The Q life Grief Journey

Walking with love after loss.

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  • The Letters We Didn’t Get To Write

    Two days before Quinten died, he asked James for something very specific.

    Quinten told James to write him a letter, a letter about his feelings toward Quinten. Quinten wanted James to read it to him and then place it in his casket when he was gone.

    It was such a simple request.
    And such a profound one.

    If you’ve read the post about the day Quinten said his goodbyes, you know how those final hours unfolded. There was no slowing down. No quiet pause. We weren’t sitting at tables writing letters; we were sitting beside him, holding space, soaking up every second we were given.

    We weren’t going to miss a single moment with Quinten.

    The idea of letters stayed with us, though. It moved quietly through the room, from one heart to another. We talked about it as a family. We felt it. We understood exactly why he asked.

    But none of us knew we only had two more days.

    And then, just like that, we ran out of time.

    There were no letters written before he died. Not because the love wasn’t there, but because the love was everywhere else, in conversations, in presence, in hands being held, in voices saying what mattered most.

    At Quinten’s funeral, we did the only thing we could think to do. We encouraged everyone to bring a letter to him, words they wished they could have said, or wanted to say one more time, and place them in his casket to be buried with him.

    It felt right.
    It felt like honoring his request in the only way we had left.

    We gathered at Quinten’s casket with folded pages, envelopes, and quiet tears. And then there was Lincoln, Quinten’s seven-year-old nephew. He didn’t have a letter. Instead, he brought a friendship bracelet. With careful hands, we placed it in Quinten’s shirt pocket as Lincoln requested.

    In that moment, I understood something deeply.

    Even when we don’t have words, we still find a way to give love something tangible to hold.

    And still, something lingered with me.

    Quinten wanted letters because he understood the power of words. He knew that sometimes love needs somewhere to land. Somewhere tangible. Somewhere lasting.

    So this year, I am carrying his request forward.

    In honor of Quinten’s dying wish, I am writing a letter from my heart to each member of our family on their birthday. Not letters of obligation, but letters of truth. Letters that say what matters now. Letters that don’t wait for the “right time.”

    Because loss teaches you something very clearly: time is not promised, and words left unspoken don’t get easier to carry.

    These letters are my way of keeping Quinten’s request alive, of letting his wisdom continue to shape how we love, how we show up, and how we speak to one another.

    We didn’t get to write the letters he asked for in time.

    But I am writing now.

    And in doing so, we are learning that even when time runs out, love still finds a way to be spoken, carried forward, letter by letter.

  • A Mother’s Grief

    A mother’s grief is something the world can’t quite explain. It doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t fade on a schedule. It doesn’t behave the way people think it should.

    It is raw.
    It is relentless.
    It is stitched into the deepest part of your heart because that is where your child has lived since the moment they took their very first breath.

    When Quinten died, a part of me went with him.
    Not because I wanted to leave this world,
    but because he was woven into every part of who I am.
    He was my youngest child, my only boy, my Momma’s boy, even at 34. And losing him has felt like losing gravity, like the ground beneath me shifted and hasn’t settled back into place.

    A mother’s grief is different because it begins at birth.
    From the moment you hold your child in your arms, you make an unspoken promise:
    I will protect you.
    I will care for you.
    I will keep you safe.

    And when life hands you something you cannot protect them from, something as cruel and merciless as cancer, that promise cracks in ways that feel unbearable.

    A mother’s grief holds love and guilt and anger and longing all tangled together.
    It wakes with you.
    It follows you from room to room.
    It lies down beside you at night.

    People may see me smile, cook, talk, hold my grandbabies, and continue living, and all of those things are real.
    But underneath, the grief is still there, quiet and steady, like a pulse I didn’t ask for.

    A mother’s grief is hearing a song and feeling your chest collapse.
    It’s seeing a photo and losing your breath for a moment.
    It’s reaching for your phone to text him before remembering you can’t.
    It’s waking up from sleep and feeling that half-second of normalcy before reality hits all over again.

    It is the ache of the arms that can no longer hold your child.
    The longing to hear “I love you, Momma” just one more time.
    The wish, the impossible wish, for even a minute more.

    People say time heals all wounds.
    But a mother’s grief isn’t a wound.
    It’s a new place inside you, a sacred, painful room where love and loss sit side by side.

    Some days, the door to that room is wide open, and the grief floods in without mercy.
    Other days, it stays cracked just enough to remind you that it’s still there, softened, but never gone.

    And yet, amid the ache, there is this truth:
    A mother’s grief is proof.
    Proof that your child lived.
    Proof that they mattered.
    Proof that the bond between you cannot be undone by death.

    Grief is the price of love, and my love for Quinten is endless.

    I will carry this grief because it is the last thing he left in my hands.
    And I will carry it with honor, because it means he was real, he was mine, and he changed my life in ways that will echo for the rest of my days.

    A mother’s grief doesn’t end.
    But neither does a mother’s love.
    And somehow, in ways I am still learning, those two truths walk together, one teaching me to endure, the other teaching me to live.

  • Miracles In The Midst of Sadness

    Life has a way of weaving joy and sorrow together in the same breath. While we walked through some of the hardest moments with Quinten’s cancer journey, God gave us a beautiful reminder that miracles still bloom even in the shadow of sadness.

    As Quinten began palliative chemotherapy, treatments designed to slow the cancer’s growth and give us more precious time together, we received the most unexpected gift. On my birthday, our daughter Whitney and her husband Jared surprised us with the wonderful news: they were expecting a baby in August 2025!

    What a joy to celebrate. Finally, some good news to hold onto. A baby shower to plan, memories to anticipate, and the promise of new life that brings so much hope.

    Quinten was overjoyed at the thought of another little one in the family. He has always taken his role as “the cool uncle” to heart, whether that’s spoiling Lincoln, our 7-year-old grandson, or making sure every holiday feels special. Since moving to the farm, Quinten has insisted on fireworks for the Fourth of July and New Year’s. He never missed a birthday dinner, always here with a gift in hand. Even while fighting cancer, his heart was always fixed on bringing joy to others.

    That’s what inspires me most. Quinten’s story is not just about struggle; it’s about love, generosity, and choosing to create joy even when life is hard. This new little life is yet another reminder that beauty can shine in unexpected places. It’s proof that even when sadness surrounds us, miracles are still unfolding.

    Sometimes, the light we’re searching for comes right in the middle of the storm.

  • How You Made Me A Better Person

    When you lose a child, your world changes forever. But when you’ve had the gift of walking beside that child through the hardest days of their life, something else changes, your heart.

    Quinten’s battle with cancer was cruel and unrelenting, yet he met every moment with courage, humor, and grace. I watched my son fight with quiet strength, never letting bitterness take root. Even when the pain was deep, he still found ways to love, to comfort others, to smile, to say thank you. And through it all, he kept teaching me what it truly means to live with heart.

    He made me see the world differently. Little things that once seemed important began to fade, and what remained was love,  pure, patient, unconditional love. I learned that time spent together, even in silence, is a sacred gift. That kindness matters more than words. That presence can be its own form of healing.

    Quinten showed me how to be brave, not just for him, but for myself. He taught me that strength isn’t about holding everything together, it’s about showing up with love even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

    Through his illness, I learned to slow down, to notice, to listen. I became softer, more compassionate, more aware of how fragile and precious life is. And when the day came that I had to let him go, I realized that even in his leaving, he was still shaping me, still helping me become the person I was meant to be.

    He made me a better mother. A better wife. A better friend. A better human being.

    Because of Quinten, I know that love doesn’t end. It transforms. It becomes part of who we are, the way we speak, the way we love, the way we choose to see light even in the darkest places.

    So yes, cancer changed our lives. But Quinten changed me.

    His courage, his laughter, his kindness, those are the lessons he left behind. And every day, I try to live in a way that honors them.

    That honors him.

    If love can teach us anything, it’s that even in loss, we can still become more.

  • The Years That Changed Me

    When people talk about caregiving, they often picture tasks: medications, meals, appointments, helping someone stand, helping someone breathe, helping someone make it through another day. And yes, caregiving is all of that.

    But caring for Quinten for those two years was something deeper.
    Something life-altering.
    Something that didn’t just fill my days, it rewrote who I am.

    Those years changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand.

    For two years, my entire world revolved around my son’s needs.
    Every morning began with checking on him.
    Every night ended with wondering how he would be by morning.
    Every decision, every plan, every ounce of energy flowed into keeping him comfortable, supported, and loved.

    My life became smaller and bigger at the same time.
    Smaller, because there was no space for anything but caregiving.
    Bigger, because love stretched me into places I didn’t know I could go.

    Caregiving changed me physically; exhaustion carved itself into my bones.
    It changed me emotionally; grief began long before he took his last breath.
    It changed me spiritually in ways I’m still unraveling.

    I learned to be strong in moments when I wanted to collapse.
    I learned to be patient when fear clawed at my heart and mind.
    I learned to stay steady even as my own world was cracking.

    Caregiving reshaped my definition of love.
    It became something quieter, humbler, deeper.
    It became showing up on the worst days.
    It became holding his hand through pain.
    It became about celebrating tiny victories and enduring devastating losses.
    It became doing whatever needed to be done, even when it broke me.

    I learned what it truly means to advocate fiercely.
    To speak for him.
    To fight for him.
    To comfort him when no comfort felt big enough.

    I learned what it means to surrender, to accept that I could not save him, even though every part of me wanted to try.

    Those two years taught me that love is not only laughter and joy, it is also sacrifice, worry, sleepless nights, holding your breath, and choosing to do it all again the next day.

    Caregiving also changed the way I see time.
    I learned to treasure the ordinary, a conversation, a small smile, a moment of clarity, the way he would say, “I love you, Momma.”

    When caregiving ended, when my purpose shifted in an instant, I felt hollow. Lost. Untethered.
    Because the role that had consumed my days, the role I poured my entire heart into, was suddenly gone.

    People tell you caregiving ends when the person dies.
    But that’s not true.
    The caregiving lives on in your muscle memory, in your routines, in the ache of your empty hands, in the way your body still anticipates his needs.

    Caregiving changed me forever, not just because of what it demanded, but because of what it gave me:

    Time with my son that I will cherish until the day I die.
    Moments of intimacy, honesty, and closeness that most parents never get.
    The honor of walking him all the way home.

    I would do it again, every moment, even knowing how it ended.
    Because caregiving was the final chapter of my motherhood with him.
    And it shaped me into someone braver, softer, wiser, and more deeply human than I was before.

    Caregiving was hard.
    It was heartbreaking.
    It was sacred.
    And it changed me forever.

  • The Day You Said Goodbye

    Saturdays had always been our day. The sirens would sound at noon, and right on cue, Quinten and Lenny would walk across the driveway from his cabin to our front door. It was a small tradition, comforting and familiar.

    But on Saturday, July 12th, 2025, the moment I saw Quinten’s face, I knew something was different. Something was wrong.

    He stood in the doorway, tired and hurting, and said quietly,
    “I can’t walk over again. It’s time for the hospital bed, Momma.”

    We had talked about this moment before, the moment he would ask. He told me that when it was truly the end, he would tell me, and I would know. And I did. His cabin was only a short walk from our home, but that morning it had become too far.

    I got him settled on the couch and called hospice. The bed would be delivered that day.

    And still, because it was Saturday, we carried on with family dinner, even though every breath felt heavier. Kevin and Terra arrived with little Lincoln. James took Kevin outside to burn boxes in the burn barrel, his way of bracing himself for what was coming.

    Quinten noticed James wasn’t inside. He wanted to see him. He tried to stand up to go out to the porch, but the moment he rose, he collapsed to the floor in pain. I screamed for James, and somehow, with strength we didn’t know we had, he and I got Quinten back onto the couch.

    I checked him for injuries. Nothing appeared broken. But the fall, the shaking hands, the confusion in his eyes… deep down, I knew. The cancer had likely reached his brain.

    A little later, Quinten asked again to sit on the porch. He wanted to watch James and Kevin burn boxes. With Terra holding the door and me steadying him, we got him to James’s chair outside. His hands trembled harder than ever.

    He looked at Terra and said the words he had never said out loud before:
    “I’m dying.”
    And she said softly, “I know, Quinten… and I’m sorry.”

    He grew tired, so we helped him to our bedroom so he could rest in our bed. I asked whether he wanted me to call his sister. Whitney hadn’t planned to come that day; she was very pregnant, swollen, and tired. But Quinten said yes. When I reached for my phone, he picked up his own instead. With his shaking hands and a little help from me, he called her.

    “Whit… I fell down… and I’m dying. Can you come see me?”

    She cried. She asked if it was time. I told her yes.
    She and Jared rushed over.

    Inside, we kept cooking dinner: James’s BBQ ribs, baked beans, and my potato salad. I was baking chocolate chip cookies for dessert, Quinten’s favorite.

    Whitney arrived and immediately climbed into our bed beside Quinten. Jared sat in a folding chair at his side. Whitney fed her brother what would be his last meal. I gave him a spoonful of cookie dough. He smiled for that.

    Then Quinten began calling for us one by one.
    He told James he wouldn’t make the beach trip that was three weeks away. James told him that it was okay and that we would handle everything.
    He called for me, asking the hardest question a mother can hear:
    “Momma… do I have your permission to die?”

    And because I loved him, because I would never hold him back from peace, I told him yes, that he had my permission. I showed him the shirt I had bought for him to be buried in.
    “Good job, Mom,” he whispered.

    He grew tired, drifting in and out. Whitney and Jared left with my promise to keep them updated.

    We were still waiting for the hospital bed. So James and Kevin moved the couch to the dining room to make space. When the bed arrived, the deliveryman set it up quickly.

    Then came the hardest part: getting Quinten from our bed to the hospital bed in the living room. James and Kevin lifted him, pushing their strength past what any of us should have had, while I steadied and guided.

    “Dig deep, Quinten,” James told him. “The deepest.”

    And he did. He always did.

    When they got him settled, Lenny jumped right into the bed with him, curling beside him the way he always had. We tucked Quinten in, raised the side rails, and he went right to sleep.

    I slept in the living room with him that night, in James’s recliner. Somewhere around 3 a.m., he woke and asked where his phone was. I told him it was in my bedroom, turned off.
    “Okay, good,” he said, and drifted back to sleep.

    It was one of the last nights he would ever spend in our home as the son I could still reach.

    But it was the night he was surrounded by all the love he ever needed and the night we began letting him go, one breath at a time.

  • How Grief Can Teach Us About Love and Healing

    Quinten, 

    I don’t know where you are now, but I know where you are not.

    You are not in pain.

    You are not tired.

    You are not fighting.

    And that alone brings me a kind of peace I didn’t know I could hold.

    You were always my baby brother.

    Not because you were small, but because you were gentle in a world that is not.

    Because your heart stayed soft even when your body had to be brave.

    I miss you in ways that don’t have words.

    I miss the way you made things feel lighter just by being there.

    I miss the version of myself that existed when you were still here, the one who didn’t know yet what this kind of loss felt like.

    You left in the middle of things.

    In the middle of our lives.

    In the middle of plans and jokes and futures we assumed we had.

    And yet… somehow, even in leaving, you gave us something.

    You taught me about life.

    About love.

    About forgiveness.

    You lived wild and free, fully, loudly, honestly.

    Even while you were fighting for your life, you were still living it.

    Laughing. Loving. Showing up. Choosing joy anyway.

    You didn’t just endure, you embodied what it means to be alive.

    And the greatest gift you gave me was this:

    You taught me how to forgive our mom.

    Because of you, the walls came down.

    Because of you, my heart softened.

    Because of you, our family healed in places I didn’t think could heal.

    Because of you, my relationship with her was restored.

    She is in my life now.

    She is in her grandson’s life now.

    And that is beautiful.

    That is a miracle.

    And that miracle has your fingerprints all over it.

    I wish you had stayed.

    God, I wish you had stayed.

    But I also know this:

    You gave everything you had while you were here.

    You loved us well.

    You were loved deeply.

    You lived with purpose even when the road was unfair.

    You changed us.

    You changed me.

    I carry you with me now, not behind me, not above me, but within me.

    In the way I love.

    In the way I forgive.

    In the way, I slow down.

    In the way, I notice the beautiful and the fragile.

    You are still part of this family.

    Still part of us.

    Still shaping our lives.

    You are not gone, you are woven into who we are becoming.

    You matter.

    You always did.

    I promise you this:

    You will not be forgotten.

    Not in our stories.

    Not in our laughter.

    Not in the quiet moments when your name drifts through our minds and lands gently in our hearts.

    You are still my brother.

    Still my teacher.

    Still my friend.

    Forever your sister.

    Always loving you.

    Never without you

    Whitney

  • Happy Birthday, My Son

    This Sunday is your birthday, Quinten, and this is the first one where I don’t get to see your face, hear your voice, or wrap my arms around you. I don’t get a phone call, a smile, or a hug that always made your birthdays feel complete.

    And I need you to know how much that hurts.

    Birthdays are supposed to be about celebrating life, but today feels different. It feels quiet. It feels heavy. It feels like the world is acknowledging time moving forward without you, and I’m not sure my heart is ready for that yet.

    I keep thinking about all the birthdays before this one. About you calling me, even before you were sick. About how you never forgot to make time for me in your life. Those memories are both a comfort and a heartbreak today.

    I miss you in ways words can’t fully capture. I miss your laugh. I miss your presence. I miss the way you made everything feel more grounded just by being here. I miss who you were and who you were still becoming.

    Today, I find myself talking to you quietly, telling you all the things I would say if you were here. How proud I am of you. How brave you were. How deeply you are loved. How your life continues to shape mine, even now.

    I wish I could tell you “Happy Birthday” in person.
    I wish I could see you smile.
    I wish this day didn’t carry so much longing.

    But even in your absence, you are still here with me. In my heart. In my memories. In the love that refuses to disappear.

    So today, I honor you.
    I speak your name.
    I hold space for the joy you brought into this world and the ache of missing you.

    Happy Birthday, my son.
    I will carry you with me through every year that comes after this one.

    I love you always, Mom.

  • Looking Back on 2025

    As 2025 came to a close, I found myself looking back at a year I never could have imagined, a year that changed me in ways I am still discovering.

    This was the year I learned how fragile life truly is.
    The year I learned how strong love can be.
    The year I learned what it means to lose a child and still wake up each morning.

    2025 was not a year of milestones or celebrations. It was a year of endurance. Of showing up when my heart wanted to hide. Of learning how to breathe, how to sit with silence, how to live inside a grief that did not ask permission.

    It was the year Quinten went on hospice.
    The year we walked him to the edge of life and stayed with him until the very end.
    The year I learned that loving your child sometimes means letting them go.  The hardest lesson a mother can ever face.

    There were moments in 2025 that will forever be etched into me:
    the quiet days of caregiving,
    the conversations that mattered more than anything else,
    the moments of fear and hope living side by side,
    and the day my world changed forever.

    And then, in August, just one month after Quinten passed away, baby Everett was born.

    His arrival did not erase the grief.
    It did not soften the loss.
    But it placed life and death side by side in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

    Holding Everett for the first time, my heart felt both broken and full. I grieved the uncle he would never know in this world, even as I marveled at the miracle of new life. His tiny breath, his warmth, his quiet presence felt like a reminder that life continues not because we are ready, but because it always does.

    Everett’s birth taught me that grief and love are not opposites. They can exist in the same moment, in the same body, in the same heart. One does not cancel the other. They simply make room for one another.

    This year stripped away everything unnecessary. It clarified what matters and what never did. It taught me that time is not guaranteed, that love is not gentle, and that grief does not move in straight lines.

    2025 also taught me something unexpected: that joy can exist alongside heartbreak. Not loud joy. Not careless joy. But small, tender moments that arrive quietly and remind me that life is still happening around me.

    There were glimpses of warmth, family gathered, grandbabies laughing, shared meals, quiet conversations, moments where Quinten felt close in ways I can’t explain. Those moments did not erase the pain, but they softened it just enough to keep me going.

    Looking back, I don’t see 2025 as a year to be celebrated or forgotten. I see it as a year that reshaped me. A year that demanded more of me than I ever thought I could give and somehow, I did.

    I am not the same person I was at the beginning of 2025.
    I carry more weight.
    More wisdom.
    More tenderness.

    And more love than I knew my heart could hold.

    As I move forward, I do so slowly. Gently. With no expectations of who I should be or how quickly I should heal. I carry Quinten with me, not as a memory that fades, but as a presence that continues to shape my days.

    2025 will always be the year that broke my heart.
    But it will also be the year that showed me how life and loss can exist side by side, how love can stretch across generations, and how even in the deepest sorrow, it does not disappear.

    I walk into 2026 changed, tender, and still loving.
    And that, for now, is enough.

  • Letting Go of Expectations During the First Year of Loss

    The first year after losing someone you love is not a season to master.
    It is a season to survive.

    Yet so often, expectations quietly creep in,  expectations from others, from tradition, from the calendar, and sometimes from ourselves. Expectations to “handle it well.” To show progress. To mark milestones with strength or grace.

    But grief does not move on a timeline.
    And the first year is not the time to demand anything of yourself.

    In that first year, everything is a “first.”
    The first birthday.
    The first Christmas.
    The first New Year’s.
    The first ordinary day when you suddenly realize how long it has been since you last heard their voice.

    Each one carries its own weight. And expecting yourself to experience them calmly, bravely, or beautifully only adds another layer of pain.

    Letting go of expectations means accepting that you will not be the same person you were before loss, and that’s not a failure. It’s a natural response to loving deeply.

    It means allowing plans to change at the last minute.
    Allowing tears to arrive without explanation.
    Allowing joy to show up unexpectedly, and not punishing yourself for it.

    The first year of grief is about listening to your body and your heart. Some days you may feel capable. Other days, simply getting through the day is enough. Both are valid. Both count.

    Letting go of expectations also means releasing the idea that grief should look a certain way. You don’t have to attend every gathering. You don’t have to keep traditions alive if they hurt. You don’t have to explain your choices to anyone.

    Grief asks for honesty, not performance.

    There may be pressure to “honor” your loved one in visible ways, through celebrations, rituals, or words. But honoring someone can be as simple as breathing through a hard moment or whispering their name when no one else is listening.

    In the first year, your only responsibility is to care for yourself as gently as you cared for the one you lost.

    That may look like rest.
    Or silence.
    Or fewer commitments.
    Or creating new traditions, or none at all.

    Letting go of expectations is not giving up.
    It is choosing compassion over comparison.
    It is choosing presence over pressure.
    It is choosing survival over appearance.

    The first year of loss is not meant to be conquered. It is meant to be endured, one day, one moment, one breath at a time.

    And if all you do this year is make space for your grief, that is enough.

    You are not behind.
    You are not doing it wrong.
    You are doing the hardest thing there is, learning how to live in a world that has changed forever.

    Walk slowly.
    Release what no longer fits.
    And let love guide you through what remains.

    You are allowed to let go.