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Richard Alan Hale, beloved husband, father, brother, and friend, passed away on Monday, January 26, 2026, following a short illness. He was the cherished son of Edwin and Loretta Hale (née Maloney), devoted husband and best friend of Karen Moss Hale, and proud father of Steve Rogovin and Alex Hale. Richard and Karen would have celebrated 42 years of marriage on February 3, 2026.

Richard was preceded in death by his loving parents, his brothers Bob and David Hale (Anna Koteles Hale), his in-laws Harmon and Dorothy Moss, and most recently his brother-in-law Joel Moss (TL Pellegri).

Raised in the Lyndhurst and Orange school communities, Richard graduated from Orange High School in 1968. He went on to attend the University of Akron—twice—ultimately earning his Master’s in Higher Education in 2012, a milestone he pursued with determination and pride.

Richard began his professional life in the photo industry, where his love of imagery and creativity first took shape. His career later evolved into the field of information technology, where he served as an instructor, program developer, and support technician. His patience, curiosity, and willingness to help others defined his work and the many relationships he built along the way.

A man of gentle humor and simple joys, Richard loved music and comedy, and on any given day you could find him enjoying classic programs on MeTV. He had a gift for loyalty—if you were his friend, you remained his friend. He never detached, never drifted, and never stopped caring.

True to his spirit, Richard left one final request, a line that captures his wit and warmth:
“A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.”

He will be remembered for his kindness, his steadfast love for his family, his quirky humor, and the quiet, enduring way he showed up for the people he loved.

May his memory be a blessing to all who knew him.

It is with a heavy heart that feels like a stone that I am sharing that my husband, my lover, my best friend has left this world as we know it and is climbing the stairway to heaven.

Rich Hale woke up on Saturday, January 17^th telling me he had a sore throat.  By evening he experienced extreme weakness in his legs.  The next morning as he appeared to be getting sicker I took him to the ER where he was admitted with COVID.

The COVID in hours turned into Bronchial Pneumonia, and a week ago today, Monday, January 19^th he suffered a cardiac arrest and never recovered.

Today at 2:45 pm he took his last breath alone.

Alex and I went up to the hospital to see him one last time in the flesh, but he already was transitioning and didn’t really look like my husband of 42 years.

I am in shock and aware of it.  I am doing what I can to stay focused on what is necessary and what is not, and to allow those who want to help me along the way step in.

We will have a celebration of his Rich’s life in the Spring, we need time to process and begin the healing as this was sudden, unexpected, and extremely hard for Alex, Steve, and I.

Please hug the ones you love and don’t keep your love a secret – We Never Did!

11 January 2026

Why Do I Keep Saying Yes? A Lesson I’m Still Learning

Sometimes the only honest place to begin is with a question: Why?

Why am I doing work you’re fully capable of doing yourself?
Why do I jump in to help when my own needs go unnoticed?
Why do I expect you to know what I want without me ever saying it out loud?
Why am I so afraid of “flipping your switch”—or is it really my own switch I’m trying not to trigger?
Why do I feel anger rising in me while you sit there smiling, untouched by the weight I’m carrying?

And the biggest question of all: Is the problem you… or is it me?

These are the moments that send me back to my journal, back to my blog, back to the work I do as a Life Coach. Because the truth I’ve learned—over and over—is that most of the time, the issue isn’t “them.”
It’s us.
It’s the patterns we’ve built.
It’s the roles we’ve rehearsed for decades.
It’s the quiet ways we allow ourselves to be used, even unintentionally, because we’re trying to keep the happiness scale balanced.

Today was one of those days.

I was sitting in my office doing tasks for my husband. He never asked. I volunteered. At first, it felt fine—helpful, even. But the deeper I got into it, the more irritated I became. Not with myself, but with him. And that’s when I had to pull the brake.

Not on the task.
On my reaction.

If I’m going to be angry, the anger belongs with me.
I took on something I didn’t need to take on.
I expected him to say, “No honey, I’ll do it.”
He didn’t.
And why would he? I already said I would handle it.

It reminded me of old workplace patterns—me hunkering down to do my job and someone else’s, while they watched gratefully from the sidelines. No one offered help because I had already stepped into the role.

I’m still learning—sometimes the hard way—when to offer, when to step back, and when to say no. I’m also learning not to blame others for the expectations I create.

So, I paused.
I breathed.
I looked out my office window and let the wind carry away the frustration, the disappointment, the heaviness in my chest. Anger has a way of settling into the body, and I could feel exactly where it lived. With each breath, I let it move out.

And then I remembered something I’ve known for years but still forget:

The toughest enemy I’ve ever faced is myself.
There is no room in my life for self‑punishment.
Not anymore.

Letting go—physically and emotionally—isn’t easy. But it’s necessary.
And it takes time.

So, if you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words, take this as a gentle reminder:

• Give yourself grace.
• Understand your patterns.
• Release the anger that isn’t serving you.
• And breathe your way back to yourself.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

When you least expect it, the quiet settles in. A heaviness creeps up from somewhere you can’t quite name, and suddenly you realize what’s missing: your son or daughter has just walked out the door and headed back to their own life. Home for them might be across the country, a few hours down the highway, or simply across town—but the moment they cross that threshold into their world, something inside you shifts. The house feels different. You feel different.

I learned this ache early on. When my oldest moved in with his dad—because sometimes divorce makes decisions you never wanted to make—I cried every single time he left. Even weekend visits or school breaks, no matter how joyful, ended with that familiar tearing sensation, as if I were losing an arm or a leg. Sometimes both. And even now, with him grown and thriving, that same hollow feeling still rises after a visit. Love doesn’t age out of longing.

Then came the day my youngest moved out after living with us for 30 years while building his career. I thought the grief might swallow me whole. The sobs that came from my gut were unlike anything I expected—raw, primal, overwhelming. I remember thinking, I can’t do this for the rest of my life. So, I worked at it. I learned to understand the good-byes, to soften the edges of the separation. And while it has gotten easier, the ache never fully disappears.

Today, as he pulled away to return to his own life—his career, his home, his independence—I felt that familiar gnawing in my stomach. And he’s not even two hours away. Distance doesn’t measure love; it only measures miles.

The truth is, we both know we need our separateness. He calls regularly, and I do my best to wait for those calls, to respect the boundaries of his adult life. But I’m still a mother. Sometimes I text or call first, and yes, sometimes it annoys him. But reaching out is part of how I love and letting go is part of how he grows.

This is the dance of parenting adult children—holding on, letting go, and learning to live in the space between.

I’ve noticed on Facebook that I’m far from alone in these emotions. So many mothers are feeling that same post‑holiday ache as our families slip back into their routines and the house settles into its quieter rhythm. We all understand that change is part of our evolution, but that doesn’t mean we automatically know how to navigate it. Growth doesn’t come with a manual.

As I write this, the tears have softened a bit. Maybe it’s because I’m reminding myself that tomorrow will come, and with it, the life my husband and I share in this home—just the two of us. I have a purpose that extends beyond motherhood. I am still me, and that identity deserves space, attention, and care.

If sadness shows up between the smiles, if tears mingle with moments of joy, that’s okay. That’s real. That’s living. And living fully means embracing the whole spectrum—the love, the longing, the laughter, and the letting go.

Caring is sharing, and sharing is caring—words I’ve repeated often because they continue to ring true. When something stirs inside me, I feel compelled to express it, to put it into language that others can walk through, reflect on, and maybe even find themselves in.

Some people turn to scripture, poetry, or music to soothe the swirl of emotions that life stirs up. I turn inward. I sift through my own thoughts, my own stories, and from that place I create the tools that help me keep moving—one step, one breath, one moment at a time.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

3 January 2026

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15 June 2025

Father’s Day arrived, and though my Pops is in heaven, his presence resides within me. He will always be a part of me, a guiding hand woven into the very fabric of my being. Twenty-one years have passed without this giant of a man by my side, yet his love and acceptance continue to shape my world. Even as his heart weakened, J Harmon Moss never ceased to shower us with the kind of love that transcends time.

Though my father-in-law, Ed Hale, was only in my life for a short while, his kindness was immediate, his brilliance undeniable. He never needed blood ties to embrace family—he stepped effortlessly into the role of grandfather to my oldest son, a gesture that still fills my heart with gratitude.

I’ve never truly thanked my ex, but despite our past conflicts, Bruce gave me the greatest gift of all: our son, Steve.

For over four decades, my husband, Rich, has been a father—not just to our son but to my oldest as well. There are no stepdad titles, no half-brother distinctions, only family. He has poured his heart into this journey, loving us unconditionally, weaving together the threads of our shared lives.

We may not follow the traditions of many other families, but we deeply acknowledge and appreciate one another. Today, Steve is in his home in Illinois, Alex in Indiana—each carving their own path. And on this beautiful summer day, I will spend time with my husband, reflecting on the incredible fathers I have known.

A special shoutout to my big brothers, Gary and Joel Moss—men whose love for their children exemplifies family values worth celebrating.