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It’s been a while since I’ve written here. Not because there hasn’t been anything to say—but because sometimes the weight of it all requires you to step back, to focus on simply getting through the days. I needed time to tend to my own healing, to hold space for the waves of grief that come without warning, and to quietly make it through moments that should have been filled with joy. We faced another anniversary. Another Christmas. Her dad’s 50th birthday. Each one a mileston

There are moments when the house still remembers how to be loud—laughter at the sink, a show murmuring in the background, sisters braiding joy into ordinary chores. I turn toward the doorway and, for a breath, expect to see Amelia there. Grief has made time strange: some days are endless, some vanish; love, somehow, keeps stretching to meet them both. I am a mother learning to live with an empty space that is anything but empty. I set the table differently. I hold the quiet w

Watching Zosia navigate this anniversary shattered me. I stood there, helpless, knowing there was nothing I could do to take away her pain. I can’t fix this for her. I don’t have a map for this terrain. How do you guide your 15-year-old—your 14-year-old, your 17-year-old—through a journey no child should have to take? Zosia is my tender soul, my shadow. She feels my sorrow as if it were her own and tries to carry it, just as I ache to carry hers. I suspect she holds back, gua

Today marks one year since Amelia was taken from us by drunk drivers. But they didn’t just take her—they stole laughter, plans, and countless moments that should have been ours. Every joy now carries a shadow of grief, and losing her has changed me in ways I’m still discovering every single day. I’m keeping this brief because words feel small compared to the weight of this loss. One year sounds like a milestone, but the truth is, every day is an anniversary. Every day, we liv