This week holds many milestones for me.
Some are marked on the calendar, others live quietly in the tender spaces of my heart.
Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of my cancer surgery.
It’s also the memorial date for my mom.
And a week ago, I celebrated another birthday.
I often find myself wondering why this stretch of days carries such a complex mix of emotions — sadness, a dull ache of loss, and even a flicker of anger. But then I glance at the calendar, and I remember.
The year 2020 was a storm I will never forget.
It was the year when loss became layered.
The year my body held pain and my heart carried too much all at once.
I can still picture myself sitting in the backyard with my family, feeling the weight of it all. The sickness in my stomach was more than physical — it was fear, uncertainty, and grief tangled together. Everything felt fragile.
2020 changed me. It changed the way I see the world and the way I move through it. It changed many of my relationships. It shifted how I hold trust. And if I’m honest, it hasn’t all been neat or tidy. There’s still anger tucked in there — quiet at times, sharp at others. I don’t want it, but it’s part of what remains. It sits beside a new kind of clarity, a deeper awareness of what I can no longer ignore. Some things once felt unshakable, but now I see them differently. And I can’t unknow what I know.
And woven through all of this is the ache that Evan isn’t here. My son should be here. He should be part of the conversations, the milestones, the quiet moments of remembering. His absence isn’t loud to the world, but it is a constant hum in my heart — a space that will always belong to him. I feel it in these weeks especially.
And then there’s Alex. My heart aches for all he has had to walk through — all that he has carried as a brother, as a son, as someone who has also felt the weight of loss. I see how it’s shaped him. How it still does. Grief isn’t something we each carry alone; it lives in the spaces between us, too.
Though time has softened some of the edges, the memories remain. Not as sharp or unbearable as they once were — but present, steady, and real.
These anniversaries are more than dates. They are reminders of all that changed and all that I survived.
I haven’t fully completed this chapter. There are parts of that week that still ache. But I also know healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the echo of what was, while still reaching toward what is.
I will never wish those days on anyone. And yet, they have shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.
And now, as I sit with this week once again, I can feel the ache — but I can also feel the strength I’ve built along the way. The work I’ve done to tend to my grief has brought me to a steadier place. I can hold both the sorrow and the gratitude together now. Both are true. And both matter.
This week, I honor what was lost.
I honor what remains.
And I honor the quiet strength that has carried me this far.
