The Day My Life Was Split In Two

There are defining moments in life—the beautiful ones. The births, the celebrations, the hard-earned accomplishments, the memories made with family, friends, and loved ones. These moments have a “before and after” effect, sure—but it’s usually gentle. A natural transition. The kind you ease into, where the contrast between before and after is softened by joy, growth, and time.

And then… there are the other kinds of moments. The ones that don’t just shift your path—they sever it. The ones that cut your life clean in half.

I’ve had my fair share of those too. I’ve made decisions I wish I could take back. I’ve lived through painful transitions that shook me, stretched me, and taught me hard lessons. I got through them. I came out stronger, more resilient, more self-aware. I thought those battles had prepared me. I truly believed that nothing could break me again.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what happened on November 8, 2024.

My daughter died.

Suddenly. Tragically. Accidentally. One moment she was here, full of light and life and laughter—and in the next, she was gone.

Not me. Not her. Not us. This doesn’t happen to me. That’s something you hear about in other people’s lives. You feel for them, but it’s distant. Safe. Unimaginable.

And yet, it became my reality. My unimaginable loss. My worst nightmare. I woke up to it, and I haven’t stopped waking up to it since.

Grief, in this form, was foreign to me. I wasn’t prepared to live in a world without her—because she was my every day. We were close in a way that was rare. She was my daughter, but she was also my best friend. She was a wife, a mother, a sister… the brightest light in every room she entered. She was beautiful, brilliant, quick-witted, hilarious—and everyone loved her. She had this magnetic energy I’ve never seen in anyone else. I still find myself wishing I had even half of her spark.

And now—just like that—she’s gone.

I knew from the very beginning that I had to fully face this pain. There was no running from it, no it. I h by passing it. I had to cry every tear. Feel every wave. Scream every scream. I gave myself permission to be angry, heartbroken, shattered, silent, reclusive—whatever I needed to be. I had fought battles before. I had walked through fire. But this… this was war on a soul level. And I needed every ounce of strength I had ever earned just to breathe through it. I

n those early days, shock was the only thing holding me together. The numbness that wrapped around me like a fog was a strange kind of mercy. But then came the waves—crushing, paralyzing, relentless waves of grief that came without warning and took me under. They still do. They always will. But now I know what they feel like. I know how they move. I can brace myself a little better, knowing they will pass… and return.

I’ve come to understand that this grief is just the shape my love takes now. It’s all the affection, care, connection, and joy I would have poured into her if she were still here. It didn’t disappear. It just has nowhere to land.

So it lives in me as grief.

A sad, aching love for the sound of her voice, the warmth of her hug, the look in her eyes. For the future we were supposed to have. The milestones we were meant to share. The laughter that should still be ringing in our lives. It’s still so early. I’m still learning how to walk with this. Every day, I try to put one foot in front of the other, even when the weight of it all feels impossible. And I’m doing things now I never would have done if she were still here. I’m writing a book. I’m building a foundation in her honor. I’m creating keepsake jewelry that memorializes moments and people we love—because I know now how important it is to hold on to what matters. I’m planning projects that scare me a little and stretch me a lot, because they connect me to her, and to who I’m becoming through this pain.

I know that beauty can come from tragedy. I know that even in the deepest sorrow, light finds a way through the cracks. I have to believe that. I need to turn this pain into purpose. For me. For her. For anyone who finds themselves gasping for air in the same kind of grief I now live with.

One of her favorite quotes growing up was: “Smooth seas never made a skilled sailor.”

Well, I’m in the storm. The sea is anything but smooth. But I’m riding the waves. Learning. Failing. Getting back up. Trying to find the strength, and the will, to keep going.

And if I can—maybe I can throw a life raft to someone else. Someone drowning in their own loss. Someone who needs to know they aren’t alone. Someone who’s still learning how to live after their life was split in two.

This is the unfixable thing.

And I am still here.

Still writing.

Still loving her.

Still finding my way