A Birthday, A Blog, and The Love That Didn’t End
To My Son Garet,
I don’t really know what I’m more shocked by today —
the fact that you would be 24…
or the fact that you never made it past 19.
And it breaks my heart.
I still think about you every minute of every day.
I still miss our little debates.
Your love for all things survival.
The random images you would send me — something you saw out and about, a quick picture snapped because you knew I would like it. The galaxy photos. The space inspiration. The animals. The nature.
I miss how you would run with the ridiculous little stories I’d make up when we saw an animal in a field or walked around Dawes. I miss watching you walk ahead of me through the Japanese garden, stepping across those big stones — and me trying to keep up, trying to catch the picture of you walking away.
I have so many photos of you like that.
Walking away.
And sometimes I think about how many other moms have taken those same pictures in the same spots…
but they still have their boys.
Grown up or still little.
They still have them.
And my little boy moved somewhere I cannot follow.
That is the most gut-wrenching, heart-shattering pain and I still do not understand how I survived.
Because I needed you here to keep going.
I’m here watching your siblings grow up and I wonder what you would think.
What advice would you give Kaden? Or would he be the one giving advice to you now?
What would you think of your brother — not even old enough to drive yet — already taller than you?
What would you say about Maddie, who isn’t so little anymore and has quite the talent for scaring people? I promise she’d try to scare you more than you’d scare her.
Emma would have made you a hundred Jack Skellington diamond paintings by now. You could wallpaper your room with them the way she goes through them.
And Karleigh… she still cuddles Giraffe and Ziggy for you, especially on the days she misses you most.
I wonder if you know how much you are loved.
How much you are missed.
How different our lives are now.
I know you didn’t mean for this to happen.
I know you would never have chosen to hurt your family like this.
But that doesn’t make it hurt less.
I wish I didn’t know how terrified you were to die. Knowing that makes it harder sometimes.
I miss you.
I miss who you were.
I miss who you would be.
I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see your future.
Sometimes I see houses like the ones you wanted to build, and for a split second I think, I should send this to him.
Then reality hits, and I take a deep breath and scroll on.
I’m sad you never met your forever person.
You always wanted a daughter.
I still wonder what her name would have been.
I am not who I was when you were still here.
Sometimes I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
But this I know:
When you were born, you made me a better person.
And I am forever grateful for that.
And I know you did that for others, too.
Had you stayed here, I know you would have helped people.
I just wish you would have helped yourself.
You almost had it.
In honor of you, one year ago today — on your birthday — I started this blog.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
I didn’t have a plan.
I had a shattered heart and love that still needed somewhere to go.
I started writing because I couldn’t hold it all inside anymore.
And because I knew there had to be another mom somewhere sitting in the dark, feeling like she was losing her mind — when really, she was just losing her child.
This space exists because you lived.
This blog was never about performance.
It was about connection.
It was about making sure no grieving parent ever feels as alone as I did.
And over the past year, something beautiful has happened.
Your name has been spoken in safe spaces.
Your life has helped other mothers breathe.
Your story has softened rooms that once felt silent.
Love still wants somewhere to go….
Hey, Mama, If Today Feels Heavy For You Too
There’s something else I want to say — especially on birthdays.
These dates don’t just live in calendars.
They live in our nervous systems.
Sometimes people think grief “comes back” on anniversaries. But often what’s happening is your body remembers before your mind does.
You might wake up tense.
Feel restless.
Find yourself irritable or exhausted.
Start crying without fully knowing why.
Your brain is marking the season.
The light.
The air.
The memory of what changed.
That isn’t weakness.
That isn’t regression.
That’s how trauma and love live in the body.
Birthdays are especially complicated because they hold two truths at once:
They existed. They are still loved.
And they are not here the way you should be.
If today is a date that hurts for you, please be gentle with yourself.
Grief is not linear.
It moves in rhythm.
And some days the rhythm is louder.
Garet, if you can see any of this…
I hope you know this:
You are still my son.
You are still shaping who I am.
You are still changing lives.
Happy 24th birthday, baby.
I love you still.
I will love you always.
And to anyone reading — if you want to, you can share a name in the comments. No explanations. Just a name. Just love.💛
The Things We Hold On To
There are some things grief does not let us throw away.
Some things are too holy.
The giraffe in the image was Garet’s favorite toy.
Worn. Soft. Faded from years of being loved.
It sat beside him.
Traveled with him.
Survived childhood.
And now, it survives him.
I still have it.
I still hold it.
And because I couldn’t bear the idea of that piece of him ever being lost, I had it tattooed on my arm — wrapped in the arms of Stitch, because he loved him too.
The real toy fits in my hand.
The tattoo lives in my skin.
One is fabric.
One is ink.
Both are love.
People sometimes ask why grieving parents keep things. Why we don’t “move forward” by packing everything away.
But what they don’t understand is this:
We aren’t holding onto objects.
We’re holding onto connection.
When your child dies, the world expects you to let go of everything tangible. As if healing means erasing evidence.
But grief doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes healing looks like keeping the toy.
Sometimes it looks like turning it into art.
Sometimes it looks like carrying them with you — visibly, permanently.
This little giraffe?
It isn’t just a stuffed animal.
It’s bedtime routines.
It’s car rides.
It’s tiny hands clutching something safe.
It’s a version of my son that only I got to see.
And now it’s also a reminder:
Love leaves marks.
And some of them are beautiful.
Love and Light ~Mandy
Leave a comment