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🌅 The Day Everything Changed:

Posted on October 10, 2025

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💔 The Split in Time

February 2, 2025, will always be the day my world split in two.

The day before, I was a mother full of hope for my family’s future.

The day after, I was a mother learning how to breathe again. Learning how to be a person I never wanted to be.

From the moment my brother lifted the sheet from the lifeless body in the back of an ambulance and told me it was Tristan; time imploded around me. Shock, disbelief, and a desperate, aching love wrapped themselves around my heart like vines—and all I could say was, “He’s dead?”

— ✦ ✧ ✦ — Collapsing on a curb behind the ambulance, I remember the silence. I remember the weight. I remember the way the air changed. It was like the world was still spinning, but time for me had stopped.

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🌟 Why I’m Writing

I’m launching this blog because moving through grief is lonely. Because honoring Tristan somehow keeps me closer to him. Because I believe that when we share our stories, we cast light into each other’s darkness.

This space is for the messy, sacred, and real parts of grief. It’s for the moments when you feel like you’re drowning—and the ones when you remember how to float.

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🎣 Tristan’s Light

Tristan had a gift for authenticity, never trying to impress or conform. He simply lived as he was, listening to his intuition, honoring his values, and making space for others to do the same. He was never swayed by trends or expectations, always grounded in who he was. Being around him felt like permission to be yourself. That kind of honesty is rare, and it made his presence feel like home.

My intention for this blog is to weave his philosophy of life into the grieving process. Tristan’s light reminds me that authenticity is healing – and that honoring your own rhythm is part of the healing journey.

If Tristan were in my shoes, he would not fall prey to societies expectations or follow a timeline or steps. He would be true to his feelings. In his words of wisdom, he wouldn’t give “two shits” of what people expected of him.

Grieving Tristan means more than mourning his absence—it means honoring the way he lived. His authenticity reminds me to be honest with my emotions, even when they’re messy. His quiet strength encourages me to keep going, even when the path feels impossible. And his gift for making others feel safe inspires me to create this space—for myself, and for anyone else learning to live with loss.

In every ritual, every story, every shared tear, I try to carry Tristan’s light forward. Not just as a memory, but as a way of being.

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🌱 What You’ll Find Here

• Reflections on grief, healing, and resilience
• Tributes to Tristan’s spirit and passions
• Creative rituals like lantern festivals, memory gardens, and tribute boxes
• Shared stories from others walking this path
• Printable keepsakes with gentle floral themes and heartfelt lines

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🕯️ A Lantern for the Journey

I’m not an expert. I’m not whole. This space isn’t about years or stages—it’s about sharing, however messy and hopeless, what it means to carry grief with grace and to honor the light of a child taken too soon.

This blog is my lantern. It carries Tristan’s light, and maybe, it will help you find yours too.