Being A Rock

I don’t talk about this often, but I lost my mom to murder. For a long time, I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole again. Grief became the air I breathed—heavy, unrelenting, and always there.

And then I became a mom. Somehow, I was learning how to nurture life while carrying the weight of a loss that felt impossible to heal from. Some days it broke me. Some days it saved me.

The truth is, I didn’t notice I was slowly putting myself back together. Healing isn’t neat—it’s not a straight line. It’s messy, quiet, and sometimes you don’t even recognize it while it’s happening.

I only realized how far I’d come when I was able to sit with someone else in their grief. To listen, to hold space, to remind them that they weren’t alone. In that moment, I saw myself—not just as someone who had lost, but as someone who had survived.

I’m still healing. I always will be. But I’m also living, loving, and learning. And that’s something my mom would be proud of.