Today is JUNE 22: 8 Months....

Court Is Still in Session

Week Four | Day Three July 21, 2026

Today, I left another piece of myself at the columbarium.

I drove away.

It didn't.

I don't know if I'll ever become accustomed to walking away from the place where both of my sons rest. I don't know if there is a day coming when my feet will carry me back to my car without feeling like they're made of concrete. Every single time I leave, I feel as though a piece of my heart chooses to stay behind.

Maybe that's because love doesn't know how to leave.

Tomorrow is eight months.

I've known this day was coming, but somehow it still found me before I was ready.

Today, I walked around feeling like I was holding pieces of my heart in my hands.

I know that probably doesn't make sense.

It doesn't really make sense to me either.

It's just the only way I know how to describe it.

Everything felt heavy.

The air.

My body.

The silence.

Even breathing felt like work.

At one point, I took my shoes off and stood barefoot on the ground.

Not because I had some profound revelation.

Because I needed something to remind me that I was still here.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

I don't remember everything I said.

I only remember asking God to help me breathe.

I've spent so much of my life taking care of everyone else that I don't really know what to do when I'm the one falling apart.

As a medical mom, I knew every medication, every appointment, every alarm, every question to ask. I knew how to advocate in rooms full of specialists. I knew how to keep moving, even when I was exhausted.

Now I'm learning my own body.

I'm learning what grief does to it.

I'm learning what trauma sounds like when it lives in your chest.

And some days, like today, I don't know where my physical pain ends and my emotional pain begins.

People have been asking me what I need.

The truth is, the thing I want most can't be given by another person.

I want one dream.

One dream where I see Jaxon whole.

One dream where I hear, "Hi, Mommy."

One dream where I don't have to wonder.

That's the prayer I haven't stopped praying.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, God reminded me that while He doesn't always remove the weight, He never leaves me to carry it alone.

Before I ever told her how hard this week had become, my life coach reached out.

She told me she had been praying.

She told me she had others praying.

Then she said something that stopped me.

"I can feel your heaviness."

I hadn't told her.

I hadn't found the words yet.

When I finally did, they weren't eloquent.

They were honest.

I told her I thought I was ready for this week.

I wasn't.

I told her I felt like I had somehow failed because I wasn't further along in my healing, because I was returning to work, because everything felt so much heavier than I expected.

There came a moment when all I had left was one sentence.

"I literally can't breathe."

She answered with words I don't think I'll ever forget.

"Okay. I am willing to listen. Even if you don't say anything."

"My heart is with you and so are my lungs until you are able to. Borrow them."

I didn't need advice.

I didn't need someone to tell me to be strong.

I needed someone who wasn't afraid to sit in the middle of my grief with me.

That's what she did.

She didn't take my pain away.

She simply refused to let me carry it by myself.

Tonight, that's what I'm holding onto.

Not because tomorrow won't hurt.

It will.

Not because I suddenly have answers.

I don't.

But because God, in His kindness, keeps reminding me that when my strength runs out, He has already gone ahead of me and placed people along the way to help carry me.

Tomorrow will mark eight months since I kissed my baby goodbye.

In just a few days, we'll celebrate his sixth birthday—the first one in Heaven.

I don't know what those days will ask of me.

I only know this.

Today, when I felt like I couldn't breathe, someone I love reminded me that I didn't have to.

For a little while, I could borrow hers.

And maybe that's what grace looks like.

Not always being given the strength to stand.

Sometimes being loved enough that someone stands beside you until your legs remember how.

Even if I have to borrow someone else's lungs for a little while.

Amen.