Four years ago today—January 4, 2022—was the last day I saw their faces.
The faces of the three people who had been such an integral part of my life.
The faces that, in an instant, I was forced to say goodbye to forever.
It’s hard to put into words what that day felt like, but I will try.
After all this time, the rawness still lingers.
It had been a long day of driving.
The road stretched ahead of me, mile after mile, with only the sound of my mom’s voice filling the silence.
We talked about everything and nothing at all, anything to pass the time, to distract ourselves from the reality of what was happening.
It was an easy day to hide in—the world outside felt distant as we made our way home.
But inside, my heart was heavy, weighed down by the fact that it had been four years since three caskets closed on three massive parts of my heart.
I had been doing well, or so I told myself, up until this point.
Life had moved on in ways that seemed both cruel and necessary.
The days had blurred into months, and the months into years.
But there was something about today that made it impossible to ignore the fact that time had passed.
It was the kind of day where the pain had nowhere to hide.
I had to let it surface, even though it hurt more than anything I could remember.
But I couldn’t let the day pass without acknowledging it.
I couldn’t allow this moment, so deeply entwined with my heart, to slip away without sharing it.
I had to honor the memory, even if it meant stepping back into the sorrow, even if it meant confronting the pain I had long been trying to push aside.
So here I am, sharing it, because that’s how I process, how I heal.
My mom and I have been working with an incredible grief counselor.
She’s been guiding us through this journey, teaching us how to navigate the mess of emotions that come with losing loved ones.
She once told us that, despite the immense weight of our grief, we were actually further along than many others at this stage.
Not because it hurt any less, but because we had learned to process it.
To let the pain flow through us, rather than holding it back.
Grief doesn’t go away; it doesn’t disappear.
It comes out one way or another, whether we’re ready for it or not.
And so, we revisit these moments.
We revisit the heartbreak, the decisions we had to make that day, the choices no one should ever have to make.
We talk about it, because running from those memories only delays the inevitable.
The grief waits, quietly, and when we least expect it, it surges forward, demanding to be acknowledged.
I’ll never forget the moment we arrived.
My mom talks about it all the time—the moment she pulled up to see three hearses lined up, waiting.
I came from the other direction that day, so I didn’t see it.
But she did.
And it’s something that has stayed with her, something that’s permanently etched in her memory.
I think it always will be
.
I remember the day, but in pieces.
I remember the line that wrapped around the building, stretching far beyond what I had expected.
I remember my mom, frail and hurting, but still reaching out to others.
She was in a wheelchair, suffering from broken ribs and unimaginable pain, yet she insisted on giving hugs.
She couldn’t help herself.
She had to be there.
No matter what.
I wish I had more pictures from that day.
More photos to capture the faces, the crowd, the emotions that were so vivid, so raw.
But my memory of it feels blurry, fragmented, as if I haven’t fully accepted it or processed it yet.
The whole day feels like a haze, like something I am still trying to make sense of, still trying to understand.
I was running on fumes, trying to keep it together, trying to be strong for everyone around me, even when I was crumbling inside.
One decision I will never forget, one that still haunts me, is the moment I had to decide when the caskets would be closed.
As the person planning the service, that choice fell to me.
It wasn’t a responsibility I wanted, but it was mine to make.
A few days before, I had asked my mom when she wanted the caskets closed.
She immediately started crying and said, “Never.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
I knew in that moment that she wasn’t ready for that final goodbye.
In the end, we made the decision for her.
Between the end of the viewing and the beginning of the service, we gave her medication and allowed her a bathroom break.
It was then, when she wasn’t looking, that the caskets were closed.
She didn’t have to see it.
She didn’t have to witness that final moment of closure.
I don’t know if it was the right decision, but I made it out of fear—fear that her heart couldn’t take it.
Fear that it would be too much for her.
There were so many decisions that day.
So many things that no one should ever have to decide.
But that was the reality we faced.
It was a cruel, heart-wrenching reality that we had no choice but to face.
And through it all, I kept telling myself, “Just keep going.
Just get through this moment.”
But tonight, as I sit here, reflecting on it all, I realize that it’s not just about surviving the moments.
It’s about honoring them, about acknowledging the grief and the pain, and letting it be a part of me.
Because that’s how we heal.
After coming home from Austin today, I found myself spending the evening in a different way, honoring the kids in a small but meaningful way.
I opened packages that had arrived, packages filled with little “Kind Like Kam” moments, moments rooted in who Kamryn was and how she loved others.
It was a small gesture, but it felt right.
It felt like a connection, a way of remembering the kids and the love they brought into this world.
We crossed paths with someone today, a stranger who, through her kindness, left an impression on me.
The conversation, the hug, the words she shared afterward—they stayed with me.
It felt like a small wink from the kids, a reminder that they’re still with me, still watching over us.
Even four years later, they’re still a part of me.
Four years have passed since that day.
Four years since three caskets closed on three massive parts of my heart.
And yet, the pain is still here.
It hasn’t gone away, not completely.
But I’m learning to carry it with me.
I will never stop talking about them, never stop sharing their stories.
I will never stop remembering them.
Because one man’s decision to drive impaired changed every single piece of my family’s world.
It’s been four years, but it feels like yesterday.
The pain is still raw, still fresh, but with each passing day, I’m finding ways to cope, to heal, and to keep their memory alive.
