When I first met Linda, I’ll be honest—I didn’t know quite what to make of her. She wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met, especially in the whirlwind world of fame and music I was living in back then. My life was The Beatles. The studio. Touring. Press. Noise. Everything was moving so fast. I wasn’t thinking about love, not really. But then there was Linda—quiet, steady, and grounded in a way that stopped me in my tracks.
She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wasn’t chasing the limelight. In fact, she came from the world of photography, where she preferred to be behind the lens, not in front of it. But she had this energy—calm, confident, and unapologetically herself. At first, I couldn’t quite understand it. But the more time we spent together, the more I felt it. She didn’t play games. She didn’t pretend. Linda was real. Honest. Pure.
It wasn’t a love-at-first-sight kind of story. It was slower, more meaningful. The kind of love that builds with time and trust. We talked for hours about music, about life, about things that mattered. She had a way of grounding me, reminding me that there was more to life than songs and shows and headlines. With Linda, I could just be Paul. Not the public figure. Not the Beatle. Just a man in love.
She taught me how to slow down, how to breathe. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until she came into my life. Loving Linda wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about quiet mornings, shared looks, kids laughing in the background, and a deep understanding that didn’t require many words. She saw me in ways I didn’t even see myself. And in that, she gave me a sense of home I hadn’t known before.
Losing her… that was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. Watching her fight cancer with so much grace and strength—it broke my heart and filled me with awe all at once. There’s a part of me that will always be hers. That time we shared, that life we built—it shaped everything about who I became. Even now, I still hear her voice in certain moments. I still feel her presence when I walk through the fields of our old farm or sit at the piano late at night. Some loves don’t end. They just change form.
Years later, when I met Nancy, I wasn’t looking for another chapter. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I had it in me. But Nancy—she had this warmth. A kindness that didn’t demand anything. She never tried to be anything other than who she was. And over time, she reminded me that it’s okay to keep living, to keep loving, even after great loss.
Nancy never tried to replace what was. She respected my past and held space for it. She brought a quiet strength into my life, the same kind of steadiness Linda had given me all those years ago, but in her own beautiful way. With Nancy, I found peace again. Not the fiery kind of love that sweeps you away, but the kind that stays, that supports, that sees you clearly and chooses you gently, every day.
And that’s the truth of it. The loves in my life weren’t about spectacle or fame. They were about truth. About showing up. About sharing silence as much as conversation. With Linda, I learned how deep love could go. With Nancy, I learned that the heart has room for more than one deep, quiet miracle.
Some stories are written in headlines. Others are written in the spaces in between. Mine is the kind that lingers. And I’m grateful—for all of it. For the music, yes. But more than anything, for the love that carried me through. First with Linda. Now with Nancy. Different chapters, same song. One of healing. Of hope. Of home.
There were days after Linda passed when I didn’t know how to move forward. The world felt quiet in the wrong ways. I had music, of course—I always had music—but even that felt different without her there beside me, offering a wordless kind of support. She believed in me without condition. And when someone loves you like that, their absence doesn’t echo—it thunders. But time, as it does, softened the sharp edges of grief. I started seeing her not just in memories, but in the little things—our children, the horses on the farm, even the stillness of certain mornings. She had woven herself so deeply into the fabric of my life that she never really left it.
And then, when I wasn’t searching for it, came Nancy. Her love didn’t ask me to forget, only to feel again. I wasn’t sure I could let someone into that part of me—but she never rushed me. She let me arrive in my own time. With her, I found a kind of quiet companionship that didn’t try to rewrite my past but helped me build a peaceful present. It reminded me that love doesn’t always roar—it can also be a whisper that stays. And in that whisper, I’ve found a new rhythm. Not one that replaces the melody I had with Linda, but one that continues the song in its own gentle key.