I can’t sit still. It’s like my body is in constant motion—my mind never quiet, always running, racing to outrun the pain that threatens to consume me. I pray, I cry, I pace the floors, I work. Anything to keep from being swallowed whole by this relentless storm of grief. There are moments when I wish I could shut everything out, close off to the world, and pretend none of this is happening. I tell myself that I should be strong, that I should keep it all inside. But the silence presses too hard, too fast. It demands attention. It demands release.
So, I speak. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice. The words come tumbling out—messy, unpolished, raw. They’re not what I intended, but they’re all I have. I don’t want to cry anymore. I don’t want to feel this weight, this unbearable pain, but the tears keep coming. They flow uncontrollably, and with each one, it feels like something inside me breaks just a little more. It’s not just the tears. It’s the ache in my body, the tightness in my chest, the way my stomach twists with the weight of it all. The exhaustion seeps deep into my bones, making each step feel heavy, burdensome. I long for peace, but it feels so far away.
And yet, amidst all of this turmoil, there’s a quiet thread of gratitude that weaves its way through the chaos. I’m grateful for the people who reach out to me, for the ones who try to help carry the weight, even when I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t always know how to accept the kindness, the support, but I recognize it. It’s something I hold onto when everything else seems impossible to bear.
I don’t recognize myself anymore. The person I was—the one who could keep everything locked away, the one who prided herself on being strong and composed—feels like a distant memory. This version of me, the one who feels everything so deeply, so openly, is a stranger. I am more vulnerable than I’ve ever been, more exposed. The walls I built, the ones I thought were invincible, have crumbled. I’m raw. There’s no hiding anymore, no pretending. All the emotions I’ve spent years suppressing are now surfacing, demanding to be felt. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. And I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to make sense of who I’ve become. I’m lost in this new version of myself, in this new reality, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever find my way back to the person I used to be.
Last night, we sat with the District Attorney. There was a hesitation in his voice as he told us the person who took my son’s life is being offered a plea deal. A plea deal. The man who shattered my world, who stole my son’s future, now has the power to decide what his consequence will be. He gets to choose. He gets a say in his fate, while my son had none. No choice. No say in how his final moments would unfold. My family had no say in how we would pick up the pieces of our broken lives, and I certainly didn’t. We were thrust into this nightmare without warning, without a choice. And yet, the man who is still alive, still breathing, still moving through his days, gets the chance to shape the outcome of this. He has the option to make a deal, to walk away. Meanwhile, I am left here, trapped in a reality that feels suffocating, where every day is defined by the absence of the one I love. What people don’t understand is that I, the mother who lost her youngest son, have already received my sentence. And my sentence is for life.
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