and each night a celebration. It wasn’t just about the concerts. It was a season of healing. It was about rediscovering joy. It was about reconnecting with the parts of myself I’d neglected.
Navigating the Deadhead Community: Unwritten Rules and Revelations
When people imagine Deadheads, they often think of open-hearted, accepting, jovial souls who embody love and peace. While that spirit is certainly alive in the Dead & Co. community, I quickly discovered a deeper layer—an unspoken social code, rules that newcomers aren’t always prepared for.
Early on, I encountered a few long timers who were abrasive at best and disturbingly unkind at worst. It wasn’t what I expected, and for a moment, I questioned whether I belonged. But being the strong, independent woman I am, I wasn’t about to let a few rough encounters deter me. With support from Lisa and my new friends, we embarked on a quiet mission. To create peace within the “Rail Riders” group—those dedicated fans who claim the front row, eager to be close to the music. Becoming accepted within this circle was challenging, and there were moments I felt like walking away. But slowly, small breakthroughs happened: shared smiles, moments of understanding, gestures that built fragile bridges.
As the music started each night, it was as if all the egos, conflicts, and tension dissolved. We moved together, swayed together, and lost ourselves in the rhythm. The shows reminded me that camaraderie and empathy aren’t just lofty ideals. They’re essential when people from all walks of life come together to celebrate something bigger than themselves. I realized the community wasn’t about perfection—it was about people, real and raw, navigating their own path to connection.
Not a Deadhead, but Forever Changed
Throughout the summer, people joked that I was the last person to know I’m a Deadhead. Even Lisa teased me, saying, “You’ve been to almost 30 Dead & Co. shows, but oh no you’re not a Deadhead.” I don’t feel the same drive to follow the band from city to city. I do however admire the devotion of the die hards. That level of intensity feels foreign to me. Yet, there were moments when I felt something in the music had touched me deeply. I feel the draw expanding within. Who knows, maybe I am a deadhead after all…
One of those moments happened on July 11, when the moon was full. The real moon was projected on the screen, like it was hanging there just for us. Standing on the rail, I looked up. The band started playing Standing on the Moon, a poignant song that reflects on distance and perspective. Memories of my childhood flooded back. As a little girl, I would gaze at the moon whenever I felt overwhelmed, finding solace in its constant presence. There’s a story my mother tells of a night when I climbed a ladder with a butterfly net, convinced I could catch the moon. In my child’s eyes, it seemed so close, a comforting friend.
I was down the rail from Lisa, but found my way to her. That night in Vegas, I stood beside her, and without any words, we both began to cry. It felt like we were grieving and celebrating all at once. Letting go of the past and embracing the beauty of the moment. In that life altering moment, I understood why people connect so deeply to this music. It’s not just about sound; it’s about the space it creates for shared healing, for unspoken connection.
Taking the Inspiration Home
When the summer ended, I was more exhausted than I’d anticipated. I felt soul-tired from the intensity. I stood at the front with over 20,000 people behind me. I felt the energy of the crowd and the pulse of the music. The vibration ran through me. It was a profound experience, one I couldn’t walk away from unchanged. Reconnecting with Lisa, sharing those moments, and watching her build a beautiful life and relationship was transformative. Her friends became mine, and the bonds we created were gifts I’ll carry in my heart forever.
Since then, I’ve continued to pursue music-focused adventures. The inspiration it sparked in me led me to the Harvest Moon Festival I attended in California. Seeing Neil Young live and getting to hear John Mayer sing his own music was magical. I am looking forward to upcoming adventures in New Orleans, Fort Lauderdale, and even Mexico. Each experience and note reminds me to embrace life. I celebrate the joy of being a woman with a lifetime of memories. Endless possibilities are still ahead.
Looking back, this summer wasn’t just a series of concerts. It was a journey of rediscovering friendship, releasing old wounds, and reconnecting to joy in its purest form. I’ve learned that community, resilience, and empathy are more than ideals. They are essential, powerful forces. These forces shape us when we come together. I leave with a heart full of gratitude. I have a renewed spirit. I am open to the unexpected beauty waiting to inspire me. From my heart to yours, Joy
Unscripted Joy 