The WEEK that has been haunting me...

Court Is Still in Session

Week Four, Day One....This week is so heavy I am doing daily post....

Today is Sunday, July 19, 2026.

I have been awake since about one o'clock this morning.

I wish I could tell you it was because I had so much on my mind or because I drank too much coffee before bed, but I know better than that.

This week has arrived.

The week.

In three days, it will be eight months since my son, Jaxon, went to Heaven.

Three days after that will be his first heavenly birthday.

Six.

Even writing that feels strange.

Do I say he would have been six?

Do I say he turned six?

Do I say it's his first heavenly birthday?

I honestly don't know.

Maybe grief doesn't care about proper grammar.

Maybe every version hurts the same.

Sleep never really had a chance.

Instead, I found myself doing what I've done so many nights before. Talking to God.

Not asking Him why.

I've stopped asking that question.

I asked Him for something much smaller...and somehow much bigger.

"Please let me dream about my son."

Not the little boy whose life was forever changed by a birth injury.

Not the little boy whose body worked so much harder than it should have ever had to.

I want to meet the little boy Heaven knows.

I want to see him standing tall for the very first time.

I want to hear him say, "Hi, Mommy," for the very first time.

I want to see his smile for the very first time.

I want to experience everything this side of eternity never allowed us to.

Just once.

Even if it's only in a dream.

Morning came.

The dream didn't.

Instead, something inside of me feels like it's cracking.

Maybe it's my heart.

Yesterday I drove to the columbarium.

Today I'll go again.

Every day until we leave for our family trip, I'll take him another card.

I'll sit with my son.

I'll tell him about his birthday.

I'll tell him how much he's still loved.

I'll tell him what's happening in our family.

I'll tell him about his little brother.

I'll tell him everything a mama tells her child.

Because becoming separated by Heaven never stopped me from being his mother.

If anything, it made me hold tighter to that title.

I don't know how to explain what it feels like to stand in front of your child's resting place.

Nothing about it feels natural.

Nothing about it feels right.

There is an emptiness that words simply refuse to cooperate with.

And yet...

There is also an overwhelming pride.

I was chosen to be Jaxon's mama.

What an incredible honor.

When I look back over the last ten years of caregiving, I realize how much life has been lived.

I became Darren's mommy because, in a speech therapy room back in July of 2015, a little boy looked at me when someone asked, "Where's Mom?" and pointed.

He chose me.

We chose each other.

Five years later, God entrusted me with Jaxon.

A little boy whose life began with a birth injury that would require every ounce of strength our family had.

Then came Nolin.

My sweet 2.0.

The beautiful combination of everything I loved about all of my children, wrapped into one little boy who laughs, runs, keeps me rooted, and reminds me every single day that life still asks something of me.

Forty years.

Ten years of caregiving.

Two sons waiting for me in Heaven.

One miscarriage.

One little boy still reaching for my hand here on Earth.

That's a lot of life.

That's a lot of love.

That's a lot of loss.

People keep asking me how I'm doing.

The honest answer?

I don't know.

I don't know how I feel today.

I don't know how I'm going to feel tomorrow.

I don't know what Wednesday will feel like.

I don't know what July 25 will ask of me.

I don't know.

I'm just...

trying.

Darryl woke up looking for me because I wasn't in our room.

He asked if everything was okay.

He asked if he had done something wrong.

No.

The house is simply carrying too many memories right now.

Every room remembers something.

Some mornings I need a little distance before I can walk back into them.

That's not giving up.

That's surviving.

That's rehabilitation.

One of the unexpected gifts of this in-home rehabilitation has been realizing that healing has looked a lot like my spice cabinet.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to cook.

Open my cabinet and you'll find spices collected over years.

Some bold.

Some subtle.

Some I reach for every single meal.

Some only for special occasions.

That's exactly what this season has taught me about people.

God isn't one of the spices.

He's the One writing the recipe.

He's in everything.

Darryl and Nolin aren't spices either.

They're ingredients.

They don't rotate.

They are part of every single recipe God is preparing in my life.

Then there are the spices.

My daddy.

My mama.

My bonus mom.

My best friend.

My therapist.

My sister circle.

The people who quietly step in when today's recipe calls for what only they can bring.

They rotate.

Not because I love them differently.

Because not every recipe requires the same seasoning.

Then there are the spices still sitting on the shelf.

Some simply aren't what this season needs.

And if I'm honest...

Some expired.

That part has been harder to admit than I expected.

Not every relationship ended because someone was cruel.

Not every relationship ended because there was a dramatic explosion.

Some simply sat untouched for so long that they lost what they once brought to my life.

Healing has taught me something I never expected to learn in my own kitchen.

Expired spices don't belong in fresh recipes.

You don't throw them away because you're angry.

You throw them away because they can no longer nourish what you're making.

The same has been true with people.

Some relationships were for another season.

Some were attached to the version of me who only knew hospitals.

Some were attached to Jaxon.

Some disappeared after he went to Heaven because grief made them uncomfortable.

Others simply didn't understand that I couldn't continue showing up as the version of Shantrael they were accustomed to receiving.

And that's okay.

I'm learning that boundaries aren't bitterness.

Sometimes they're just good cooking.

I'm also learning that love and access are not the same thing.

Some people will always have my love.

They just won't always have access.

Not because I hate them.

Because I'm protecting what God is still preparing.

This week feels antagonizing.

I'm someone who celebrates everything.

If you know me, you know birthdays are an event.

Months of planning.

Little details.

Big surprises.

Joy.

Jaxon loved every single bit of it.

And so did I.

This year, celebrating hurts.

Not because he deserves any less.

Because he deserves everything.

The celebration has never been about how I feel.

It's always been about who he is.

He is still my son.

I am still his mama.

Death changed our address.

It never changed our relationship.

So this week, if I'm quieter than usual...

If I disappear for a little while...

If I seem distant...

Please know I'm not lost.

I'm just walking through sacred ground.

I'm carrying eight months of missing.

I'm preparing for a birthday I never imagined I'd have to celebrate this way.

I'm learning that grief and gratitude can occupy the same heart.

And today...

That's enough testimony for one day.

Court is still in session.