Court Is Still in Session Week Three: Me and July Are in a Fight

July has me fighting for my life!!!!!!

I've been in a fight with July.

Not the kind where you raise your voice or slam a door. It's quieter than that. It's the kind of fight where someone you love walks into the room, and before they ever say a word, your chest gets tight because they carry too many memories.

That's me and July.

Every morning I wake up telling myself, maybe today won't feel so heavy. Every night, July reminds me that it remembers everything.

It remembers before I want it to.

Long before July became the month that now takes my breath away, it was already becoming the month that gave me my greatest gifts.

Isn't that just like God?

He has this way of planting blessings in the very places that, years later, become the places where we have to trust Him the most.

I didn't know it then.

I couldn't have.

If someone had handed me the calendar of my life and circled every July that would forever change me, I probably would have handed it right back.

Some things are easier to live than they are to know.

The first July that changed everything was July 14, 2014.

Darryl and I had already stood before God and become husband and wife over a year earlier. We didn't need another ceremony to make us married. We already were.

But July 14 was our destination wedding.

Our celebration.

Our chance to stand in front of the people we loved and publicly celebrate the covenant we had already made privately.

Looking back now, I laugh a little at how young we were.

Not in age (well kinda in age).

In understanding.

We thought we knew what "for better or for worse" meant.

We thought it meant disagreements over paint colors, learning how to combine finances, deciding whose family to visit for the holidays, and maybe surviving a few hard seasons together.

We had no idea.

We didn't know "for worse" would one day sound like ventilators.

We didn't know it would sound like neurologists explaining scans we'd never wanted to see.

We didn't know it would sound like the rhythmic beeping of monitors that somehow become both terrifying and comforting at the same time.

We didn't know "in sickness and in health" would stop sounding like wedding vows and start sounding like our everyday life.

We didn't know we'd spend years memorizing hospital hallways better than vacation destinations.

We didn't know we'd become fluent in words we never wanted in our vocabulary.

Hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy.

Epilepsy.

TBI.

ARDS.

Tracheostomy.

GJ tube.

We didn't know.

But God did.

When I look back at those wedding pictures now, I don't see two people who had everything figured out.

I see two people God was preparing.

Not preparing for success.

Preparing for faithfulness.

There's a difference.

Faithfulness isn't glamorous.

It rarely gets applause.

It's waking up every day and saying, "I'm still here."

It's choosing each other when life stops looking like the dream you planned together.

It's becoming teammates when one of you is too exhausted to stand.

It's learning that covenant isn't proven on your wedding day.

It's proven in the ordinary Tuesdays no one else ever sees.

Darryl has lived every one of those Tuesdays with me.

He has watched me become Darren's mom.

He has watched me become Jaxon's mom.

He has watched me become a woman I never imagined I'd have to become.

And somehow...he's never stopped choosing me.

The following July, God quietly introduced me to another covenant.

This one didn't happen at an altar.

It happened in a speech therapy room.

Darren was five years old.

By then, therapy wasn't something we occasionally did.

It was simply part of our life.

Appointments.

Exercises.

Celebrating little victories that other families might never notice.

That's what our days looked like.

I honestly don't remember what goal we were working on that day.

I don't remember what toys were in the room.

I don't remember who all was standing there.

Funny how grief works.

It lets the details disappear while preserving the moments that changed your life forever.

His therapist asked a simple question.

"Where's Mom?"

Before I could answer...

Before I could explain that I wasn't his biological mother...

Before I could figure out how to answer a question that always seemed more complicated than it should have been...

Darren answered it for me.

He lifted his little hand...

and pointed directly at me.

That's it.

No speech.

No fanfare.

No dramatic music playing in the background.

Just one little finger.

One little boy.

One wordless answer.

I don't know if anyone else in that room realized what had just happened.

I know I didn't.

Not fully.

I smiled.

We kept moving through therapy.

Life went on.

But somewhere between that therapy room and where I'm sitting today writing these words, I realized something.

I didn't choose that moment.

God did.

People have asked me over the years when I became Darren's mom.

They expect some long story.

Some legal document.

Some defining conversation.

But if I'm telling the truth...

It was the day a little boy answered a question I hadn't even figured out how to answer myself.

"Where's Mom?"

Right here.

He settled it.

Not me.

Sometimes children understand family better than adults do.

Adults complicate love.

Children simply live it.

Years later, Darren would become a preteen.

By then, some of my birthday shenanigans earned me more eye rolls than excitement.

He enjoyed intimate celebrations, but he had also reached that wonderful age where his mama doing the absolute most was just not cool.

I laugh every single time I think about it because I can still feel his eyes rolls as if he was saying.

"Ma..."

That was it.

Just...

"Ma."

One word.

One look.

One long sigh that somehow managed to say, Do you really have to do all this?

And my answer, every single time, was absolutely.

Because that's what I do.

I celebrate my people.

Loudly.

Completely.

Without apology.

The older he got, the more he rolled his eyes.

The more I smiled.

Looking back now, those eye rolls feel like treasures.

Because they meant he was growing.

They meant he was healthy enough to think his mama was extra.

I'd give anything to hear...

"Ma..."

Then God entrusted us with another July.

On July 25, 2020...

Jaxon Bradley Taylor was born.

I didn't know then that another July was quietly changing the course of my life.

I just knew I had another little boy to love.

And oh, how I love him.

Not because he was easy.

Not because our journey would become anything close to ordinary.

Simply because he was mine.

My son.

My responsibility.

My privilege.

People have called me a lot of things over the years.

Medical mama.

Mama Lion.

Advocate.

Warrior.

Family Champion.

Strong.

Those titles are kind.

But they miss the point.

The greatest title I've ever carried has always been the simplest one.

Ma.

Mama Lion.

Mommy.

Of all the titles I've carried in my life, those have cost me the most.

It has also given me the greatest joy.

People see the titles.

They see the advocacy.

The speaking.

The notebooks.

The color-coded binders.

The meetings.

The emails.

The doctors.

The research.

They see the woman who walked into hospital rooms ready to ask questions that made people uncomfortable.

They call her strong.

What they don't see is that none of that was ever the goal.

I wasn't trying to become an expert.

I was just trying to learn my son.

There's a difference.

When people would compliment me on how much I knew, I'd smile politely.

The truth is, I didn't know medicine nearly as well as I knew Jaxon.

I knew the way his breathing changed before a monitor ever alarmed.

I knew the look in his eyes when something didn't feel right.

I knew the difference between him being tired and him trying to tell me he didn't feel well.

I knew when he wanted another episode of Sesame Street.

I knew when he wanted to be left alone.

I knew when he wanted his mama.

That's not medical training.

That's motherhood.

There is a language between a mother and her child that can't be taught in nursing school or medical school.

It is learned one ordinary day at a time.

One diaper.

One therapy appointment.

One sleepless night.

One medication.

One cuddle.

One prayer.

Until one day you realize you've become fluent in someone only you could have learned.

That's who Jaxon was to me.

He was never a diagnosis.

He was never a prognosis.

He was never the list of conditions attached to his medical chart.

He was my little boy.

Everything else came second.

People often tell me, "I don't know how you did it."

The honest answer?

Neither do I.

I didn't wake up one morning and decide I was going to become Mama Lion.

I became her because my boys needed her.

Truthfully, by nature, I'm a lover.

I've always been a lover.

I'd rather find common ground than conflict.

I'd rather hug than argue.

I'd rather believe the best in people.

But let somebody underestimate one of my children...

Let somebody dismiss them.

Let somebody reduce them to a diagnosis.

Suddenly, this quiet woman they thought they knew disappeared.

Not because I enjoyed fighting.

Because love demanded it.

That's something motherhood has taught me over and over again.

Love will make you become someone you never imagined you could be.

People saw the fight.

They didn't always see what it cost me.

Every time I challenged a decision...

Every time I stayed awake another night...

Every time I researched another diagnosis...

Every time I pushed back because I knew something wasn't right...

A little piece of me was being spent.

I'd spend it all again.

Without hesitation.

Without complaint.

Without asking for anything in return.

Because that's what Mama Lions do.

Especially when their children cannot fight for themselves.

Looking back now, I realize something I couldn't see while I was living it.

For nearly ten years...

Someone needed me every minute of every day.

First Darren.

Then Jaxon.

Now Nolin.

Then both of them.

My life revolved around keeping someone else alive.

Their schedules became my schedule.

Their appointments became my appointments.

Their medications became my alarms.

Their victories became my celebrations.

Their setbacks became my prayers.

I didn't resent it.

Not for one second.

It was an honor.

An exhausting, holy, beautiful honor.

Then...

November 12, 2021.

November 22, 2025.

The unthinkable happened.

The role I had spent years growing into suddenly had nowhere to go.

People talk about losing a child.

They don't often talk about what happens to the motherhood that remains.

Because it remains.

It doesn't disappear with a funeral.

It doesn't end at a columbarium.

It doesn't stop because Heaven became your child's address.

Motherhood doesn't have an expiration date.

It simply has nowhere to put itself.

That's been one of the hardest parts of my rehabilitation.

Not learning how to live without Jaxon.

Learning how to mother him differently.

Because I still wake up as his mommy.

I still think about what he would like.

I still celebrate his birthday.

I still buy the decorations.

I still say his name.

I still love him with every ounce of my being.

The only thing that's changed...

...is where he lives.

People have asked me what this in-home rehabilitation has been teaching me.

Honestly?

It's teaching me that I have spent so much of my life taking care of everyone else that I don't know what to do when someone tells me to take care of myself.

That sounds simple.

It isn't.

When you've spent years performing through fevers because your child still needed to eat...

When you've pushed through migraines because therapies couldn't be canceled...

When you've learned that your body comes second because somebody else's survival comes first...

Rest almost feels irresponsible.

I remember laying in bed one morning recently.

It was after Darryl had gone about his day.

The house was quiet.

Nolin wasn't there.

Normally, if I were sick, I'd still get up.

I had to.

Darren needed me.

Jaxon needed me.

There wasn't another option.

But this time...

No one needed their medicine.

No one needed a feeding.

No one needed me to suction a trach.

No one needed me to prepare supplies before the nurses arrived.

So I just...

laid there.

And I remember thinking...

Is this what I'm supposed to be doing?

I honestly didn't know.

Because the woman I had been for nearly a decade measured her worth by who she could take care of.

Now God was asking me to believe that I still had worth...

...even while lying still.

That may not sound profound to someone else.

To me...

It has been one of the hardest lessons of this entire journey.

Because rehabilitation isn't just teaching my body to rest.

It's teaching my heart that I am still God's daughter...

...even when no one needs me to save them today.

And maybe...

Maybe that's why me and July are in such a fight.

Because July keeps introducing me to versions of myself I never expected to become.

First a wife.

Then Darren's mom.

Then Jaxon's mommy.

Now...

A mother who has 2 children that lives in Heaven.

I never asked for that version.

I never imagined her.

I certainly never wanted to become her.

Yet here she is.

Still loving.

Still mothering.

Still believing.

Even with a stitched heart.

It wasn't long after that morning that Darryl and I found ourselves driving downtown.

It wasn't a special day.

It wasn't an anniversary.

It wasn't a doctor's appointment.

It was just one of those ordinary drives where your mind is somewhere else and your body is simply following the road.

I looked over toward Le Bonheur Children's Hospital.

I've made that drive more times than I could ever count.

Hundreds.

Maybe thousands.

I know those streets almost as well as I know my own neighborhood.

I know where to park.

I know which entrance gets you upstairs the fastest.

I know which elevators are usually crowded.

I know where to find coffee after you've been awake for twenty-four hours.

I know where families quietly cry because they don't want their children to see.

Hospitals become strange places when you've lived enough life inside them.

They stop feeling like buildings.

They become chapters.

As I looked over that day, something caught my attention.

Not the building.

Not the windows.

The logo.

A heart.

Stitched together.

I don't know how I had driven past it so many times without really seeing it.

Maybe because before, I was always focused on getting inside.

That day...

I finally saw it.

And before I knew it, tears were running down my face.

I didn't have some profound revelation.

I didn't hear God speak audibly.

I just looked at that heart and whispered,

"That's me."

Not broken beyond repair.

Not healed.

Stitched.

There is a difference.

Broken things fall apart.

Stitched things have fallen apart...

...and someone intentionally put them back together.

The scar doesn't disappear.

The wound doesn't pretend it never happened.

The stitches become part of the story.

That's what grief has felt like.

People keep asking me how I'm doing.

Some days, I don't even know how to answer that question anymore.

Am I okay?

No.

Am I surviving?

Yes.

Am I healing?

I think so.

But healing doesn't look anything like I imagined it would.

Healing isn't waking up one morning and realizing you don't miss your child anymore.

If that's the definition, then I'll never be healed.

Healing isn't forgetting.

Healing isn't moving on.

Healing isn't smiling all the time.

Healing isn't pretending November 22, 2025 didn't happen.

Healing...

Healing is learning to carry what will always be heavy.

Some days I carry it well.

Some days it carries me.

And if I'm telling the whole truth...

Week Three has mostly been the second one.

People have asked me why I created this in-home rehabilitation.

The answer is simple.

Because I knew if I didn't intentionally learn how to live again...

I'd unintentionally stop living.

Not in the dramatic sense.

Not because I wanted to die.

I've never wanted to die.

I want to live.

I have too much to live for.

I have Nolin.

I have Darryl.

I have purpose that didn't disappear just because my world did.

But wanting to live...

...and knowing how...

are two very different things.

For almost ten years, every decision I made revolved around somebody else's needs.

If I got sick...

I still had to show up.

If I was tired...

I still had to show up.

If my heart was breaking...

I still had to show up.

Because Darren needed me.

Because Jaxon needed me.

There wasn't another option.

You perform.

You compartmentalize.

You cry in the shower.

You wipe your face.

Then you go back to being Mommy.

Because somebody is counting on you.

Now...

No one is waiting for me to prepare medications.

No one is waiting for me to organize supplies.

No one is waiting for me to advocate at another appointment.

No one is waiting for me to remember which specialist needs which paperwork.

And that silence...

has been deafening.

People think grief is loud.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it's the opposite.

Sometimes grief is so quiet that the only thing you hear is the life that used to fill your house.

The pump that no longer runs.

The alarms that no longer sound.

The nurses who no longer come.

The conversations that no longer happen.

The routines that no longer exist.

I never thought I'd miss those things.

But they were part of my motherhood.

And when they disappeared...

pieces of me disappeared with them.

That's something I don't think people understand.

When a caregiver loses the person they've cared for, they don't just lose someone they love.

They lose the life they've built around loving them.

They lose the rhythm.

The purpose.

The responsibility.

The constant awareness that someone needs you.

No one prepares you for that.

No one tells you that one day you'll wake up and realize...

the calendar that used to be overflowing with appointments...

is empty.

And somehow...

the emptiness is harder to manage than the exhaustion ever was.

That's why I smiled a little when people started asking me,

"How's are you making it?"

This feels like learning how to breathe with only one lung.

You're alive.

You're functioning.

But every breath reminds you something is missing.

I don't want my old life back.

Not because I didn't love it.

Because getting it back would mean asking my boys to suffer again.

I could never do that.

Never.

If Heaven means Jaxon smiled for the very first time...

If Heaven means he laughed for the very first time...

If Heaven means he ran for the very first time...

Then let Heaven keep him.

Because he DESERVED IT!

That's love.

Love doesn't ask someone to leave perfection just because you're lonely.

Love says,

"I'll miss you until it's my turn."

That has been one of the hardest prayers I've ever prayed.

Not,

"God, bring him back."

But,

"God...keep him whole."

Because that's what mothers do.

We choose what's best for our children...

even when it breaks our own hearts.

And maybe...

that's why July feels so heavy.

Not because it only reminds me of what I've lost.

Because it reminds me of everything I was privileged enough to have.

A husband who still reaches for my hand.

A little five-year-old boy who chose me before I even knew I needed choosing.

Another little boy who forever changed what motherhood looks like.

A two-year-old who still calls me into the present when grief keeps trying to pull me backward.

July isn't just holding my sorrow.

It's holding my entire family.

And maybe...

that's why me and July are still having this fight.

Because I'm finally beginning to realize...

the month I keep wanting to avoid...

is the very month where God wrote some of the most beautiful chapters of my life.

The next chapter begins at the columbarium.

And that's where everything changed.

The first time I walked into the columbarium after deciding what I wanted to do for Jaxon's birthday, I wasn't carrying grief.

Not yet.

I was carrying bags.

Decorations.

Ribbon.

Birthday things.

Things that belonged at a party.

Not in a columbarium.

Even writing that sentence feels wrong.

There are some realities you never get used to saying out loud.

"My son is in a columbarium."

"My son has a birthday in Heaven."

"I decorated his resting place."

Those aren't sentences little girls dream of one day saying.

Yet there I was.

Walking in with my arms full of birthday decorations because that's what mommies do when their babies have birthdays.

I didn't know exactly how I wanted it to look.

I just knew I couldn't do nothing.

Doing nothing has never been who I am.

Especially when it comes to my boys.

I've always been the mama who does the absolute most.

Ask anybody who knows me.

If there was a theme...

we had it.

If there were balloons...

we probably needed more.

If there was cake...

it wasn't just cake.

If there was a reason to celebrate...

we celebrated.

Big.

That's just who I am.

Birthdays have always been sacred to me because they are reminders that God entrusted someone to us.

For one more year.

One more laugh.

One more memory.

One more opportunity to love them well.

By the time Darren had become a preteen, some of my birthday shenanigans earned me more eye rolls than excitement.

I laugh when I think about it now because I can almost hear him.

"Ma..."

One look.

And somehow I knew exactly what he meant.

I can still see the expression on his face.

That mixture of embarrassment and acceptance.

Like he already knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop me.

And he was right.

Because if I loved you...

you were getting celebrated.

Period.

Looking back now, I'd give anything for one more eye roll.

One more "Ma..."

One more chance to embarrass him.

Jaxon never made it to that stage.

He never got the chance to think I was doing too much.

He never got to be a preteen pretending he didn't love the attention while secretly soaking up every second of it.

He LOVED every celebration.

Every balloon.

Every decoration.

Every reason for people to gather around him.

He loved joy.

And maybe...

if I'm honest...

I needed the decorations as much as he did.

Because decorating was something I could still do for him.

Motherhood changes after death.

It doesn't disappear.

People think losing your child means you stop mothering.

You don't.

You just mother differently.

You still think about what they would like.

You still make decisions with them in mind.

You still celebrate them.

You still buy the birthday decorations.

You still write the birthday cards.

You still cry in the party aisle  because you're standing there trying to decide between two decorations for a little boy who now lives in Heaven.

Nobody prepares you for that.

Nobody tells you you'll stand in the middle of a store holding birthday candles while trying to remember not to cry in public.

Grief is strange like that.

It doesn't always meet you at the cemetery.

Sometimes it meets you in aisle seven.

I started placing everything exactly where I wanted it.

Then I moved it.

Then I moved it again.

Straightened a ribbon.

Adjusted a balloon.

Stepped back.

Looked at it.

Walked closer.

Changed my mind.

I smiled at myself because even in grief...

I'm still me.

I have always believed details matter.

Not because everything has to be perfect.

Because details tell people they were worth the effort.

My boys have always been worth the effort.

Every single detail.

I talked to them while I decorated.

Not because I expected an answer.

Because that's what I've always done.

I talked to Darren.

I talked to Jaxon.

I thanked God for trusting me with them.

I thanked Him for every birthday we'd already celebrated.

Even the hard ones.

Especially the hard ones.

Because now I know what a gift they really were.

Then I pulled out Jaxon's birthday card.

I stared at it for a long time before I ever picked up my pen.

What do you write to your son on his first birthday in Heaven?

How do you fit a mother's heart inside a folded piece of cardstock?

I don't remember how long I sat there.

Time feels different in places like that.

I just remember writing through tears.

Stopping.

Starting again.

Smiling.

Crying harder.

Those words belong to me and my son.

Some conversations are too sacred to be to be shared.

Some things belong only to a mother.

When I finished...

I looked around one more time.

Everything was exactly where I wanted it.

Except...

there was empty space.

Intentional empty space.

Someone walking by probably would have thought I forgot something.

I didn't.

I was saving room.

Room for birthday cards.

Room for handwritten notes.

Room for Scripture.

Room for prayers.

Room for the people who have loved my boys so well.

Because that's what they've always done.

They've shown up.

In hospital rooms.

During surgeries.

At baseball games.

At celebrations.

At funerals.

At impossible moments.

Our village has never needed an invitation to love us.

They've just done it.

This time...

I needed to ask.

And if I'm being completely honest...

asking was harder than carrying the decorations.

Because I've spent years being the one everyone else could lean on.

The advocate.

The organizer.

The planner.

The fixer.

The one with the clipboard.

The notebook.

The plan.

Now...

I needed people to carry me.

That doesn't come naturally to me.

It still doesn't.

I stood up.

Looked at my boys one more time.

Touched the glass.

Whispered,

"I love you."

And then I walked away.

Some ask me if visiting the columbarium brings me peace.

I wish I could tell you yes.

It doesn't.

Not yet.

That day...

I didn't leave feeling peaceful.

I left in shambles.

Everything I had managed to hold together while I was decorating came undone the moment I got to my car.

I closed the door.

And I cried so hard I couldn't even put the car in drive.

Not because I questioned where my boys are.

Never that.

I know exactly where they are.

I cried because I had just planned a birthday party in a place no mother ever imagines she'll have to.

And there isn't a single class, book, Bible study, or support group that teaches you how to do that.

So I did the only thing I knew to do.

I drove to my own mommy...

and I decided it was finally time to let my village carry a piece of what I'd been carrying alone.

When I got home, I sat in my driveway for a while.

I wasn't ready to go inside.

Have you ever noticed how sometimes your car becomes the safest place to fall apart?

The house was waiting.

Life was waiting.

Dinner still had to be made.

Laundry still needed folding.

Nolin would still need his mommy.

Darryl would still ask me how I was doing, already knowing the answer before I ever spoke.

But in that driveway...

I could just be a mother who missed her little boy.

No expectations.

No pretending.

No performing.

Just grief.

I don't know how long I sat there before I finally walked inside.

Long enough that my eyes had become a lot puffier.

Long enough that I had convinced myself I could pull it together.

Long enough to realize...

I couldn't.

And maybe...

I didn't have to.

That realization has been one of the hardest parts of my rehabilitation.

For years, I didn't have the luxury of falling apart.

When Darren needed me...

I showed up.

When Jaxon needed me...

I showed up.

Even when I was sick.

Even when I was exhausted.

Even when my own body was begging me to slow down.

Because that's what motherhood required of me.

There wasn't time to process my feelings when medications had to be given.

There wasn't time to sit with my sadness when therapy started at eight o'clock.

There wasn't time to grieve what our life looked like because my boys deserved every ounce of the mother God had entrusted them to.

So I learned how to postpone myself.

I'll cry later.

I'll rest later.

I'll process this later.

Later became tomorrow.

Tomorrow became next week.

Next week became next month.

Until one day...

there wasn't anyone left depending on me in the same way.

And suddenly...

all those "laters" showed up at once.

I think that's why this season has felt so heavy.

I'm not only grieving Jaxon.

I'm grieving years of postponed emotions that finally found permission to breathe.

People have asked me over the last several weeks,

"How can we support you?"

"What are we doing for Jaxon' birthday?"

Those questions have humbled me more than people probably realize.

Because when you've spent your life being the helper...

learning how to receive help feels awkward.

Almost uncomfortable.

I've always been much better at giving than receiving.

It's easier for me to organize the meal train than to be the family receiving one.

It's easier for me to pray for someone else than to admit I need prayer.

It's easier for me to show up than to ask someone to show up for me.

But grief has a way of stripping away your pride.

Not in a cruel way.

In a holy way.

It reminds you that God never intended for us to carry impossible things by ourselves.

So I wrote the text.

Not because I needed attention.

Not because I wanted sympathy.

Because I needed my village.

I invited anyone who felt led to stop by the columbarium before Jaxon's birthday.

I asked them to leave him a birthday card.

Or write him a note.

Or write me one.

Leave a favorite Scripture.

A prayer.

A memory.

Anything.

I even asked them to punch a little hole in the card so we could hang it there.

As I typed those words, I realized I wasn't asking people to decorate a columbarium.

I was inviting them into my motherhood.

That's different.

I wanted Jaxon's birthday to look the way his life looked.

Surrounded by people who loved him.

People who celebrated him.

People who never saw a diagnosis before they saw a little boy.

People who knew his name.

People who would continue speaking his name.

Then...

I typed something I had never asked anyone to pray before.

Even writing it made me pause.

I asked my village to pray that, if it was God's will...

Jaxon would visit me in a dream.

I sat there staring at those words before I hit "send."

Because I knew some people would misunderstand.

I wasn't asking God to bring my son back.

No.

Please don't misunderstand my heart.

I know exactly where my baby is.

I have never questioned that.

Not for one second.

I know he is with Jesus.

I know he is whole.

I know he has traded every limitation this earth placed on him for complete healing in Heaven.

I would never ask God to send him back into a body that fought so hard just because I miss him.

That wouldn't be love.

Love says...

"Stay where you're whole, Baby. I'll see you when it's my turn."

But there is something my heart has carried since November 22, 2025.

Not regret.

Longing.

A longing for moments this side of Heaven never gave us.

I've never seen my son smile.

I've never heard him laugh.

I've never heard him say,

"Hi, Mommy."

I've never watched him run across a room.

I've never watched him reach up and ask me to pick him up.

I've never known what it feels like to have him wrap his little arms around my neck.

Those aren't memories I'm trying to hold onto.

They're firsts.

Holy firsts.

Moments I have imagined more times than I could ever count.

I don't want to relive something I lost.

I want, just once, to experience something earth never allowed.

Just once.

If God saw fit.

If it pleased Him.

If it was His will.

Let me see my baby smile.

Let me hear his laugh.

Let me hear him say,

"Hi, Mommy."

Not because my faith is weak.

Because my faith is strong enough to believe that Heaven is real.

Strong enough to believe that my son can do every one of those things now.

Strong enough to believe that, if God wanted to, He could give a grieving mama one holy glimpse.

And if He doesn't...

He is still God.

He is still faithful.

He is still good.

That has never been up for debate.

I don't measure God's goodness by whether He answers every prayer exactly the way I ask.

I measure it by the cross.

I measure it by His presence.

I measure it by the fact that He has never left me.

Not in Darren's hospital room.

Not in Jaxon's hospital room.

Not at the columbarium.

Not in my driveway.

Not in this fight with July.

He's been here through every single chapter.

Maybe that's why this series is called:

Court Is Still in Session.

Because every week I keep bringing more evidence.

Not evidence that life has been fair.

It hasn't.

Not evidence that grief has ended.

It hasn't.

But evidence that God has never once abandoned me.

And that...

that changes everything.

As I sit here writing this, July 22 hasn't happened yet.

Eight months.

Eight months since November 22, 2025.

Eight months since I kissed my little boy goodbye.

I don't know why we count.

But we do.

One day.

One week.

One month.

One hundred days.

Six months.

Eight months.

Maybe because numbers give structure to something that has none.

Maybe because counting is the only way we know to acknowledge that love hasn't forgotten.

People have asked me if it gets easier.

I don't know if "easier" is the right word.

Different?

Yes.

Quieter?

Sometimes.

Less shocking?

Maybe.

But easier...

No.

Because every milestone reminds me that time is doing what time has always done.

It keeps moving.

Whether I'm ready or not.

Three days after July 22...

July 25 will be here.

Jaxon's birthday.

His first birthday in Heaven.

I have thought about that day more times than I can count.

I've changed my mind a hundred times about what I wanted to do.

Should we travel?

Should we stay home?

Should we throw a party?

Should it just be us?

Should we release balloons?

No...

Not balloons.

Should we...

Should we...

Should we...

Grief has a way of making even simple decisions feel impossible.

Because every decision feels permanent.

What if I do too much?

What if I don't do enough?

What if people don't understand?

What if I don't even recognize myself that day?

Then one afternoon, while I was sitting with all those questions, the answer came so quietly I almost missed it.

I don't celebrate because that's what I feel.

I celebrate because that's what he deserves.

Those two things are not the same.

If I waited until my feelings caught up...

I might never celebrate again.

Because the truth is...

I don't feel like celebrating.

I feel like holding my little boy.

I feel like hearing him breathe.

I feel like adjusting his blanket one more time.

I feel like checking on him before I go to bed.

I feel like kissing his forehead.

I feel like hearing someone call out,

"Mommy..."

Except...

I never got to hear that.

That's grief too.

Grieving things that never happened.

People often think grief is missing what was.

Sometimes...it's missing what never got the chance to be.

I don't miss hearing Jaxon say,

"Hi, Mommy."

I miss never getting to.

There is a difference.

I don't miss watching him run across the living room.

I miss never seeing it happen.

I don't miss hearing his laugh.

I miss wondering what it would have sounded like.

Those are the places grief still finds me.

Not in my memories.

In my imagination.

The future that never arrived.

And yet...

none of that changes what he deserves.

He deserves balloons.

He deserves birthday cake.

He deserves decorations.

He deserves his favorite people gathering together.

He deserves stories that make us laugh until we cry.

He deserves to be remembered by more than the day he died.

Because if I've learned anything through all of this...

it's that death should never become the loudest thing about someone's life.

Jaxon's life deserves to speak louder than his death.

His joy deserves to speak louder than his diagnosis.

His resilience deserves to speak louder than the machines.

His purpose deserves to speak louder than our pain.

He deserves that.

So... we’ll celebrate.

Not because my heart feels light.

It doesn't.

Not because I've figured grief out.

I haven't.

Not because I woke up one morning and decided I was okay.

I'm not.

We'll celebrate because for five years...1,947 days

God entrusted me with one of His greatest gifts.

A little boy who forever changed me.

A little boy who taught me that communication doesn't always need words.

A little boy who taught me patience I didn't know I possessed.

A little boy who taught me that joy can exist in hospital rooms.

A little boy who made me a better mother...

a better wife...

a better advocate...

a better human being.

How could I not celebrate someone who gave me so much?

The truth is...celebrating Jaxon isn't hard.

Celebrating without him is.

Those are two completely different things.

As this week comes to an end, I realize something.

Me and July are still in a fight.

But maybe...

it's not the kind of fight I thought it was.

Maybe July isn't my enemy.

Maybe July is simply the witness.

Every year it quietly takes the stand and reminds me of the evidence.

It reminds me that God gave me a husband whose covenant has held through storms we never imagined.

It reminds me that a five-year-old little boy named Darren once answered a question with one tiny finger and forever changed my understanding of motherhood.

It reminds me that on July 25, 2020, another little boy named Jaxon made me his mommy in such an unforgettable, unimaginable way that neither of us deserved.

It reminds me that my family wasn't an accident.

It was God's intentional design.

And now...

July is asking me to trust the same God who authored every beautiful July before this one...

with the July I never wanted.

I don't know if I'll dream about Jaxon.

I don't know what July 22 will ask of me.

I don't know exactly how I'll feel on July 25.

I don't know whether I'll laugh more than I cry or cry more than I laugh.

I don't know.

And for someone who spent years believing she had to know everything to keep her children alive...

"I don't know" has become one of the greatest acts of faith I've ever offered God.

Because this isn't about certainty anymore.

It's about trust.

The evidence has been presented.

Not evidence that my life has been easy.

Not evidence that grief is over.

Not evidence that I have all the answers.

Just evidence that God has remained exactly who He has always been.

Faithful.

Present.

Near.

The prosecution rests.

The defense rests.

But the Judge...

The Judge is still writing.

So there is no verdict today.

Only another testimony.

Another week of rehabilitation.

Another reminder that healing isn't forgetting.

It's learning to faithfully carry what love refuses to put down.

And I will keep carrying it.

I will keep saying Darren's name.

I will keep saying Jaxon's name.

I will keep choosing joy when joy feels impossible.

I will keep celebrating my boys.

Because I am still their mommy.

Death changed their address.

It never changed my assignment.

Court is still in session.

P.S.

Over the last several weeks, one question has been asked more than any other:

"How can we celebrate Jaxon?"

First, thank you.

The fact that so many of you continue to love our sweet boy, speak his name, pray for our family, and remember his birthday has carried us more than you'll ever know.

Please hear my heart: nothing is expected. Your prayers are enough. Your love is enough. Your messages are enough.

But because so many of you have asked, I wanted to give you a way to celebrate with us if you feel led.

This year, we're purchasing Jaxon 6 birthday cakes and adding a memorial brick to our backyard—a permanent place where our family, especially Nolin, can sit, remember, celebrate, and tell the stories of his incredible big brothers.

If you'd like to be part of that, you can send a gift through Cash App ($GodsaidnoLLC), Venmo (my name), or Zelle if you have my original phone number.

Again, this isn't an expectation.

It's simply my answer to the many people who have asked how they can help celebrate our precious boy.

The greatest gift you can give us will always be this:

Keep saying his name.

Because every time you do... a mother's heart is reminded that her son is still changing lives.

~ST Mama Lion