Killebrew / Contributor Activity

Joey Montes

@jrm

Father. Widower. Survivor. Founder. Still here. Still building. Still breathing.

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42 posts
Some days I still feel the weight of losing Dawne as sharply as I did in 2016. Grief did not disappear when I learned to keep going. It changed shape. In the silence, I began to picture Wildwood, a tree farm built around remembrance. I want families to have a place to plant a tree, speak a name, and return years later to see how something living has grown. That is the part of the dream I hold closest: making room for love that has nowhere obvious to go. This image is part of that imagined future, not a farm I own today. There is land to find, work to learn, and people to bring together. I cannot undo Dawne's death, but I can honor her by creating something that may help another family carry its loss with hope. Conceptual portrait of Joey resting his crossed, gloved arms on a weathered wooden fence. He wears a brown work jacket over a dark hoodie, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a serious expression. Autumn woodland appears in the background.
These images show two sides of my Wildwood dream. In one, I study the needles of a pine. In the other, I stand before a farm sign that, for now, exists only in my imagination. After Dawne died, grief changed how I saw the future. I spent years carrying love and loss without knowing what to do with either. Trees gave that love a direction. I want to find land, raise healthy trees, and create a place where families can plant one in memory of someone they miss. They could return through the years and watch a living tribute take root. Wildwood is not an operating farm. It is the purpose that grew out of my grief, and the promise I want to keep working toward for Dawne and for others who know what it means to lose someone. Conceptual portrait of Joey closely examining the needles of a green pine tree, wearing a brown work jacket and a silver wristwatch.
Wildwood started with a loss I never learned to make sense of. When Dawne died, I was left carrying love with nowhere to put it. For years grief was the loudest thing in my life. Somewhere along the way, trees became a way to imagine giving that love roots. These two scenes are how I picture the work: hands on a shovel, seedlings ready for soil, a quiet cup of coffee after a long morning. The farm is still a dream, not land I own. But I want to build a place where someone missing a loved one can plant a tree, come back, and see that remembrance is still growing. I cannot bring Dawne back. I can honor her by making something living for others. That is the heart of Wildwood. Conceptual Wildwood Farms portrait of Joey wearing a plaid work shirt and leather gardening glove, resting his arm on a wooden tool handle beside young evergreen trees.
Every time I stand beside an old tree, I think about the years it took to grow. Losing Dawne in 2016 changed the course of my life. At first, grief was simply something to survive. Over time I began imagining Wildwood, a tree farm where people could plant in memory of someone they love and return to see those memories take root. I want to learn the land, raise healthy trees, and make room for stories that deserve to be remembered. I do not have the farm yet. I have a purpose shaped by loss and sustained by love. I cannot change what happened to Dawne, but I can spend the years ahead building something that honors her and offers others a little hope. Conceptual close-up portrait of Joey beside a mature tree, wearing a black T-shirt, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a thoughtful expression. Warm sunlight filters through the foliage in the background.
Wildwood began in the aftermath of losing Dawne. Grief left an emptiness I could not fix, and for a long time I did not know where to put all that love. The idea of planting trees gave it a direction. I dream of a farm where families can honor someone they miss, return year after year, and watch a living tribute grow. I have not acquired the land. This portrait reflects what I hope to build, not what already exists. I want to turn loss into care, remembrance into something rooted, and my own grief into a purpose that might help someone else. I cannot change the day I lost Dawne, but I can choose what grows from the love she left behind. One tree at a time. Conceptual high-angle portrait of Joey standing on earthy woodland ground in a weathered brown field jacket, black shirt, jeans and work boots, looking directly toward the camera in warm autumn sunlight.
Autumn 2026. The work jacket, the worn cap, and the tractor behind me capture how I imagine Wildwood Farms, but the farm itself is still a dream. I want to find the right land, plant native trees, and build a place where families can dedicate a tree to someone they love. I picture them returning through the seasons, watching a sapling grow into something lasting. Getting there will mean finding support, caring for the land, and doing the hard work long after the first planting. I do not want a tree farm just for the name or the photographs. I want a place that gives grief somewhere to go, turns remembrance into growth, and leaves something living for the next generation. One tree at a time. Conceptual Wildwood Farms portrait of Joey wearing a weathered brown work jacket and a tan baseball cap embroidered with a tree emblem. A red agricultural tractor appears in the background under warm autumn light.
I have spent a lot of time building this application, but somewhere along the way I realized I was building more than software. I was building a place for stories. The technology matters. The database matters. The architecture matters. The pages have to load, the links have to work, the publishing system has to be reliable, and the application has to be able to grow. But none of those things are the reason I kept working on it. The reason is much simpler. I wanted a place where people, ideas, photographs, experiences, and stories could remain connected. That idea is becoming the foundation of the new Wildwood. The application has grown from a collection of pages into a real publishing platform with distinct systems for short posts, long-form stories, articles, photography, contributors, search, discovery, and personal profiles. Behind it is the stack I have continued to work with and refine: ASP.NET Web Pages and Razor, SQL Server, stored procedures, structured… LIFE editorial branding image featuring a red thread connecting the subject through a contemporary gallery, representing people, ideas, places and stories remaining connected.
My stroke did not end when I left the hospital. That may be one of the hardest things to explain about surviving one. There is the emergency itself, and then there is everything that comes afterward—the work of figuring out what changed, what may improve, what still needs to be retrained, and what may simply become part of your new normal. I still live with lasting effects. There is weakness and stiffness on my left side. My left leg does not always move as naturally as it once did, and I have had to consciously retrain it to walk with a more normal gait. Something I spent most of my life doing without thinking can now require attention: how the leg swings forward, where the foot lands, whether I am compensating, and how fatigue changes my movement. My vision was affected too. That changes more than what I see. It changes how I move through an environment, how I judge what is around me, and how much concentration ordinary situations can require. There are also the things… Close portrait in a black knit sweater during a long period of stroke recovery.
On August 4, 2026, I had a TLIF spinal fusion at L4-L5. TLIF stands for Transforaminal Lumbar Interbody Fusion. In simple terms, the procedure was performed to stabilize the L4-L5 level of my lower spine. The surgery involves placing an interbody cage and bone graft between the vertebrae, along with screws and rods that provide stability while the bones have time to fuse. Reading about spinal fusion is one thing. Going through it yourself is something entirely different. Surgery becomes a very real dividing line between what life looked like before the operation and what comes afterward. I am still moving through that process one day at a time. Recovery from spinal fusion is not measured by one dramatic moment. It is made up of smaller things: getting up, moving safely, rebuilding strength, being patient with the body, and understanding that healing continues long after the surgery itself is over. This photograph feels appropriate for this chapter of my life. There is nothi… Close-up portrait of Joey wearing a black turtleneck against a dark background, looking directly into the camera with his hands clasped in front of him.
I wanted to share this graphic because it gives a clear look at what happens during a TLIF at L4-L5. TLIF stands for Transforaminal Lumbar Interbody Fusion. The procedure is designed to stabilize the segment between the L4 and L5 vertebrae while also creating more room for compressed nerves. The first view shows the lower lumbar spine from the side and highlights a degenerative, collapsed L4-L5 disc space. Changes at this level can contribute to instability, nerve compression, back pain, and pain that travels into the leg. The second view shows the fusion construct from the back. Pedicle screws are placed into L4 and L5 and connected with rods to stabilize the segment. An interbody cage filled with bone graft is positioned between the vertebrae, while additional bone graft can be placed around the back of the spine to support fusion. The third view looks down at L4-L5 from above and shows the transforaminal approach. This pathway allows the surgeon to reach the disc space f… Medical illustration explaining TLIF L4-L5 spinal fusion with a sagittal lumbar spine view, posterior fusion construct with pedicle screws, rods, interbody cage and bone graft, and an axial view showing the transforaminal approach and nearby L4 and L5 nerve roots.
I have joked more than once that I outkicked my coverage with Dawne, and this photograph makes the case better than I ever could. We were dressed for a formal evening, standing beneath the warm light of crystal chandeliers, and somehow she still managed to make everything around her look secondary. Dawne has that kind of presence. She can walk into an elegant room without needing the room to announce her. I am standing beside her in a black suit trying to look like I belong there, while she looks completely at ease. That contrast makes me smile because it says something familiar about us. I have always felt fortunate to be the man standing next to her. There are photographs that document an event, and then there are photographs that preserve how you felt in the moment. This one does both. It reminds me of the pride, affection, and quiet disbelief I have always carried with me when it comes to Dawne. So yes, I outkicked my coverage. By a lot. Dawne and Joey dressed for a formal evening, standing close together beneath warm crystal chandeliers. Dawne wears an elegant beaded evening dress while Joey wears a black suit and tie.
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