This Is My Son’s Life: A Mother’s Grief, A Family’s Loss, and the Failure of Justice

A Mother’s Grief, A Family’s Pain, and a System That Failed Us

The mother's victim statement at the sentencing hearing

Opening Statement 

Your Honor, members of the court, My name is Shelly Iverson, and I am here today as Levi’s mother—to speak on behalf of my son, to share who he was, and to try, in whatever way I can, to make you understand what has been taken from us. This isn’t just another case, another sentencing. This is my son’s life. This is my family’s life. And today, I need to make that known. 

As I mentioned - My name is Shelly Iverson, and I am the mother of Marshall Levi Iverson. 

From the moment he came into this world on August 9, 2002, he was the center of my life. There hasn’t been a single minute, hour, or day that I haven’t thought about him, spoken about him, planned for him, made plans with him, looked forward to seeing him, or stooped worring about him. 

He was my last-born. My youngest. My baby. 

And no matter how many birthdays passed, no matter how tall he stood or how grown he became, he would always, always be my baby. I used to call him my little Levi even when he was almost 6 foot. 

But now, I stand here in a place no mother should ever have to be. 

I never wanted to be here. No mother would. Because no mother should have to walk into a courtroom and speak about the loss of their child. 

The pain of losing Levi is so deep, so overwhelming, that even thinking about it makes my stomach hurt, my eyes water, my breath shorten. It’s just too much. And speaking about it? That’s even worse. 

I don’t want to be here. 

I don’t want to say these words. 

But I have no choice. 

I don’t feel like there will ever be another opportunity like this—where I can speak about Levi as much as I need to, as much as I should. 

But the world needs to know who Levi was. 

This court needs to understand that this isn’t just another case. 

This is my son’s life. 

Levi wasn’t just a name on a file or a statistic. He was my world. 

He was his father’s world. 

He was our family’s world. 

And today, I need to make that known. 

--- 

Who Was Levi? 

Levi wasn’t just my son. 

He was a presence. 

The kind of person you felt the moment he walked into a room. 

It wasn’t just that he was friendly or polite, or that he had a great smile—it was more than that. He had this warmth, this energy, that made you feel like you belonged. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. 

Even if you didn’t know him, even if you had just met him, you’d find yourself wanting to stay a little longer, talk a little more—just be around him. 

He made people feel seen. 

Like they mattered. 

Like he was genuinely happy they were there. 

One of my friends said that being around Levi was like stepping into the sun on a cold day. 

It wrapped around you. Made you feel comfortable, safe, welcome. 

She told me he had a way of making every space feel lighter. Every moment feel easier. 

People gravitated toward him—not because he demanded attention, but because he made them feel good about being there. 

He had that rare ability to make you feel important without even trying. 

He didn’t have to say much. 

You just felt it. 

And once you knew Levi, you never forgot how he made you feel. 

--- 

Levi and His Smile 

Levi was the youngest of five, and yes—he was definitely spoiled. 

His older siblings played with him, let him tag along, and of course, they gave him all the candy and treats he wanted. 

And honestly? He probably had a little too much of it. 

When he was little, his baby teeth weren’t great—I remember looking at his smile and worrying, thinking, Oh boy, I hope that straightens out someday. 

And then those baby teeth were gone. 

And when they were? He had the perfect smile. 

It lit up a room. And he knew he had a great smile. 

He didn’t act cocky about it, but he liked that his smile was perfect. 

And when he smiled at you? 

You couldn’t help but smile back. 

It was impossible not to. 

Levi’s Style, Interests, and Music 

Around sixth grade, Levi really started caring about how he looked.He’d spend forever fixing his hair, picking out the right outfit, and—most importantly—choosing the perfect pair of shoes. That was the age he really started getting into shoes. And when things didn’t go right? Oh, he got frustrated. 

If his hair wouldn’t cooperate, he threw a fit. And trust me—I heard about it. 

I don’t know how many people outside of our family knew this about him, but looking good was important to Levi. 

This was also the time when he started trying out all the things his friends were into. 

One of his friends was into bowling, so Levi wanted to join a kids' bowling club for a while. Then another friend was taking golf lessons, so Levi decided, "Well, I guess I’m doing golf too." We even bought him a kid’s golf set, and he stuck with that for a bit. 

Football? He thought about it. But he wasn’t a big guy, so instead, he went for what he was good at—running. 

Levi was fast. 

So, for a couple of years, he did track. 

And then there was band. 

In fifth grade, Levi wanted to be a drummer. That was his thing. But he had to pick another instrument to go along with it, so he chose bass guitar. He played both for a while, but school band wasn’t really his thing. 

He played in it, but he didn’t love it. 

What he wanted was to play real music. 

So, I found a private instructor to come to the house and teach him drums, and that changed everything. 

Levi started listening to music differently. He’d pay attention to the drummers in songs, breaking down beats, figuring out how he could play them. He started asking his instructor to teach him those songs. 

And then, he asked if he could go to some concerts with his teacher. 

And he did. 

And that opened up a whole new world for him. 

The more he played, the more his taste in music evolved. 

But school band? Still not for him. 

So, I found a music school where he could take lessons, but it wasn’t just lessons—they did performances, jam sessions, and put together garage-band-style groups. There were different musicians playing together—piano players, singers, drummers, guitarists—and Levi loved it. 

That was the kind of environment where he thrived. 

Playing music, playing with other people, just feeling the music. 

--- 

Levi and Animals 

There was something about animals that brought out an even softer side of Levi. 

When he was born, we got a little chow mix puppy and named her Sadie. 

From the moment they met, they were a pair. 

She was so patient with him. I don’t know many dogs that would put up with a baby tugging at their fur, pulling on their ears, rolling all over them—but Sadie did. She just let him do his thing. 

They grew up together. 

And when she passed at 17 years old, Levi was 17 too. 

Losing her was rough on him. He was devastated. Just completely heartbroken. 

A little while later, I decided to foster a dog. A little rat terrier mix named Balto. 

I knew what fostering meant. 

You take care of the dog. 

You let people come meet him. 

And eventually, he finds his forever home. 

Simple, right? 

Well, not this time. 

Because the second Balto came into our house, Levi was attached. And so was Balto.It was instant. 

Every time Levi came home from school or work, it was him and Balto. Always. They were inseparable. It was like Balto had been waiting his whole life to find Levi, and once he did, he wasn’t letting go. 

And then came the first potential adopter. 

Levi was not having it. 

He was so upset, and he could talk me into just about anything. 

So, of course, he started in. 

"Mom, the dog’s already been abandoned once. He’s been through too much. He just needs a home. We can’t let him go through that again." 

The whole nine yards. 

And, of course, I gave in. 

I adopted Balto. And from that moment on, Balto was Levi’s. 

It was always Balto and Levi. Levi and Balto. 

And now? 

Even though time has passed, even though Levi is gone—Balto still waits. 

He still sits outside Levi’s door. 

He still lays there. 

He still waits for him to come home. 

Levi and His Friends 

You can’t talk about Levi without talking about his friends. 

Because Levi loved his friends. 

Not just in a casual way, not just in a "yeah, we hang out" kind of way. 

He truly cared about them. 

He had his core group, the ones who had been by his side for years—the ones he could always count on. There were about four or five of them who were really close, and they meant the world to him. 

Levi wasn’t the type of person who took people for granted. If you were in his circle, you knew it. 

Because he made sure you knew it. 

He would have done anything for his friends. 

I remember when one of his closest friends had to move far away. 

Levi came into my office, sat down, and just let it all out. 

He was devastated. 

He wasn’t embarrassed to say it, wasn’t afraid to show it. 

This was Levi at 17, 18 years old, just sitting there, tears in his eyes, trying to process the fact that one of his best friends wouldn’t be around every day anymore. 

Because when Levi loved someone, he felt it all the way through. 

His friends weren’t just people to hang out with. 

They were his family. 

And he made sure they knew how much they meant to him 

Levi and Traveling 

Levi loved to travel. 

We traveled a lot as a family, going all over the U.S. and even to other countries. He got to experience so much, and he genuinely enjoyed it. 

One of his favorite trips was the time we went to Washington, D.C. His dad was able to join us on that one, and it was special for him to be there with us. He got to see all the sights—the monuments, the history, the energy of the city. He loved it. 

He also loved visiting the states and other countries like Canada, Mexico, Ireland, and even the British Virgin Islands. 

But the trips that really stuck with him, the ones that became a part of him, were the ones spent with his brothers, his sister, and his family. 

He and his brothers had an unforgettable trip to Oregon to visit their sister. He loved Crater Lake. 

I remember him standing there, just staring out at it, completely amazed. He couldn’t get over how deep it was, how massive, how beautiful. He thought it was magical. 

Something about being in the mountains just clicked for him. 

He wasn’t just visiting—he was soaking it in. The air, the views, the feeling of being surrounded by something so big and untouched. He just stood there, taking it all in, like he belonged there. Like he could have stayed forever. 

But his favorite place in the world? 

Seattle. 

I don’t know exactly why Seattle had such a hold on him, but it did. 

Maybe it was the mix of city and nature—he did love big cities. New York, Chicago—he loved the hustle, the energy, the vibe of those places. But maybe Seattle had just the right mix of that and the outdoors that drew him in. 

Or maybe it was just the things we did there. 

He loved visiting MoPOP, riding to the top of the Space Needle, zipping around the city on Lime scooters. 

And he loved food—especially sushi. 

But one of his biggest Seattle memories? 

Clam chowder. 

The first time we went to Seattle, we took a walking tour of Pike Place Market. Our guide went on and on about this one little spot—said it had the best clam chowder, had won all kinds of awards, and people raved about it. 

Levi had never even thought about clam chowder before that, but from that moment on, he wanted to try it. 

We didn’t get a chance to go that trip, but next time we were in Seattle? 

We waited in that long line—an hour, maybe more—and finally got that chowder. 

And when he took that first bite? 

His face lit up. 

"Worth it." 

That’s all he said. Like he had just discovered something amazing. 

Levi and Adventures 

But it wasn’t just about traveling.

Levi loved doing things.

You could invite him to do anything, and he made it fun.

We went into the mountains, and we would hike for miles—10 miles at a time, no problem. He was one of the only people who could keep up with me, and I loved that.

I remember this one trip when we were hiking through the mountains—it was me, Levi, and his next oldest brother, Austin. The area we were in had signs everywhere warning about mountain lions, which already had us a little on edge. The path we were on had heavy brush on both sides, and as the day went on, it started getting later and darker.

As we were walking, we’d hear sounds coming from the brush—little rustlings here and there. Could’ve been the wind, could’ve been some small animal, but Levi wasn’t about to let it slide. He was in the back, and he started egging his brother on, messing with him. “Wait… did you hear that? No, seriously—what was that?” He had this way of making it sound so real, so serious, that it just amplified the fear.

It got to the point where actually we started picking up rocks. I don’t even know what we thought we were going to do—throw them at a mountain lion? But we weren’t taking any chances. We walked, clutching those rocks, ready for a fight that (thankfully) never happened.

Looking back, I laugh so hard. At the time. Levi had us so worked up, making sure we were properly freaked out. That was just classic Levi.

We stayed in an off-grid cabin in Washington, just soaking up nature, totally unplugged. He ate this stuff up. He loved this trip a lot.

He loved spending time with his brothers and sister—he lived for it.

*"And the trips he looked forward to each year?

Our yearly trips to Washington Island and Lake Superior’s North Shore with his next oldest brother, Austin.

Levi and Austin had this bond.

They were close. So close.

At one point, Levi even said, ‘He’s my number one person.’

And Austin? He felt the same way.

You could see it in how much they did together, how much they enjoyed just hanging out…"*

Every year, on our North Shore Trips—those two would run straight into Lake Superior like it was a warm pool or something—except it wasn’t. It was freezing. It’s Lake Superior.

But they didn’t care.

They’d squeal, dive in, jump out, then do it all over again. Shivering. Even their lips turned blue at times. But they loved it!

Same thing at Washington Island at that rocky beach—I think it was called Schoolhouse Beach.

They’d go out there, see how long they could last in the freezing water, then come running out shivering and laughing.

I have so many memories. So many pictures of Levi in the water.

Kayaking, canoeing.

Sady in the canoe with us. She was his dog—she protected him and loved him fiercely.

Him and his siblings jumping off cliffs into the lake.

Camping on islands.

And I think about that now, and it kills me.

Because those moments? They were rare.

A lot of families don’t get that. A lot of siblings don’t have that kind of bond, don’t truly love spending time together. But they loved spending time with Levi.

And a lot of teenagers don’t wanna spend that much time with their mom, but Levi did.

And now, those places will never be the same.

Levi loved jet skiing.

We would go out together, and he’d try to throw me off the back of the jet ski—laughing the whole time. And I loved that laugh.

That laugh.

I can hear it even now.

And now, all those places—they feel empty.

All those places—they aren’t the same anymore.

The water is still there. The mountains, the cliffs, the waves—they all still exist.

But the energy?

The laughter?

The Fun. The Excitement.

Him? Levi.

That’s what’s missing.

I’ve been back to some of those places, trying to hold on to those moments. Trying to feel him there.

But the silence is deafening.

I can sit by the water at Washington Island or watch the waves crash along Lake Superior, but I don’t hear the splashing, the laughter, the sound of him and Austin daring each other to jump in again.

I just hear the emptiness.

Because it doesn’t matter how many times I go back.

It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold on to those moments.

There’s always that empty space.

Where he should be.

Winter adventure  

I’m not a big fan of winter. Never have been. 

But when the kids were growing up, we had our traditions—things we did every year that made the cold a little more bearable, a little more fun. 

For a while, we went snow tubing as a family on Christmas Eve. Levi loved it. But of course, he and his brothers had to take it up a notch. 

They wouldn’t just ride the tubes down the hill like normal people. 

No—they’d let the tube go first, take off running, then launch themselves onto it mid-slide. 

Most the time they landed it.  

It was pure Levi. He was always finding a way to make things more fun. 

But eventually,  

He wanted to learn how to snowboard like one of his brothers, so I got him some snowboarding lessons. and he picked up on it pretty  fast. 

I’ll never forget this one time—we were on the bunny hill, just him and me. 

Now, I hadn’t skied in years, and he was just getting started with snowboarding, so I figured it would be a good place to practice. 

Well, he took off like a rocket. 

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to stay upright, snowplowing my way down, doing my best not to wipe out. 

And suddenly, I hear him yelling. 

"Mom! Stop!" 

As if I had a choice. 

"Mom! I’m not supposed to pass you! You said you’d stay with me!" 

He was flying down the hill, totally panicked because he wasn’t supposed to go past me—but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop, and he was just yelling all the way down. 

By the time I got to the bottom, the only way for me to stop was to fall over. 

And Levi? 

He laughed so hard. Well first he was mad that I didn’t wait for him, but saw me on the ground and started laughing.  

Then he tried to help me up, but he was so small back then—not quite strong enough. And the more we struggled, the harder we laughed. 

Eventually, we gave up and just laid there in the snow, crying from laughing so much. 

Then we went inside, sat by the fire, and had hot chocolate. 

It was one of those perfect moments. 

Christmas Was Everything to Levi 

Christmas was a big deal in our family. 

We’ve always made a big deal out of the holidays—passing down traditions from past generations while making our own. 

And Levi? 

Levi loved every single part of it. 

The lights, the music, the decorations, the food, the family time—he loved it all. 

We’d drive down to see the Holiday Lights on John Nolen Drive, decorate the tree, bake Christmas cookies. 

Sometimes, we’d even go see A Christmas Carol at the theater. 

And he wasn’t just along for the ride—he lived for it. 

But one of his favorite things? 

Shopping for gifts. 

Levi had this way of knowing exactly what people would love. 

He wouldn’t just grab something random—he would spend hours searching for the perfect present. It had to be just right. 

And he couldn’t just order it online—he had to see it in person, feel it, make sure it was exactly what he wanted to give. 

And when the time finally came for people to open his gifts? 

He was on the edge of his seat. 

Eyes locked on them, bouncing with excitement, just waiting for their reaction. 

He didn’t just love giving gifts—he loved the joy of it. 

And when he got a gift he really wanted? 

Oh, you knew it. 

That huge, contagious smile. That incredible laugh. He’d jump up and yell, “YES!” like he had just won the lottery. 

It was pure happiness. 

And now? 

Now, Christmas doesn’t feel the same. 

It’s empty. 

The decorations still go up, the tree still gets decorated, the gifts still get wrapped—but that excitement, that joy—that’s what’s missing. 

I still try to think like Levi when I shop for gifts, trying to find that perfect present the way he did. 

But I fail. 

Because he’s not here. 

Because he’s the one who made it special. 

I miss the way he loved the food. 

I miss the way he loved the traditions. 

I miss him. 

And no matter how many lights I put up, no matter how many cookies we bake, no matter how much I try to carry on the traditions— 

It’s just not the same 

The Impact of His Loss 

The Day I Lost Levi 

I will never forget that day. It’s burned into my mind forever. May used to be a month I loved—spring, warmth, new beginnings. Now, I hate it. It’s nothing but a constant, brutal reminder of the day my world shattered. A nightmare I can’t wake up from.

That day, it was finally warm enough to be outside. I was working on my RV, and a friend was over. We were just talking, just going about a normal day. Then he looked up, saw a car pulling up next to the driveway on the other side, and casually said something like, That looks like the kind of car that brings bad news.

I didn’t think anything of it—cars go by my house all the time. But then the car actually pulled into next to my driveway. Not just passing by. Stopping.

I remember thinking, Oh no, someone’s about to get bad news. But even then, I still didn’t think it was me.

Two people got out, and I barely remember their faces. The medical examiner was one of them. They walked toward me and asked, Are you Shelly Iverson?

I said yes.

And then they asked if we could talk somewhere private.

Right then, I felt something sink in my stomach. But my first thought wasn’t the worst. My first thought was, What did Levi do? What kind of trouble is he in? That was the worst thing I could imagine at that moment.

I had no idea what was really coming.

We sat down at the table.

And then they told me.

Instantly, the blood drained from my face. It felt like the world around me started shifting—like I was falling, like nothing was real. It was one of those moments you only see in movies, where the sound muffles, the world fades in and out, and everything starts slipping away from you.

I screamed.

I screamed for my friend.

I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t breathe. I just kept thinking, No. No. No. This isn’t real. Wake up. Please wake up.

But it was real. And my whole world collapsed right there.

I don’t even remember what happened next. I just know I had to start calling family, but I barely remember making the calls. The shock took over. My friends and family started taking care of me because I couldn’t move, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t function.

All I could do was cry. Cry and lay in bed, reliving it over and over, replaying every second in my mind, picturing it, trying to undo it, trying to trade places with him.

Why him?

Why not me?

He was such a good kid. He was just about to start college. He was making his way in the world. He had so much ahead of him.

And just like that, he was gone.

The Aftermath of Losing Levi

When someone dies, people show up. They bring food, they send messages, they offer to help in any way they can. And for a while, the support was overwhelming.

But the truth?

I didn’t have the capacity to care. I didn’t feel gratitude. I didn’t feel anything except the unbearable weight of knowing my son was gone. My little Levi.

And I didn’t want to be here without him.

I wanted to go where he was. I wanted to leave this earth.

Every single morning, I woke up to the crushing realization that this wasn’t a nightmare I could shake off—it was my life now. And I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to move forward. I didn’t want to keep breathing in a world that no longer had Levi in it.

I have never been a suicidal person. Never.

But in those days, in those endless, suffocating nights, I thought about it. Not because I wanted to die, but because I couldn’t figure out how to live with this pain. I couldn’t understand how the world kept turning when mine had shattered. I couldn’t comprehend how I was supposed to keep going, pretending to function, while my heart was screaming for my child.

But I knew I couldn’t leave. And I hated that. I knew I had people who needed me—people who love me, people who would be destroyed if I were gone too. And so, I stayed.

But staying felt like a prison. A cruel, inescapable sentence.

I prayed. I begged. I screamed into the void for anything—anything—that could take away even a fraction of this pain. I reached out for help, went to therapy, church, even sought out mediums just to feel some connection to him.

But no matter what I did, I was still here.

And he wasn’t.

Losing Levi didn’t just break my heart. It broke me.

And every single day, I have to live with that.

The Impact of Losing Levi 

Unless you've lost a child, you have no idea what it's like. People say, "I can't imagine," and they're right—they can't. There is nothing in the world that compares to this kind of loss. I've lost a lot in my life. My Mother when I was 5, my adopted parents, other people I loved immensely, things I cared about. I've gone through grief before. But this? This is something else entirely.

At first, it was unbearable. I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't find a way to not feel horrible. I would pace down the street, crying. I would try talking to people, pray incessantly, searching for any relief. I went to mediums, hoping for some kind of connection, just something to hold onto. And maybe for a second, I'd feel a little relief—just for a moment. But then the nightmare would come rushing back.

I want to talk to him. I want to get his opinion on things. He was the person I could bounce ideas off of, especially about things that were cool—fashion, music, fun things, just life. And now I can’t. I try to imagine what he’d say, but it’s not the same.

And then there are the little things. The things no one thinks about.

Every morning, when I made coffee in the kitchen, Levi’s room was right underneath. If I was too loud, he'd pound on the wall to let me know. I used to listen for that pounding every morning. Now? It's just silence.

The mail used to bring letters with his name on them. Now, they don’t come anymore.

Everywhere I look, I see him. I see a place we went to, restaurants we ate at, parks we visited, a store we would love to go to. I drive by the bookstore and instantly remember the time we went inside, and he pointed out a deck of Friends playing cards because he knew I collected them. He thought it was cool because he loved that show. It’s like he’s everywhere—but he’s not.

I go down to Stewart Lake, and I see him there with his friends, hanging out, laughing. But he’s not.

His birthday comes, and I want to celebrate him, to have a party for him, but it’s not the same. It never will be. It just breaks me for days.

And I’m not the only one. I watch my kids grieve, and it’s devastating. My kids are grown, but I see it take over their lives in different ways.

My oldest son, Drew—he grieves for what could have been. He wishes he had more time with Levi as adults, that they could have built that bond, had real adult conversations, shared more life together. That relationship was just starting to grow. And then it was ripped away.

Drew helps me keep Levi’s memory alive. We travel together, we do things, we talk about Levi. He tells stories, he brings up old memories, he holds onto every piece of Levi he can. But the pain? It’s there. It’s strong. It’s deep.

He’s hurting. I see it. I feel it. We both do.

And as much as we try to keep moving, to keep Levi close through stories and shared moments—it’s never enough. Because Levi should be here with us.

My second son, Steffon—he and Levi both loved music, and they wanted to do more together. They went to one concert, and he’ll hold onto that forever, but he wanted more. He wanted to share more music, go to more shows, create more memories. Now, he never will.

Some days, I see him sitting at Levi’s grave for hours, just crying, because that’s all he can do.

There’s an emptiness in Steffon. A pain that won’t go away. His heart hurts—I can see it, I can feel it. Steff and I are empaths. We’ve always been able to read each other without even saying a word. We carry this invisible thread between us, and I feel his pain like it’s my own.

I don’t know how to help him. And that’s the worst part. People throw out these suggestions—grief groups, counseling, journaling—as if they’re magic fixes. I know they mean well. I know they want to help. But the truth is, those suggestions are more about comforting themselves than comforting us. They want to feel like they're doing something, like they're making it better. But this kind of loss? There is no 'better.' We’ve tried those things. We really have. But it doesn’t touch this pain. It doesn’t reach the depth of this kind of grief. I don’t know what does. I don’t know if anything ever really can.

I pray for him. All the time. Because I know he’s lost. We both are. Really and truly—we are just lost without Levi.

My third son, Austin—he and Levi were super close. Some days, he seems okay, but then other days, there’s anger, or he just seems lost. He’ll tell me something that’s going on in his life and say, "Normally, I’d talk to Levi about this, but now I can’t." I see it in him all the time—this emptiness, this standstill, like he’s waiting for something that will never come.

And then there’s my daughter, Melissa. She is a pillar of strength.

While I feel like I’m falling apart half the time, I see her standing strong. She is determined, vigilant, and relentless in her pursuit of justice for Levi. She’s smart, driven, and she refuses to let this just be another tragedy. She is making sure Levi’s name means something. She wants change. She wants to make sure this never happens to someone else. And I couldn’t be prouder of her.

I know she misses him. They were close.

Everything reminds us of Levi. Holidays will never be the same. He loved the holidays.

And being out on the water? That was our thing. Jet skiing, kayaking—Levi and I would always go together. We’d splash each other, laugh, just be in the moment. And now, when I go out on the water, it’s different. It’s quieter. It’s emptier.

There is no fixing this. There is no moving on. There is only learning how to live with the weight of his absence. And every single day, I carry that weight. We all do.

And let’s not forget the physical side of all of this.

I can’t sleep anymore. And when I do, I wake up drenched in night sweats or pulled out of my sleep by a nightmare. But on the rare nights when I actually get a couple of hours of rest, I don’t want to wake up. Because that seems to be the only relief I get.

Grief Takes a Toll 

Grief isn’t just emotional—it’s physical. It’s in my bones, my joints, my head. It wears me down in ways I never could have imagined. My stomach constantly hurts. I cry—a lot. And no matter what I do, I can’t escape it. 

And this kind of grief? It doesn’t go away. 

Some say it softens. Some say you just learn to live with it. I don’t know. I figure this is just my new life now. My reality. And even though there might be a smile on my face some days, even though I try to laugh, try to enjoy myself—because people keep reminding me, “That’s what Levi would want”—that doesn’t take away the darkness. It doesn’t erase the sadness. 

Even when I try to honor the memories I have of him—looking at pictures, watching the few videos I still have—sometimes, I just can’t. Because behind every single one of them is the gut-wrenching truth that he’s gone. 

There is always that darkness. That cloud over my head. That pain in my heart. 

I used to be an optimistic person. I used to look for the bright side in everything. But now? Nothing feels as bright as it once did. 

And even though I’ve seen counselors, talked to doctors, tried to do all the things people suggest – support groups and the like—none of it changes the reality. None of it fixes this. None of it brings relief. 

Because this isn’t just sadness. 

This is grief. 

And it changes everything. 

Grief and My Memory 

Grief doesn’t just break your heart—it messes with your mind. 

There are times I feel like I’ve lost my mind completely. Like my brain just doesn’t work the way it used to. 

I forget things—important things, simple things, things I never would have forgotten before. I’ll walk into a room and have no idea why I’m there. I’ll be mid-conversation and completely lose my train of thought. I’ll struggle to remember details I know like the back of my hand. 

And it’s terrifying. 

Because at the same time, there are things I can’t forget—even if I wanted to. 

I can’t forget that day. I can’t forget the feeling, the moment, the words that shattered my world. 

It’s like my brain has been rewired—it holds onto the pain so tightly, but it lets go of everything else. 

And sometimes, I find myself panicking. 

Because what if I start forgetting him? 

What if I lose the sound of his voice, the little details of his laugh, the way he said certain words? 

Grief is cruel. 

It takes everything from you—your joy, your energy, your sense of self. 

And now, it’s even trying to take my memory. 

Some days, I feel like a shell of the person I used to be. Like my mind is stuck in a fog I can’t break out of. 

And no matter how much time passes, no matter how many people tell me it will “get better,” it doesn’t. 

Because the truth is, this is a nightmare. 

A complete nightmare. 

And the worst part? 

I don’t wake up from it. 

Grieving After a Violent Crime 

Grief is already unbearable. But grieving the loss of a child to a violent crime? That’s something else entirely.

People talk about grief like it’s a process, like it’s something you move through and eventually come out on the other side.

But that’s not how this works.

Not for a mother who lost her child this way.

Not when every few weeks or months, I get another phone call from the courts.

Not when I hear from the DA’s office, the legal system, the people handling the case.

Not when every single time I see their name pop up on my phone, my stomach drops, my heart pounds, and I feel like I’m right back in that moment.

Right back in May.

Right back in the nightmare.

They say the court system is supposed to be “speedy”—but it’s not.

Instead, it’s been long, drawn out, brutal.

Every single update, every single hearing, every single delay—it drags me back to Ground Zero.

I relive that day over and over again. I feel it all over again.

And it’s not just an emotional toll—it’s physical.

It wrecks me.

It takes days to recover, to get back to my new normal—which isn’t living.

It’s just surviving.

This process hasn’t given me closure.

It hasn’t brought me peace.

It’s been cruel.

It’s been torture.

And the truth is—it’s never going to end.

Because no sentence, no verdict, no legal outcome will bring Levi back.

And so I’m left here, caught in this cycle of pain, just trying to find a way to keep going.

And the hardest part? I don’t want to keep thinking about how this happened to my son. I hate it. I hate all of it. I hate that it replays in my head. I hate that it’s the image burned into people’s minds when they hear his name.

I fight every day to remember how he lived—not how he died.

I try to hold onto who he really was. His smile. His love for travel. His sense of humor. The way he made everyone feel like they belonged. I try to show that through his Lego journeys. Through the stories. Through the movement.

Because he wasn’t just what happened to him.

He was so much more.

And if there’s one thing I can do—one thing I have control over—it’s this: I will keep telling the world about Levi. About his life. His light. His laughter.

That’s the part I want people to remember.

Addressing the Offender

I’m not a stranger to Isaiah Miller or his family. They lived next to me for several years, and I wish I didn’t know them. When they moved into our neighborhood, it wasn’t a pleasant experience—for me or for my neighbors. 

There were parties all the time. They were loud. There was fighting. There were people from those parties approaching my family. At one point during one of their parties, someone from that house even tried to sell drugs to my family. You could smell what was going on over there—it permeated through the walls. It was a nightmare. 

There was a time I tried to be amicable with them. I tried to be friendly, to be a good neighbor. I even had conversations with Isaiah’s father over text. But nothing changed. Isaiah was always getting into trouble. I know his dad struggled with that, moving him from one institution to another, trying to get him under control. But it was a terrible situation, and I didn’t want them living next to me. I didn’t want my son anywhere near that family. 

Levi tried hanging out with Isaiah a few times, and I forbade it. I told him, “You are not to hang out with Isaiah. You cannot be around him.” And he appeared to listen, for the most part. He told me he didn’t really care to hang out with Isaiah. 

But as we all know, kids are going to be kids. And when Levi got older, he ended up in the same spaces as Isaiah—not by choice – according to Levi, but because of mutual friends. His best friend’s brother was friends with Isaiah, and that put them all in the same room or area sometimes. I told Levi over and over, “I don’t want you around him. He’s bad news.” 

Even some of Levi’s friends warned him. They told him to stay away. And now, those same friends? They’re carrying their own guilt. One of them told me that if he had been there that night, Isaiah wouldn’t have been. And Levi would still be alive. 

I don’t know what’s true and what’s not when it comes to everything I’ve heard. But one thing I heard was when the Miller family moved, they weren’t happy about it. I heard things. That they were mad at my family. That they wanted to “get even.” At the time, I didn’t take it seriously. But now? Now, Levi is gone. And I don’t believe for a second that this was just an accident, no matter how much people try to play it off as one. 

But I don’t get all those answers. Not today. Not in this courtroom. Because we’re not going to trial. 

I’ll be honest—I didn’t want a plea deal. 

I didn’t think Isaiah deserved one. 

But I was told it was the best course of action. 

Because court is different than real life. 

Because things happen in a courtroom that don’t always happen in the real world. 

Things that don’t always make sense. 

But that’s the court system isn’t it. 

And I was also told that I didn’t really have a choice they would take my thoughts into consideration, but it wasn’t up to me how they were going to proceed. 

Because in this system, victims don’t get a say. 

The victim’s voice is funneled through the DA’s office. 

We don’t get to hire our own lawyers. 

We don’t get to put together our own investigative teams. 

We don’t get to fight for our own justice. 

We are at the mercy of the system. 

And so here we are. 

And I just have to say it—this isn’t enough. 

The max sentence for this charge? It’s not enough. Not even close. 

In Wisconsin, homicide by negligent handling of a dangerous weapon carries a shockingly low maximum sentence—but more than that, it doesn’t even begin to cover the extent of what happened that night.  

This wasn’t a tragic accident in the way the law seems to treat it. It wasn’t a case of someone losing control of a vehicle or making a split-second mistake. 

 This was reckless, irresponsible, and entirely preventable. This was someone handling a gun in a party setting, doing things they had no business doing in the first place. In other states, this would have been charged differently. 

 It would have carried more weight. And it should. 

No grieving family, no parent, should ever have to sit in a courtroom and accept that their child’s life was taken like this—then watch the system treat it like a slap on the wrist 

At the end of the day, Levi’s life mattered. And the sentence for taking that life should reflect that. But it doesn’t. The charge doesn’t. The sentence doesn’t.  

And it’s not just unfair to me. It’s unfair to every family, every parent, every victim who has ever had to sit in a courtroom like this and realize that the system doesn’t see their child’s life as worth more than a few years behind bars. It’s not right. It’s not justice.  

And it sure as hell isn’t enough 

So, is justice being served today? Not in my eyes. 

Because Isaiah, you shouldn’t have had a gun. 

You shouldn’t have even been there ,much less  handling a weapon in the situation you were in. 

You were on probation. 

You weren’t even supposed to be near a gun, let alone holding one. 

You just being in that room made you guilty. 

You holding that gun made you guilty. 

Because you weren’t even supposed to be in that situation. 

And the way you handled that gun? 

It was reckless. It was irresponsible. It was beyond dangerous. 

Guns are not toys. 

They are not props. 

And yet, you picked one up like it was nothing. 

Like it was something to mess around with. 

Like it didn’t have the power to end someone’s life. 

But it did. 

And it did. 

And because of you, Levi is gone. 

This wasn’t just an accident. 

It was preventable. 

And it never should have happened. 

Which brings me back to something I said before—I don’t believe this was just an accident. 

It doesn’t sit right with me. It never has. 

From the moment I heard what happened, something in my gut told me that there was more to this. 

And that feeling hasn’t gone away. 

I don’t believe that this was some random, tragic mistake. 

I don’t believe that Levi just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Because nothing about this feels right. 

Nothing about this adds up. 

And no matter how much time passes, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this story than I will ever get to know. 

There should have been more charges. There should have been more accountability. But instead, we’re standing here, settling for this. 

And I am angry. I am sad. I am lost. 

And you? You had no right to do what you did. You had no right to be where you were, acting like you were. 

People ask me what justice looks like. 

And the truth is—I don’t have a good answer. 

Because justice isn’t happening today. 

Not for Levi. 

Not for my family. 

Not for me. 

But I’ll say this—I have to hold onto what Marshall said. 

Because at the end of the day, it’s all I’ve got. 

Marshall said, “As long as he goes behind bars.” 

And so that’s what we get today. 

But justice? Yea, I don’t see it. 

At the very least, I can hope that my daughter gets that law passed—the one she’s fighting for—so that no other family has to go through this. 

So that this- this has a lesser chance of happening to someone else. 

And if I’m going to find even the smallest shred of optimism—the tiniest bit of light in this darkness—it’s this: 

After today, I don’t have to sit in this courtroom anymore. 

I don’t have to look at you, Isaiah. 

I don’t have to keep reliving this. 

But justice? 

That’s not happening today. 

Closing Statement 

Levi’s life mattered. My son mattered. And no amount of time, no sentencing, no words spoken here today can change what has been done. But what happens in this courtroom does matter. Because justice—true justice—should reflect the life that was stolen, the pain that will never fade, and the hole that has been left in our hearts forever. 

I can only hope that today, this court sees the weight of this loss, the depth of this grief, and the consequences of the choices that led us here. 

Thank you for allowing me to speak. 

 Editor’s Note:

This blog post was adapted from the original victim impact statement read by Shelley Iverson at the sentencing hearing. Since that day, Shelley has chosen to add her children's names—Drew, Steffon, Austin, and Melissa—and include a few more personal memories and reflections that came to her heart after the trial. These additions are a part of keeping Levi’s spirit alive and honoring the depth of his relationships and adventures. Every word remains hers—unfiltered, raw, and real.