Ghost Stories — Week 6: One Year Later

August 1, 2025

I know pain, I know it well. I am friends with sorrow and companions with anguish. I’ve made a home with sleepless nights and solitary mornings. My eyes sore and strained, my lungs feel heavy and weak.

I have known sorrow for years, it has always been with me. It resonates throughout my mind, into my chest, and it overflows from my eyes.

I was just getting used to happiness. Laughter and joy, for what felt like the first time, finally took residence in my soul. I was healing. I wasn’t afraid of the worst case scenario anymore. I felt freedom and enjoyed the good gifts I had. I felt plenty in my abundance, and I felt safe with my family.

We were building a home here, we were building a life here. Our days were filled with sunshine and laughter. My only concern was what joyous outing we would participate in over the upcoming weekend.

I thought we were in this together.

I thought we loved this life, and maybe we did. I thought we were all healing and moving forward after catastrophe. But while I flourished, part of her soul was dying.

She couldn’t tell me. She couldn’t tell anyone. That will never make sense to me. That will always haunt me. That will always terrify me.

Some days it feels impossible to truly smile. How many days did she feel like that, too?

Every day of this nightmare, it’s like I discover something new. Something new about my Mom, something new about my reality. I’m forced to process a complex piece of information day after day, thought after thought, moment after moment. It’s exhausting. It’s haunting.

Maybe ghost stories were never really about apparitions but about the horrors left behind by the deceased. The painful thoughts they force you to think, the painful loss you have to shoulder. The painful dreams that wake one up in the middle of the night. I feel haunted by my mother and haunted by her actions.

I can’t feel a mother’s love from the grave. Not like this. Not when she leaves me with all this. All I feel is the pain and abandonment from being left behind.

The saddest part is that she never would have wanted that, but she doesn’t get to influence or comfort me anymore.

August 3, 2026

I often think about the line I can’t feel my mother’s love from the grave. It’s still true.

* * * *

This week, Carrie took me to New York for my 29th birthday 💜. We went in February 2019 and had such a delightful time that we wanted to do it again!

Nostalgia, though, delivers a collection of recollections. February 2019 was a mere three months before Patrick (Olivia’s father) died. Olivia was nearly six years old, but she and Carrie were separated from Patrick.

Since that February 2019, Carrie married and got pregnant. Her sweet husband Josiah was murdered during her pregnancy. They had a beautiful baby girl, Josi Faith, the February after his death. Then, my Momma died. Nostalgia no longer carries only happy memories. Instead, it has become an archive of grief and ghosts.

Perhaps we are haunted not only by their deaths but also by the way that loss is tethered to our memories of life.

Three deaths, one birth, all within seven years. It’s a lot to remember. We are tormented by the choices my brother, my mother, and a stranger made. I wrote last year that my mom “couldn’t” tell us about her demons, but, realistically she wouldn’t. She — and Patrick — had the power to share the truth before longing for death overwhelmed their will to live. Each person had the power to make a different choice that would have preserved life, but each chose death instead. That is haunting.

Shrouded with death, we try our best to live. Ever haunted by the past, we step forward into our new lives.

It was a beautiful trip to New York. It was sunny and glorious and fun and wonderful. We laughed, we hugged, we played, we explored.

We live this beautiful mosaic life: we’ve been building it from the shards of glass that shattered from the gunshots that haunt us. Their ghosts, ever with us, and ever reminding us of their absence from our new reality.

May we continue to build beautiful lives.

May life refill us.

May new memories create safe places.

May our nervous systems find rest.

May we always love.

Kindness — Week 5: One Year Later

July 26, 2025

One sentence has flurried in my mind since I read it Wednesday:

Perhaps I did not deserve their deaths, but I did not deserve their presence in my life either.

Jerry Sittser, A Grace Disguised

It stings. I don’t like it. But, but, but. But perhaps it’s true.

From my point of view — a 27 year old woman, a sister and a daughter survivor of suicide who has always loved my family deeply — it’s incredibly tempting to submit to cynicism. Thoughts like Nothing I did mattered flutter through my brain. It didn’t matter if I was the best daughter or the best sister in the world, they still left. The sad part about that thought is that it’s entirely true.

I’m sure many are thinking similar thoughts… if I’d only… if I was a better _______ … I wish I would have… the list goes on.

Suicide tends to reverberate guilt throughout its affected community. The truth is, you could be the best mother/father, husband/wife, brother/sister, son/daughter, or friend, and this nightmare could be your reality, too. Chances are, if you’re reading this, you are and you were — you were a good _____. In fact, you were probably great. Odds are, you loved my Mom well, and you laughed together often. And yet…

The thought Did any of it matter? haunts me once more.

I loved my Mom… did that matter? I was a good daughter… did that matter? We loved my mom. My entire family loved my Mom deeply. Her community locally, and globally loved her deeply.

Oh, this shattering outcome makes it too easy to believe that none of it mattered.

“Why don’t I get to have a mom? I loved my Momma,” I sob endlessly to Scott (thanks, honey).

Then I despair that it feels like none of it mattered. That’s an incredibly easy lie to believe until someone knocks on my door to bring us dinner. Until we check the mail and have letters and packages from friends we haven’t connected with in years. Until we read the text messages. Until we feel the warmth from your embrace. Until we hear the care in your voices.

It did matter. It does matter. All of it mattered. Your kindness matters, your help matters, your love matters. It’s easy for me to believe that nothing I do matters, until I receive boundless kindness from those around me and I experience comfort and healing from each little act of kindness and care. That matters to me, and it reminds me that what I do does matter, and that what you do matters, too.

July 26, 2026

My brief life has been filled with such a series of endings, from moving every few years to unexpected deaths.

In therapy last week, I mentioned how I feel as though I’ve lived through several different lifetimes. It’s almost as if those events happened to someone else. Catastrophic loss alters one’s entire belief system and perspective on life, thus, when one has endured many such losses, it can feel like it happened to someone else entirely. Who I was died when they died, and who I am today is comprehensively different than who I was last year.

The 21 year old girl who desperately tried to keep her brother alive, but buried him instead, hardly feels like me anymore. She carried hopes, fears, tragedies, and experiences so foreign to me now because of how much has altered.

The 27 year old woman whose mom was alive, likewise, feels fatally far from my 28 year old, motherless self. Those women — both versions of me — feel irreconcilable with who I am today. She feels inaccessible to me. Her thoughts, her hopes, her dreams, feel like they belonged to someone else.

My therapist smiled and voiced that it’s important that I honor her; she counseled me to honor her for being a good sister, and for being a good daughter.

Tears welled immediately, connecting me to her.

“I was a good sister,” I said as my eyes created soft streams, “I did everything to try to keep him alive.” I paused, contemplating and remembering. “But I don’t know if I was a good daughter.”

* * * *

It’s interesting to reread these words from one year ago, and to see the thread between who I was then and who I am now.

I’ve been reflecting on the string of endings characterizing my life. I’ve been grieving the events that occurred without my consent, their effects rippling through every facet of my daily life.

Maybe I wasn’t everything my mother needed me to be, maybe I never could have been. Maybe it didn’t matter, no matter what I did, because she needed so much more than love to keep her afloat.

Kindness does matter, and, perhaps, in the end, it’s the only thing that matters. Kindness heals, kindness sees, kindness loves. Kindness is love in action. Kindness supports, and it helps people rebuild after catastrophe.

May we outdo one another in love and kindness.

May we forgive. May we repent.

May kindness guide our steps.

May kindness change us.

An Elegy for My Momma — Day 30: One Year Later

The sorrow that I dreaded has made its home in my heart, where it will forever languish.

I am so sad, forever.

Perplexing thoughts cross my mind and the minds of many as people try to make sense of this cataclysm, but it is truly senseless. My mom’s death highlights mental illness — mentally healthy people do not and cannot end their own lives. There is no reason, there is no “why,” there is nothing to blame or to conclude about this situation other than the advancement of mental illness. My mother hid it extremely well. She knew well what mental illness is, and perhaps she did not realize the depth of her own struggles until her mind was too impaired.

She didn’t do this to us, she didn’t do this at us, she didn’t do this in spite of us.

There is much we don’t know and won’t understand, and, to a point, it doesn’t really matter: nothing will bring her back.

My Mom’s death doesn’t forfeit her love, it doesn’t forfeit what she believed, and it doesn’t forfeit all she strived to do and who she wanted to be.

In her right mind and in her fullest, she loved life. Her laughter filled the room and bellowed from every conversation. Her smile beamed brightest around her family and with her friends. She loved getting to discover the depth of others by asking provocative questions and teasing the answers out of one another. She loved Jesus, and she wanted to experience the fullness of life that God promises, but she may have missed that He promised that life here on earth (John 10:10). She was passionate about mental health and desperately wanted to see others healed on this side of eternity, and I think she believed that wholly for herself, too.

Mom fought a horrific battle that she could not share with us, and while that hurts us more than anything, these facts detail a torment she kept in the shadows. If only, if only she had applied her studies and reached out in the way she encouraged others to do. Maybe she spent so much time encouraging others in the hopes that she, too, would find the courage to reach out.

She wanted to make a difference, she wanted to heal. She wanted so much from this life that gave her so much. Her life was beautiful and full of laughter and love, and, in her best moments, she felt that wholly.

My mom did not die because of any one thing: she died fighting an unspeakable battle, one we’ll never know how long she fought. This painful reality scorches my heart and sometimes it feels impossible to believe that my life is good and beautiful and kind, when all feels so dark and grotesque and cruel.

But I know — I know, somehow, there is grace in this. My family and I have so much life left to live, and our lives will be filled with laughter and love and goodness and opportunity that we cannot begin to imagine right now. We are blessed. We are blessed with each other, we are blessed with our outstanding community who supports and mourns with us, and we were blessed with my Mom.

My Mom was a light and a gift that I will never have again, and her absence brings tumultuous tears to my eyes each day. While this is so dark, my Mom was not all of the light in the world.

I will carry this grief with me forever, but this sadness and this grief does not dismiss the many years of joy and abundance still to come.

Grief gifts us with a new understanding of God and life and the universe. It strips us bare of any preconceived ideas rooted in anything but truth, and the fire of affliction will bring about unimaginable glory.

Right now, it’s physically impossible for us to imagine or even desire a good life when my Mom was what made our old lives so good, but we will experience blessing and healing and a new good life.

July 21, 2026

I’ve written about 80 posts since my Momma died. Sigh.

I love her, and I miss her every day.

Some of you have been reading along since day one, some joined later. Some who never met my Momma joined because of their own similar loss. I’m sorry for your losses, too.

Mourning both isolates and attaches people to a silent and somber community.

I never would have imagined how small my world would get after those first thirty days. It’s quieter these days. It’s as if my family members and I have become myth — whispered about but rarely seen.

A strong urge persists to shut the entire world out and enjoy the bliss of anonymity: you can’t hurt me if you can’t find me.

Rumors I’ve heard about myself and my family initially fill me with anxiety because they feel dangerous, but once the fear settles, I find myself laughing softly. I laugh not because they’re harmless, but because they’re so detached from reality.

So maybe I’m an oracle uttering insights that glistened through my tears. Or maybe I’m a muse, breathing life into myths and legends of a veiled existence. Maybe I am the whispers you hear, and the stories you trade in hushed voices. Or maybe I’m so much more.

Suspended in the Present — Day 29: One Year Later

July 20, 2025

Mourners temporarily lose the ability to reflect on the past and dream of the future. In his book A Grace Disguised, Jerry Sittser describes the sacred “eternal presence” of those who experience catastrophic loss: reflecting the past becomes painful for the grieved because of the multitudes of memories with their loved one, and, simultaneously thoughts of the future create pain because of the absence of their loved one.

In this prison of the present, grievers become sacredly aware of the ordinary and mundane. It provides a chance to slow down, evaluate priorities, and reconsider one’s life with the most basic wants and desires at the forefront of one’s mind.

Oftentimes, this accompanies a strong desire to be close to one’s remaining surviving family. This catastrophic grief provides the opportunity to shelter together and requires the bereaved to relearn how to exist with an “amputated self,” as Sittser describes. The “amputated self” describes the loss of identity that a mourner suffers — it’s questions about one’s identity like Who am I without my Mom?

Catastrophic loss quiets the background noise of one’s life. It destroys, entirely, the life we once knew and the life we once hoped for. In the initial months and years of catastrophic loss, it can feel impossible to believe that a good life is possible when the one who made life so good is no longer with us because we lose the ability to dream of a good life.

It’s the 29th day without my Mom. That thought sickens me. It’s an excruciating reality, and I still don’t want to believe it. I’m so sad that tomorrow is truly an entire month without her. I cannot describe how dreadful that feels. I just miss my Momma. I wish this wasn’t real.

I’m Sorry for Our Loss — Day 28: One Year Later

July 19, 2025

I have a lot of unread messages and a lot of comments I haven’t responded to, but I see them. I like to save them for nights and when I can’t sleep.

I am grateful for your overwhelming support, for the food, the gift cards, the cards, the encouraging messages, the comments, the phone calls. Thank you.

It’s hard to fathom we’re all here. It’s hard to accept. I wish so badly it wasn’t real — we all do. I am so sorry, I am so sorry for our loss. I am sorry you’re hurting so much, too.

My Mom had a beautiful and vast influence. She touched the hearts of many, and now the many mourn. I am sorry we’re all working through the weight of this quizzical grief.

I’m so sorry for my mom. I am so sad for her. I am endlessly sad for her. This is not what she would have wanted.

I am so haunted by answerless questions, and I know we all are. After Patrick died, one of my professors said “Knowing ‘why’ rarely helps,” and I have wholly believed that for years. Knowing why would never be enough — we would all think “we could have worked this out.”

I loved my Mom so much. I know we all did. I know that, in her right mind, she knew that too. I am devastated that she did not leave earth feeling that love. Maybe, maybe in her last few moments she did. Maybe she felt it all as she drew her last breath. Maybe she did, I hope she did.

When Patrick died, I had this vision of him entering heaven with tears pouring from his eyes while he said “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” and Jesus held him and said “It’s over, it’s over. You’re home now.”

I haven’t gotten a vision like that with my mom. Truthfully, I haven’t been able to picture her much at all… I think it is too painful for my mind to recollect at this point.

I am so sad her mind lied so cruelly, and I will forever be sad of that.

I wish so bad I could hold her hand one more time and remind her how much we love her. I wish so desperately she wasn’t gone. I would have loved more than anything to bear our burdens together. I know we all would.

I know this life will be good without my Mom, and I know too well how God brings grace and beauty from horror. But I hate that I have to say goodbye, and I hate that it will be good without my Mom. It reminds me so much of Tolkien’s famous words:

Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.
Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness, and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it’ll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why.

Two Towers

I love you, Mommy. I’ll always love you.

Living through Repeated Suicides — Day 27: One Year Later

July 18, 2025

Heart pounding. Body trembling. Eyes crying. Terror, sheer terror, in the middle of the night. Can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking, can’t breathe.

It’s not like this every night, but it was like this last night.

We spent the past six years since my brother’s suicide saying: “Please, no one else do this. We’re going to make it. We can do this”

We said it regularly. We said it on anniversaries and at random. We said it again and again and again.

We didn’t make it. She didn’t make it. She smiled and shook her head affirmatively as she said it, but she didn’t make it.

When someone in one’s family dies by suicide, all family members instantly fear another suicide. It’s horrific. It’s horrifying — it’s so horrifying it will make you cry until you can’t breathe and scream until you can’t speak.

That was our reality. That was what my family lived through. That’s the pain we lived with for years, and the fear we lived with for six years. And then it happened again.

Again and again and again, we pleaded that none of us would do this. We encouraged honesty, we checked in on one another, and we regularly had this discussion.

It had been six years. I thought we made it. I thought we were all safe. I thought my mom was safe. She said she was safe.

One third — one third of my family has died by suicide. That’s one out of three so far. Do you know how absolutely horrific that is? No, I get it, you “can’t even imagine that,” and I’m honestly grateful that you can’t. It’s a terrifying reality.

Now here we are again, and I am mortified. One in three… one in three… what does that mean? What does that mean for my nieces and nephews? What does that mean for us survivors?

The horror… the sheer horror.

My mother lived a beautiful life. Though she endured significant trauma, she overcame so much. She was excited about life. She had multitudes of plans and dreams. She loved her life, and she didn’t? How on earth am I supposed to reconcile that?

How horrible. With all the beautiful, wonderful, incredible things Mom had going for her… how horrific that she still desired to die more than to live. How absolutely terrifying that, in that vital moment, she could not see the beauty of life. She could not remember her beautiful plans. She could not feel how wonderful her life was. In that moment, she wanted to die more than she wanted all the amazing things she had to live for. I know she loved so much and she was looking forward to so much. I know that. But for some reason, none of that mattered in that moment.

That is absolutely horrifying, and, now, I can’t trust the rest of my family. I can’t trust the other survivors who say they’re not going to do it, because she said that too, and I believed her.

I believed her. I believed her. I believed her, and she’s gone.

I am in anguish. I believed her.

July 18, 2026

I wonder every day whether suicide will take another life from my family. I wouldn’t necessarily characterize this as anxiety, but more as an awareness of a very real possibility for my family members.

“Trust God,” people say. It’s interesting that they assume I do not because I speak plainly of pain’s realities.

I trust God, but I know what human beings are capable of — regardless of what God wants for their lives.

Distraught. On Losing a Parent to Suicide— Day 26: One Year Later

July 17, 2026

Losing a parent feels like losing one’s foundation.

Losing a parent to suicide feels like finding out one’s entire life was a lie.

Distraught – that has been the word most on my mind today.

Suicide makes one relive and rethink every interaction with the lost loved one, and, today, it’s made me angry. I’m angry that my Mom is gone. I’m envious of everyone who gets to have a mom. I see a mother loving her young children, and I think of my mother and how much I know she loved me and our family. But I see a mom with her young children and can’t help but think how could you [Mom] do this to me?

How could she be so hopeless? She truly had so many things she loved, looked forward to, and enjoyed about life. She never uttered a word about hopelessness, but it was there. Maybe it was always there.

Maybe every day for the past 51 years was a blessing, maybe every day was one more day than she thought possible. Who knows? We’ll never know, so it almost doesn’t even matter.

I am distraught. I am distraught that my mother had these thoughts. I am distraught that she couldn’t think of all the beautiful things she had to live for in her last day on earth. I’m distraught because, as hopeless as she clearly was, she did have so much that she loved and so much that she did look forward to.

I am distraught because I am angry with my mother for choosing this. I am angry at God for allowing it — which is likely bad theology, honestly. God gave man the power to choose, and my mother chose poorly on that day. I am distraught because I have to have all of these thoughts and think through all of these things. I am distraught because every day feels like I’m learning something tragic I didn’t know — as if my life hadn’t had enough tragedy in it already.

Thanks, Mom.

I am distraught because I loved my mom. I loved her so much, and any of us would have done anything for her. I am distraught because she hurt immeasurably bad and there is nothing I can ever do about that, ever. I am distraught because I will carry this devastation with me for the rest of my life.

I am distraught because I know that God is good, and that God will bring good and beautiful things into my life — things I will never get to share with my mother, whom I loved so much.

I am distraught because I have to watch my Dad and brothers not have a wife and a mother. I am distraught because I have to watch my husband and my in-laws not have their mother in law. I am distraught because I have to watch her friends not have their friend. My beautiful Momma.

I am distraught because she did this. I am distraught because, in her mind, she had to do this. I am distraught that people’s minds can do that to them.

I am distraught that little things in my house get messy — my bathtub needs cleaned, my library has books and pens that I don’t know what to do with because I’m still using them and still reading them.

I am proud. I am proud that I am brushing my hair every day. I am proud that I am getting up every day. I am proud that I am leaving the house every day. I am proud that Dad and I are going on bike rides every day. I am proud that I am eating every day. I am proud that I am showering [almost] every day — sometimes I don’t remember if I have or haven’t showered, but I know I’m brushing my hair and teeth each day. I am proud that I am exercising every day. I am proud that I am going to therapy. I am proud that I am doing the bare minimum to at least be physically okay. I am proud that I started reading my Bible each day. I am proud that I am letting people help and support me. I am proud of a lot, and I am thankful for a lot.

Parents really are foundational. I feel like a house whose foundation has cracked in half. Restore me, Lord, for my foundation crumbled.

I have enough without my mom. My life is still good without my mom, but, God, I wish I had my mom to share my life with.

July 17, 2026

This post resonates with me deeply.

I vividly remember the utter anguish of those mere 26 days after suicide destroyed her. Back then, it was unfathomable to imagine living without her. Now, I’ve already grown accustomed to her absence, but all of life remains foreign to me. Existential dread fades to a quieter, guttural anxiety; no longer the terror of losing her, but the constant ache and exhausting reality of living without her.

I’m still distraught about everything mentioned a year ago, and I always will be. I’ve learned how to carry the anguish, the disappointment, and the horror of it all.

* * * *

The American Society for Suicide Prevention asserts suicide is not a “choice” that its victims make. Our laws even protect people by means of an insanity defense: defendants admit their actions but cannot be found culpable because of their severe mental impairment (illness).

I’ve read that calling suicide a choice is both inaccurate and increases the stigma around it. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Refusing to label suicide as a choice destigmatizes survivors — no one looks at the survivors of those who have died of cancer and blames family members. No one questions, “what did they do to them?” when someone dies of an illness. No one thinks their family is better because disease takes the life of someone else’s family.

In the same way, I suppose it does destigmatize those who died by suicide — no one calls those who died of an illness cowardly or selfish. No one claims it’s a person’s decision to have a fatal disease.

If we understand mental illness for what it is — an illness — they’re right. Rational people don’t make irrational choices and, ultimately, suicide is quintessentially irrational.

Maybe the act of suicide itself, like every other illness, is not the choice but the consequence of what happens when someone does not seek proper medical treatment and intervention.

The knowledge of having an illness or disease, however, provides the choice [and the responsibility] to seek treatment.

People who ideate — people who think things like “I’d be better off dead,” “they’d be better off dead,” “if I could just die and go to heaven, it wouldn’t have to be like this anymore,” “it would be easier if I were gone” — have the choice and the responsibility to seek treatment. These are neither normal nor safe thoughts: they are clear indicators that you are suicidal. Wishing away your life in the hopes of heaven isn’t faithful, it’s suicidal.

I think some people may not realize how mentally unhealthy they are because it’s common for people to joke about death. I hear phrases like “kill me now,” or “shoot me if ___ happens” or “it’s so boring, I’d rather die than sit through ___” weekly, if not daily, laughed at as sarcastic comments. These phrases normalize suicidal thoughts. Some churches unintentionally perpetuate this in their messages on heaven and Christ’s return — longing for Christ’s return as if He didn’t already bring salvation to earth. It’s not a healthy teaching to preach people to wish their lives away; it’s not preaching salvation, it’s preaching suicide.

Maybe people do not ultimately choose to die by suicide, but many have the opportunity to choose treatment and help for their mental illness.

Whether or not my mom chose to die by suicide, she did choose not to seek treatment. That feels personal. That hurts. That is part of what makes surviving suicide so terribly complex.

* * * *

I choose to live.

Despite the pain, despite the tragedy, despite the judgement, despite the cruelty, despite the anguish, despite the horror, despite how hard it is to carry the weight of what I’ve lived through.

I choose to heal.

To prioritize my mental health, to seek the treatment Mom wouldn’t, to live a full life.

I am so proud for the choices I’ve made and the person I have become since Mom’s life ended in ruins. I’m proud of the truths I’ve been seeking, and the lies I’ve rejected; truths built on fear aren’t truths, they’re distortions hiding insidious motives. All those little things, like brushing my hair every day when breathing felt impossible, have added up. I’m proud of who I am becoming and how I’m healing.

May we seek help when we need it.

May humility guide our thoughts and our beliefs.

May we see God.

May we know his compassionate love.

Deep Sadness — Day 25: One Year Later

July 16, 2026

Grief eclipses everything.

Amazingly, it’s not all tears all the time. The majority of the time, it’s a deep feeling of sadness, it’s nausea, it’s brain fog that prohibits one from completing sentences and tasks, it’s an impenetrable void, it’s a minute consciousness of one’s mind and body, it’s a general feeling of unwell, it’s high anxiety, it’s somehow both lethargy and the need for movement. It’s the inability to smile, or, at least it feels that way a lot of the time. A smile seems like so much effort, but smiles still come naturally, too.

It’s a tiredness, it’s a shortness, it’s an irritability. Yet, gratitude persists as well. Thankfulness for friends, for messages, for meals, and for simple beauties.

It’s so sacred, and it’s so miserable.

We went to Jeremiah’s today — that was the last place Scott and I saw my mother. When we left, a beautiful rainbow wrapped the sky. We marveled.

We didn’t cry, but we did lament. Pausing to remember. Oh, how I wish we’d gotten to say goodbye. How I wish none of this was happening. But, we saw a rainbow. And what do we make of that?

I’m angry, sad, and confused. At the end of the day, I’m just a survivor, writing to detail a bit of what it’s like.

The first time we saw an alligator

Notes Conversations with Mourners — Day 24: One Year Later

July 15, 2025

It’s a nightmare even my mind would not have conjured. I miss my Mom.

Tonight, I thought of how loving my Mom was. She loved with her whole being. In a deaths like this, sometimes it’s incredibly difficult to surmise what is real and what is true. It is true that my Mom loved deeply, and that she loved well.

Notes on Conversations with the Bereaved:

It’s okay to ask “How are you doing?” It’s a simple phrase that shows you care, but monitor your tone while asking. There’s a significant difference between an excited “how are you!?” and an empathetic, “so, how are you doing?” Odds are, a mourner is not likely to match excited energy.

It’s not okay to ignore the situation. I get it — it’s awkward and you may not know what to say nor how to act, but a simple acknowledgment of “I’m sorry for your loss,” is preferable to pretending everything is normal. Occasions where I feel like I have to act “normal” — where I have to pretend to ignore the grief that’s on my brain 100% of the time — are my least favorite.

It’s okay to ask if a mourner wants to talk about it — if you’re close friends with the mourner, they may crave the kindness of a listening friend. If you are more of a stranger to the bereaved individual, the mourner may be incredibly uncomfortable talking about the situation. No matter the reaction, it’s okay to ask. Better to ask than to ignore.

Baskin Robbins — Day 23: One Year Later

July 14, 2025

Adrenalin has faded. Shock and denial slowly sift away, and reality rises like the sun in my tired mind. Tears fall more readily, memories pour out more steadily, and I remain dazed.

Grief shrouds everything, creating fog in every way. I don’t realize how dense the brain fog is until I attempt to have a conversation — it’s like I can barely remember to finish a sentence.

Any chores accomplished are simply done by an automatic response from years of habit. If I take a sweater off or a pair of sunglasses, I place them down and I will completely forget about them, leaving tattered articles throughout the house.

We were quite social today, which is both nice and weird. It’s like re-acclimating into society: it reminds me of being at a restaurant in a foreign country where I don’t know the language or the customs. We’re all still eating, which is pretty universal, but everything else feels so different.

I’m so tired. So, so, tired.

Everything is sad — it’s the opposite of rose-colored glasses. It’s like seeing everything in deep shades of blue and gray, muting colors from the world.

July 14, 2026

Update: I’m still tired. All. The. Time.

Least favorite phrase people regularly say to me: “Tired?? You’re too young to be tired.”

Also way too young to lose a sibling and a parent, but thank you for letting me know that I shouldn’t be tired. It really helps me feel even more isolated and out of place from people my age.

I’m traveling right now for work, and this Baskin Robbins happened to be right by my hotel. I saw my photo from last year and decided to go and honor Momma — B&R was her favorite ice cream shop.