The hardest part of losing my son is living in the “after.” Suicide divided my life into before and after. I replay our final conversations. I wrestled with guilt. I questioned God. I lived in a fog of disbelief, moving through days that felt heavy and unreal. Yet what has sustained me is not trying to conquer grief, but learning to walk with it. I rediscovered faith. His death by suicide still leaves me grappling with how someone so gentle and creative could suffer so deeply

Some days, the emptiness feels overwhelming. I trust God, yet I remain human. I grieve. I long for what might have been. I know death does not have the final word and that Jesus conquered the grave, but faith does not erase the ache. It gives me permission to bring my brokenness honestly before God. Scripture reminds me, “See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). I hold onto that promise, even when I cannot yet see the new thing

Motherhood taught me patience I did not know I had. It invited me to notice beauty in small, ordinary moments, a tiny hand holding mine, a laugh that could fill an entire room. It shaped me with humility and showed me how deeply a heart can stretch when rooted in love. Now, decades later, my firstborn is a mother herself to two beautiful little girls. They have been, and continue to be, sources of deep joy and steady light, especially on days when life and grief feel overwhel