The Milestones I’m Missing😢

There are moments in life we’re supposed to hold close forever—the milestones that mark our children’s growth. First steps, first day of school, birthdays, braces, middle school dances, all those “little big” things that add up to a lifetime of memories.

And here I am… missing them. Watching from the sidelines of my own children’s lives. It’s a pain that cuts so deep it feels like failure, like disappointment, like I’ve somehow let them down—even though I know in my soul this separation was forced and unjust. Still, the guilt creeps in, whispering, “You should have been there.”

The truth is, I don’t always know what to do with that kind of heartache. Some days, depression sits heavy on my chest, stealing my breath and convincing me I’ll never climb out of this dark place. I get lost in the “what-ifs.” What if they think I don’t care? What if they forget how much I love them? What if the system wins and these years are just… gone?

I try to fight those thoughts. I remind myself: I am their mother. My love doesn’t expire, it doesn’t fade, and it doesn’t break under distance or silence. But it’s hard. God, it’s so hard. Some nights I just stare at the ceiling, wishing for one more chance to hear their laughter or hold them close.

If you’ve ever missed milestones in your child’s life—whether because of death, distance, or injustice—you know this pain. It’s a unique kind of grief: mourning memories you were supposed to be a part of.

I don’t have all the answers. I stumble through the heartache, I wrestle with depression, and some days I barely feel like I’m standing. But I keep loving. I keep hoping. I keep holding onto the belief that one day, I won’t miss another milestone—that one day, I’ll be there again, cheering them on, watching them shine.

Until then, I write. I cry. I pray. And I remind myself: even in the silence, I’m still their mom. Always.

---

✨ Have you ever missed an important milestone in your child’s life? How did you cope with the weight of that grief? Please share your thoughts or words of encouragement in the comments—I’d love to hear from you.

🎈Vent Post🎈

Tomorrow is my daughter Kaylee’s 12th birthday. And instead of celebrating with her like a mother should, I’m sitting here broken, angry, and hurting.

I can’t talk to her. I can’t see her. I can’t even send her a birthday gift. Why? Because of a restraining order that was built out of deceit and lies. A legal wall that should have never been put between a mother and her children.

It’s gut-wrenching to know I’m missing this milestone—twelve years old. I should be there for the smiles, the cake, the hugs. Instead, I’m left with silence. And I hate it. I hate this system. I hate the injustice. I hate missing moments that I’ll never get back.

But even through this pain, my love doesn’t stop. Kaylee, if you could somehow read these words, know your mama loves you with everything she has. Always has, always will.

To every parent out there who has had a child unjustly ripped away—my heart is with you. This pain is unbearable, but we keep going. We keep fighting. Because love doesn’t quit.

💌 Letter to my Kaylee 💌

💌 Letter to Kaylee

My Sweet Kaylee,

Tomorrow you turn 12 years old. Twelve. My baby is stepping into another year of life, and I can’t even begin to say how proud I am of you. You’re growing, learning, and becoming the beautiful young woman I always knew you would be.

But Kaylee… it hurts. It hurts so bad that I can’t be there. I can’t hug you, laugh with you, or even hear your voice. I can’t bring you a gift or watch you blow out your candles. And it’s not because I don’t want to—it’s because of lies, deceit, and an unfair system that has wrongfully kept me away from you and your sister.

Still, no paper, no distance, no silence can ever erase the love I have for you. You are my heart, my sunshine, my reason for fighting every single day.

So when you close your eyes tomorrow to make your birthday wish, know that your mama is right here, wishing alongside you—that you feel my love in your heart, even if you can’t see me.

Happy Birthday, Kaylee. I love you forever and always.

Love,

Mommy

Letting Go...

Letting Go of People, Letting Go of a Life

One of the hardest parts of recovery isn’t just putting down the drink or the drugs—it’s letting go of the people and the life that went with it. Nobody really prepares you for that part.

When I was in the middle of it, I thought those people were my family. We laughed together, we cried together, we numbed the pain together. But the truth is, our bond wasn’t built on love—it was built on survival, on staying stuck in the same cycle. And when you decide to break the cycle, you start to see just how much of it was never real.

Cutting people out of my life has been one of the hardest and most painful things I’ve ever had to do. I didn’t just lose friends—I lost a lifestyle, a routine, a sense of belonging. When you’re used to calling someone every time you’re bored, lonely, or hurting, the silence afterward is loud. That silence is where I struggled most. That silence is usually what pulled me back to relapse.

I can’t even count how many times I told myself, “Maybe I can still hang out, I just won’t use.” But the truth is, for me, that never worked. Being around it meant eventually doing it. And I had to accept that recovery meant building an entirely new life from scratch—and that’s terrifying.

But here’s the thing: I’m grateful for those lessons. I had to walk through the pain of letting go to understand what real healing looks like. I had to stumble and relapse to realize how important my environment is, how much who I surround myself with truly matters.

Recovery is not just about staying sober—it’s about protecting your peace, your heart, and your future. And sometimes that means walking away from people you love, so you can love yourself enough to survive.

To anyone going through this: I see you. I know how lonely it feels. But that emptiness eventually makes room for better things—new connections, real love, true belonging. The kind that doesn’t require you to destroy yourself to fit in.

So today, I can say this: I’m glad I went through the hurt of cutting ties, because it taught me how much I want to live.

What’s one of the hardest changes you’ve had to make in your own healing or recovery—and how did it shape who you are today?

🤍The Slow Art of Healing🤍

Healing doesn’t look the same every day. Some days it feels like freedom, like sunlight finally breaking through after a storm. Other days, it feels like dragging your feet through mud, exhausted, questioning if you’re moving at all. And then there are the quiet in-between days, the ones where nothing feels different, but somehow you made it through—and that is healing too.

For so long, I thought healing meant “getting over it.” I thought one day I’d just wake up, and the weight of grief, loss, trauma, or heartbreak would be gone. But healing isn’t about forgetting, and it isn’t about pretending. It’s about learning to live with your scars, to breathe alongside the pain, and to create new joys in the middle of it all.

Lately, I’ve started noticing the little signs of my own healing:

I can laugh at things that used to make me cry.

I can let myself rest without guilt.

I can look in the mirror and see someone who has survived, not someone who is broken.

Healing is not linear—it’s not supposed to be. There will be setbacks, moments of doubt, and nights when the pain feels brand new. But then there will be mornings when you realize you’ve grown stronger without even noticing. That is the slow art of healing: the courage to keep showing up, even when it’s messy.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own healing journey, please know—you don’t have to rush it. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Every breath you take, every time you choose to keep going, is proof that you are healing.

So I’ll ask you this:

What’s one small thing that’s been part of your healing lately, something you’re proud of—even if no one else sees it?

Becoming Whole

Once, I wore my hurt like a second skin,

silent, heavy, unseen.

I wandered, half-shadow,

half-hope.

 

But therapy —

gentle as rain,

fierce as fire —

called me back to myself.

 

It taught me

to touch my own wounds without flinching,

to name the monsters without fear,

to love even the broken corners of me.

 

It showed me:

I am not my damage.

I am not my storms.

I am the sky that holds them,

the earth that endures them,

the soul that outlives them.

 

Now, piece by piece,

breath by breath,

I am gathering myself

like scattered stars

into a new constellation —

one only I could create.

 

I am not healed.

I am healing.

I am not perfect.

I am powerful.

 

And oh,

how beautiful it is

to rise.

My New Promises to Myself

 Today,

I promise myself this:

I will no longer bleed for those who do not bandage.

I will no longer shrink to fit spaces too small for my fire.

I will honor the bruises, the battle scars,

but I will not let them be my name.

For my daughters —

my heart outside my body —

I promise to keep fighting forward,

even when the night feels endless.

I promise to show them a mother

who did not bow to her brokenness,

but built ladders from it instead.

For my mind —

this battlefield, this garden —

I promise to nurture it,

to rest when needed,

to seek help without shame,

to choose healing again and again,

even on the days it feels like the hardest climb.

For my spirit —

the quiet ember within —

I promise gentleness.

I promise forgiveness.

I promise patience,

for the becoming is not swift,

but it is sure.

For my life —

the one fierce, beautiful life I get —

I promise to live.

Not just survive.

Not just exist.

But to laugh with my whole chest,

to cry when I must,

to dance like no one kept score,

to love like I’ve never been broken.

I promise to honor every shattered piece that got me here.

And I promise —

with steady hands and a stubborn heart —

to build something so breathtaking from the wreckage

that even the stars will pause to watch.

Today,

I choose me.

Today,

I promise:

I will not give up on the woman I am becoming.

If I Am Gone

(A Letter for the Ones I Love)

 

To my beautiful daughters, my cherished sisters, my ever-loving brother, my beloved nieces and nephews, and to my parents —

the ones who gave me life,

the ones who gave me purpose,

the ones who made every breath worth fighting for:

 

If you are reading this, it means my battles won.

Not because I was weak.

Not because I didn’t love you enough.

Not because I gave up.

But because sometimes, no matter how hard we fight,

the weight inside becomes heavier than the body can carry.

 

I need you to know —

I need you to know —

it was never about not loving you enough.

You were my light, every single day, even on the darkest ones.

You were my heartbeat, my reason, my wild hope.

 

I tried.

God, I tried harder than anyone knows.

I wore my smiles like armor, my laughter like a shield,

and I pushed through pain so deep it could have swallowed whole mountains.

 

I wasn't as strong as you all thought I was —

not all the time.

Sometimes, being strong means knowing when you can't keep pretending.

Sometimes, being strong is simply loving so hard and so deeply that it breaks you open.

 

Please don't carry guilt.

Please don't wonder what you could have done.

You were enough for me.

You were always enough.

 

I hope you remember me not as someone who gave up,

but as someone who loved with every fractured piece of her heart,

someone who fought silent wars every day and still showed up smiling for the ones she loved.

 

My girls, my sisters, my family—

You were my greatest pride.

My sweetest blessing.

My reason for waking, my prayers whispered into the night.

 

I will love you beyond breath, beyond time, beyond life itself.

And I will be with you —

in every sunrise,

in every song you hum without thinking,

in every quiet moment when you feel a presence near your heart.

 

Carry me with you, but do not let sorrow be my final gift to you.

I want you to laugh loudly, love deeply, live bravely.

I want you to know you were, and always will be, my heart’s greatest masterpiece.

 

I love you forever.

Please, love each other fiercely for me.

Never doubt your worth.

Never stop fighting for your joy.

 

You are my legacy.

You are my light.

 

Always yours,

Mommy

aka

Robin

Waking Up With My Babies on My Mind

 This morning I woke up with all my children heavy on my heart—but especially my son. If you’ve ever lost a child, I want to say from the bottom of my soul: I am so sorry. That pain is one no mother, no parent, should ever have to carry. It’s a wound that never fully heals, and my heart is with you completely.

This space, this little corner of the internet, can be a place for us. A place where we remember, honor, and speak our children’s names out loud without shame or fear of “making people uncomfortable.” If you’ve lost a child, I invite you to share here. 📧Post 📧 a 📸 picture 📸 of your 🚼 little 🚼 one, or your 🧍‍♂️grown child🧍‍♂️, or whatever age they were when they left this world. If you don’t have a picture, just ⬇️ drop ⬇️their name, their dates, or even just a memory that keeps them alive in your heart. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Sometimes even typing their name can feel like a small act of keeping them here with us.

I’ll start with mine. My son- Joshua Daniel Craig- I only got two and a half months with him, but in those short weeks, he changed my whole world. He made me a mother in a way that nothing else ever could. Losing him was when life really hit me for the first time—hit me in a way that left scars, but also shaped the person I am today and the path I’ve been walking ever since.

I will talk about my son often, because he is worth talking about. Just like your child is worth talking about. They matter. Their lives mattered, whether it was for minutes, months, or decades.

So, if you feel led, use this post as a place to honor your baby, too. Let’s make it a thread of love, remembrance, and support for one another.

We may walk through this pain, but we don’t have to walk it alone.

Unbroken

I gave them all, my heart, my soul,

The love that made me feel whole.

In every step, I watched them grow,

Protecting them, through highs and lows.

I kept them safe, my greatest task,

In warmth and care, I wore no mask.

A home of peace, a place to dream,

Where love flowed free, or so it seemed.

But lies were told, and hearts betrayed,

By one who saw their light, yet swayed.

Aunt’s love for them turned bitter, cold,

And with her words, the truth was sold.

She spun her tale, so full of strife,

A story that cut deep like a knife.

But those who knew me, who saw the truth,

Would stand beside me, speak of youth.

They saw the mom who gave her all,

Through every rise, through every fall.

I never failed them, never did harm,

I kept them close, safe from alarm.

Though you're in New York, and I'm in Kentucky,

The distance grows, but my love’s still lucky.

I’ve faced my battles, yet I stand tall,

But nothing can break the love that won’t fall.

Please forgive me for the mistake I made,

For trusting her with hearts she betrayed.

For letting you visit, not knowing the cost,

Now I’m fighting, no matter what’s lost.

My daughters, my reason, my breath, my fight,

You are my dawn, my endless light.

No matter the lies that try to divide,

My love for you, will never subside.

I’ll never stop, no matter the pain,

Until you’re in my arms, safe once again.

For you are mine, and I am yours,

Our bond unbroken, forever yours.

Will I ever forgive myself?

Maybe I deserve this darkness. Maybe I deserve this pain, this emptiness, and everything I’m putting myself through mentally. I haven’t been able to get my daughters home yet, and because of that, I can’t protect them from so far away. The thought that they might feel like I’ve abandoned them, like I don’t care, or that I’m not fighting for them breaks me even more.

I feel like I’ve failed them in the worst way, and maybe this pain is my punishment. Maybe I deserve every bit of it for not being able to fix this, for not being able to bring them back where they belong—with me.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. This pain, this darkness, and this emptiness have become my new normal, and honestly, I feel like I totally deserve it. My heart aches in ways I can’t describe, and I don’t know how to pull myself out of this. I just hope my daughters know I love them more than anything in this world, even if I feel like I don’t deserve them.

Lost in the fog

A phantom self, a mirrored maze,

Where shadows dance and sunlight frays.

A mind adrift, a soul in strife,

Caught in the undertow of life.

Sobriety's shore, a distant gleam,

While waves of darkness crash and scream.

Depression's grip, a heavy hand,

Dragging her spirit through the sand.

A tangled web of what once was,

Lost in the fog, a mournful fuss.

Searching for clarity, a guiding light,

To pierce the darkness, make things right.

A battle waged, within her core,

To find herself, to once explore.

With every step, a fragile gain,

Resilience growing, easing pain.

She'll rise above, with strength untold,

Her story written, yet to unfold.

A warrior's heart, a spirit's might,

Emerging from the darkest night.

The Bittersweet Sting of First Day Pictures

 

This morning, my dad sent me new pictures of my girls. At first glance, they lit up my whole world — their smiles, their bright eyes, their growing confidence. My babies, now young ladies, standing there on the first day of school.

There was one of them together, side by side, the way sisters should be — united, strong, growing up way too fast. Then there was another, with l them by their lockers. That simple image broke me. A locker isn’t just a locker — it’s middle school, independence, a milestone I should’ve been there to celebrate with them.

I broke. The tears came so hard I was sobbing, chest tight, almost hysterical. Because while I am so grateful for these moments captured and shared with me, I’m also gutted by the reality that I’m not there and the insane extent we (me, my parents, my sisters & brother & basically everyone from their life before they went to NY) have to take to even get new pictures of them. It went from getting sent pics almost daily to this being only the 2nd time in over a year  someone "snuck" and sent me puctures of my daughters. 

The crazy thing is- I havent done a single thing to deserve this. I've not harassed her or them, I have not disrespected her or them, I have always been respectful because that's who I am and how I was raised by my parents. 

Regardless I should have been the one taking those pictures. I should have been the one brushing their hair, checking their outfits, telling them they look perfect, and sending them off with a kiss and a prayer.

They’re in middle school now — years I’ll never get back, moments that are slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold on. It’s not fair. It’s so damn hard.

There’s this cruel tug-of-war between gratitude and grief. Gratitude because at least I get to see them in new pictures, because it means they’re still smiling and thriving. Grief because every image is proof of what I’m missing, of the milestones I’m not present for, of memories being made without me.

No mother should have to love her children through a screen. No mother should have to ache like this just to see her daughters grow.

I don’t have the answers, but I know one thing: the love I carry for them is unshakable. And I will keep fighting through this pain, even when it feels unbearable. Because they’re my girls. They’re my heart. And no matter the distance, that bond cannot be broken.

I'm curious on how often this actually happens simply from being uneducated, unaware or not familiar with even how to navigate the legal or family court systems leaving them in the same position I am in right now. 

⬇️📧📨Drop in the comments or send me a message 📨📧⬇️  Share your story-- at this point that's all we can do is share our story and hope it gets hurt by the right person who can help. ❤️❤️❤️

Crazy How Life Works: Finding Peace with My Ex

If you told me a few years ago that I’d be sitting here excited about reconnecting with my ex-husband, I would’ve laughed and said, “Yeah, right.” Back then, we couldn’t even be in the same room without tension filling the air. But life has a funny way of humbling you and showing you what really matters. 

Today, I can honestly say it feels good. We can laugh, cut up, and joke again—but more importantly, we can be a shoulder for each other. That means the world to me because at one point, before the marriage fell apart, he was my best friend. He’s the father of my kids, and no matter what happened between us, that bond will always matter. 

What surprises me the most is how easy our friendship came back. FaceTiming, talking on the phone—it’s not awkward at all. It feels natural, like two people who’ve grown up, learned their lessons, and realized the value of peace. We can talk about everything: life, current relationships, and most importantly, how to do what’s best for our kids. And unlike before, we’re not fueled by jealousy, anger, or ego. We have boundaries now, and that makes all the difference. 

One thing that really touches me? He’s not just being friendly—he’s supportive. He knows I’m a good mom, and he’s never once challenged that. In fact, he wants to help me get the kids back home where they belong. That kind of growth and teamwork gives me hope. It shows me people can change for the better when they want to. 

Seeing him doing better than he probably ever has in his adult life puts me at peace. It proves healing is possible. It shows that co-parenting doesn’t have to feel like a battlefield—it can actually feel like a partnership when both people let go of the past and focus on what really matters: the kids. 

So, let me ask you this: 
➡️ Have you ever reached a point where you and your ex could put everything aside for the kids? 
➡️ Or are you still in that place where it’s nothing but tension and old wounds? 

Be honest—because at the end of the day, holding on to anger doesn’t just hurt you, it hurts the kids, too.  

Just for fun or even for your kiddos-- share a pic of you with your ex when being happy was a norm for ya'll (or the closest thing to it)

Title: The Headache of Lawyers, Warrants, and Trying to Prove Yourself

Today has been one of those days—the kind where life reminds you that nothing in the legal system is simple. I never thought I’d be here stressing about hiring a lawyer just so my probation doesn’t get revoked… all because of something that happened while I was in the hospital back in March fighting serious health problems.

 

From what I understand, it might even be a clerical or paperwork mix-up. But, of course, mix that with my past mistakes—those failed drug screens when I first got out—and suddenly it feels like the whole weight of my past is stacked against me. Those weren’t the main reason for this hearing, but they definitely didn’t help.

 

The thing is, I have documentation—loads and loads of it—to show what really happened and that everything isn’t entirely my fault. If this were all on me, I’d own it. I have no problem taking accountability when it’s due. But this time, it’s not that simple.

 

Now the headache and stress of navigating the legal system is just beginning for me. Once this warrant gets lifted, I’ll finally be able to get so much of my life back on track. That’s the goal.

 

I’m going to post my journey as I go through this because I know I’m not the only one. If you’ve ever faced something like this—or even something that made you feel like the system was working against you—drop a comment or send me a message. I’d love to hear your story, your advice, or just your thoughts.

 

Here’s to fighting the battles no one sees and refusing to give up.

I AM STILL HERE ! ! ! !

 The cracks come quiet at first—

Hairline fractures in my thoughts.

A pressure building like thunder in my blood.

My hands shake,

My heartbeat riots,

And then—

I’m gone.

 

Gone into the blur,

Into the deep where the floor collapses

And the walls forget my name.

 

Pieces of me scatter like broken glass

Across a room no one else can enter.

Somewhere in the dark,

Other voices wake—

Ones that wear my face,

Ones that breathe my air,

Ones that live like thieves inside my bones.

 

I don’t know what they’ll take.

I don’t know what they’ll break.

And that terrifies me.

Because I love too hard

To hurt someone without knowing.

Because I’ve spent years building trust,

And I can burn it down in minutes I don’t remember.......

“Some Mornings”

Some mornings,

I wake up a stranger to my own skin.

Memories feel borrowed.

Smiles feel stitched in.

The mirror doesn’t lie—

but it doesn’t always tell the truth either.

There are days I move like mist,

barely formed, barely here.

I walk through the hours

like a house with shifting halls.

Some doors open gently.

Some slam shut without cause.

It’s a war I fight in silence,

a storm no one sees.

Each breath, a truce.

Each heartbeat, a plea.

And yet—

somehow—

I rise.

Even when the sky feels too heavy to wear,

even when I don’t know who I am under my own name,

I rise.

Not every day is triumphant.

Some are just survived.

But even survival—

is sacred.

Because each sunrise

is a question I choose to answer.

Each moment

is a thread I refuse to let unravel.

And if I’m many things,

then let them all be brave.

If I’m fractured,

then let the light pour through the cracks.

There’s no map for this mind,

but still—I walk.

No compass,

but still—I hope.

Because somewhere beyond the shadows

is a day that will not demand I fight.

A day that meets me softly,

and says,

You made it. You’re whole. You’re home.

Fragments in the fog

There are pieces of me scattered,

like leaves in a storm,

Each one whispering stories

in a voice not quite warm.

I wake in a life

that feels borrowed, not mine,

Wearing faces like costumes,

crossing over each line.

I’ve been mother and stranger,

the fighter and child,

Been silent and screaming,

been tender and wild.

Time slips like water

through fingers too numb,

Trying to recall

where the bruises came from.

But still—I endure.

Though the mirror may lie,

Though my soul bears the weight

of unanswered "why?"

I am learning to gather

the shards of my name,

To thread every version

with hope through the pain.

I speak to the shadows—

they don't rule me now.

I’m planting my roots

though I never learned how.

The past has its claws,

but I’m dulling their grip.

Hope is the lantern

I cling to, white-knipped.

Because maybe—just maybe—

the sun's on its way,

To rise through the wreckage

and bring me a day

Where I’m whole in my heart,

though still healing inside,

Where I live without hiding,

no more needing to hide.

So I write and I weep,

I scream and I pray,

But I will not give in—

I’m creating my day.

"The Battle Scars I Honor"

I wear my scars

like medals,

like old songs written into my skin.

Each one tells a story —

not of defeat,

but of a woman 

who would not stay down.

There is the scar 

shaped like loneliness —

the nights I cried out 

into a dark that didn’t answer,

and kept breathing anyway.

There is the scar 

shaped like silence —

the times I swallowed my truth

because the world 

told me it was too much,

and still, 

my soul sang beneath it all.

There is the scar 

shaped like betrayal —

trust torn from my hands 

like fragile paper,

yet I learned to rebuild,

stronger, 

wiser, 

fiercer.

There is the scar 

shaped like missing my girls —

a hollow that could have devoured me,

but instead made me 

softer,

deeper,

wider in love 

than I ever knew possible.

There are the invisible scars —

the ones you can’t see,

carved into my mind 

by battles with storms

no one else could feel.

And yet here I stand —

whole, 

scarred, 

sacred.

I no longer hide them.

I no longer ache to erase them.

They are my proof:

I lived.

I fought.

I endured.

I became.

My scars are the script of my survival,

the map of every road 

I dared to crawl through,

the anthem of a woman 

who refused to be silenced.

I honor them.

I bless them.

I carry them with pride,

like a warrior wears her armor 

home from war.

Because I am not broken.

I am battle-forged.

And I am still — gloriously —here!

A Note to you from me!

This time of year is heavy for me in ways that words struggle to carry. Mother’s Day is supposed to be a time of love, celebration, and family—but for me, it’s tangled with deep pain.

My son passed away the day before what should’ve been my very first Mother’s Day. And this year, the day before Mother’s Day marks the day I had to lay him to rest. That pain… it never left. It just shifted and settled deep in places no one can see.

Mother’s Day also falls on the birthday shared by two people I love dearly—my dad and my big sister. But even that joy feels distant right now, like it's trapped behind a wall of grief I can’t climb over. And without my daughters here with me, that wall grows taller. The silence around me echoes with what I’m missing.

I’m not okay right now. I’m mentally beating myself up and the weight is getting harder to carry. I wish I could just "wait it out," but it doesn't work like that. These days don’t just pass—they leave marks that linger long after the calendar moves on.

So if I’m distant… if I don’t reply to messages or comments… please know it’s not personal. I’m just trying to survive the storm in my soul. I need a few days to sit with this pain, to feel it, and maybe one day, to heal a little more.

Thanks for giving me that space. And if you’re holding your babies close this Mother’s Day, please hold them a little tighter—for those of us who can’t.

Dear Me- A Letter to myself

Dear Me, the One Carrying All the Grief,

I see you. I feel every ache in your chest, every tear you’ve cried when no one was watching, every scream you’ve swallowed just to make it through another hour. You are not invisible to me—I know the depth of your love, your heartbreak, and how much you're hurting without Joshua, Natilee and Kaylee.

But I want you to hear something important from me—from us.

You are not alone.

We are still here. We’ve survived storms before, even the kind that rip everything up by the roots. And though this grief feels endless, like it might swallow us whole, I promise you: healing is not only possible, it is ours to claim.

It’s okay to rest, to fall apart, to scream if you have to. But let’s also start walking, step by step, toward something better—for the girls-- and for us. They still need us to be strong. To fight smart. To be the mama they can come back to. Whole. Steady. Ready.

So here’s what I want us to try incorporating into some type of routine and normalcy:

Let’s start talking again—to someone safe. A therapist. A friend. Or just write it out. No filter. 

Let’s nourish our body. Eat something warm, even if it’s just soup. Drink water. Breathe deep.

Let’s get fresh air. Even for five minutes. Let the sun remind us we’re still alive.

Let’s lean into our faith, our purpose, and our fight. This is not the end of our story.

Let’s consider asking for help—real help. If we need inpatient care, that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom. That’s strength.

Our daughters deserve the best version of us, and deep down, we do too. You don’t have to carry this weight alone anymore. I’m here. We’re in this together. And I love you—every fractured, tired, beautiful part of you.

Let’s begin again. For them. For us. For the woman we are still becoming.

With all the love and strength we’ve still got left,

Me

The Love That Won’t Let Go

I cannot stop this heart of mine,

Though bruised and broken, it still shines.

For even in the darkest pain,

It whispers softly, calls your name.

The wounds you left, they cut so deep,

Yet still, my love, you haunt my sleep.

For every tear that fell like rain,

There’s laughter that still soothes the pain.

The fire burned, the storm would rage,

We tore each other, page by page.

But in between the shattered nights,

Were moments bathed in golden light.

Your hands, though harsh, have also healed,

Your words, though sharp, have warmth revealed.

And when we soared, the world stood still—

A love so fierce, a force, a thrill.

I know the scars, I bear them well,

Yet in your arms, I used to dwell.

And though the past still holds its weight,

The love remains—it won’t abate.

But maybe time has paved the way,

For change to bloom, for hearts to stay.

I know there’s hope still left for us,

Yet fear still lingers, doubt still tugs.

I don’t want history to repeat,

To taste the bitter with the sweet.

But people change, I’ve seen it too,

And love can make the old brand new.

So tell me now, is this our time?

To heal, to trust, to realign?

Can love rebuild what once was lost,

And stand unshaken through the cost?

Because I know what’s in my heart,

I’ve known it from the very start.

But now it’s time for me to see—

If us means just as much to you as it does to me.

A Girl Still Dreams

I cradle a love the world mustn’t see,

Tucked in the hush of what might never be.

He walks with another, hand in her hand,

While I trace forever in shifting sand.

By day I smile, I laugh, I play—

But night steals the armor I wear in the day.

His voice, like a whisper carved into stone,

Feels like home… though I’m not his own.

I’ve danced in the silence between the lines,

Kissed him in shadows where no light shines.

Years have passed like a soft-spoken hymn,

Each moment with him—my heart on a whim.

I know what is right, I know what is true,

Yet love doesn’t always ask permission to bloom.

It bloomed like spring through winter’s deceit,

Even knowing it wouldn’t be mine to keep.

I’ve been the secret, the pause in his song,

Still, I’ve held on—perhaps too long.

Not out of weakness, not for the thrill,

But because something in me believes he will…

Maybe one day—when stars realign,

He’ll look at me not as borrowed, but mine.

'Til then I wait in quiet esteem,

Faithful to love…

And the girl who still dreams.