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
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