Yesterday (Feb. 12) was my wife’s birthday.
And I know what you might be thinking: “Billy, are you really about to write a love letter in the
newspaper?”
Yeah. I am. It’s also Valentine’s Day in a couple days. Writing this saves me about $20 in
Hallmark cards.
Not because I’m trying to win points. Not because I’m trying to be dramatic. And definitely not
because I suddenly turned into the kind of guy who lights candles and writes poetry for fun.
I’m writing it because I’ve carried this truth around for a long time, and the older I get, the more
I realize this: there are some things you don’t wait to say. You don’t save them for later. You
don’t assume the people closest to you “just know.”
And I’ll be honest — I’ve written thousands of stories over the years. Today, I just wanted to
write one that matters most to me.
My wife doesn’t get enough credit. Not even close.
Most of you know me as a newspaper guy. A sports guy. A “what’s the deadline?” guy. I spend
my days worrying about everything — stories, pages, schedules, late nights, early mornings,
printing bills, postage, deliveries, pretty much all the little details that keep a business and a
family moving.
But here’s something I’ve learned, and I’ve learned it the hard way:
The most important work in life doesn’t come with a byline. It doesn’t get announced. It doesn’t
get posted. It doesn’t get recognized publicly.
It just happens. Often times unnoticed, but simply because someone makes sure it does.
That someone, in our house, is her. Carley Jo. The straw that stirs the drink.
We got married in Mexico some 14 years ago. And I’ll tell you what I didn’t understand back
then — not fully, anyway — is just how steady she would become in the storms life brings. Not
the “Hallmark movie” kind of storms.
The real ones.
Since we’ve been married, both of my parents — Lil and Bill — passed away. That kind of loss
changes you. It hits your heart in a way you never quite recover from. And many of you know
exactly what I mean.
Through that grief, my wife didn’t just support me. She carried me. She let me hurt. She let me
remember. She let me be quiet. She didn’t try to fix it with words, because some things can’t be
fixed with words.
She was just there. Steady. Strong. A rock, even if she’d never call herself that.
But as difficult as that season was, it wasn’t the toughest stretch we’ve faced together.
In 2019, I was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer.
Chemo. Radiation. An awful surgery. Appointment after appointment after appointment. The
kind of chapter you don’t wish on anybody.
And I’m not saying this for dramatic effect, I’m saying it because it’s the truth: cancer sucks.
My wife is a huge reason I’m cancer-free in 2026. A huge reason.
She never missed an appointment. Not one. She was there in waiting rooms, in long days, in hard
nights, in quiet drives home when you don’t say much because you don’t even know what to say.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t complain. She didn’t make it about her.
She just showed up.
And if you’ve ever been through something like that — either as the patient, or as the person
sitting in the chair beside them — you understand how rare that kind of love really is.
Because real love isn’t always flowers and fancy dinners.
Real love is staying.
Real love is showing up.
Real love is being strong enough for two when the person you love is running out of strength.
And she did it. Over and over.
But here’s the part she doesn’t get enough credit for — the part that happens every single day,
even when there’s no crisis.
Camden is 12. Kendall is 10. And like most families, we’re moving nonstop — school, practices,
games, activities, schedules that change by the hour.
And in the middle of all that, she’s the one packing every lunch. Every single one.
She’s the one doing most of the running — the rides, the pick-ups, the drop-offs, the little
errands that don’t sound like much until you realize they make up half of life. She’s an Uber
driver without the tips.
She’s the one keeping the wheels on when the days are busy and loud and a little chaotic.
And somehow, she does it without turning it into a production. She does it without keeping
score. She does it because that’s who she is.
The truth is, she’s the heartbeat of our family. She’s the steady ground. The glue. The calm in the
chaos.
And she’ll never ask for credit — which is exactly why she deserves it.
So today, on her birthday — with Valentine’s Day right around the corner — I just wanted to put
it in writing.
Thank you for the million things you do that nobody sees.
Thank you for letting me quit my job to chase this newspaper ownership dream.
Thank you for being strong when the rest of us are scrambling.
Thank you for loving our kids the way you do.
Thank you for loving me through loss.
Thank you for loving me through fear.
Thank you for loving me through everything.
Happy birthday, babe.
And if there’s one headline I’ll always run: I’m lucky she chose me.
Billy McMacken is the owner of the Normalite Newspaper group. You can reach out to him at
billy@normalitenewspapers.com
