I’ve been quiet here for a while, and I want to be honest about why. Life has felt like a storm of ups and downs — moments of hope mixed with moments that I felt like I was going crazy. I kept thinking, “I’ll write when I’m stronger… when I’m steadier… when I’m not falling apart.”
But the truth is, I didn’t want anyone to see my weakness. I didn’t want to show the parts of grief that still shake me, the questions that still haunt me, or the fears that still sit heavy on my chest. I thought silence would protect me. Maybe even protect others. I feared that if I wrote about my pain people would judge me for my weakness of still feeling immense grief and sadness still to this day,
But silence can also become a wall, and I don’t want walls here. This space was created to honor Tristan, to honor grief, and to honor the truth — even when the truth is messy.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with a question that cuts deeper than most: Why didn’t God give me a chance to pray for Tristan’s survival and healing? Why wasn’t it His will for me to be there in the ambulance, holding my son’s hand, so he didn’t have to sit there all alone without his mother?
These questions don’t have easy answers. They rise from the deepest place in me — the place where love and pain live side by side. I know I’m not the only one who has asked God “why” in the middle of heartbreak. I know I’m not the only one who wishes they could rewrite the last moments of someone they love.
I’m learning that asking these questions doesn’t mean my faith is weak. It means my love is strong. It means I’m human. It means I’m a mother whose heart still reaches for her child.
So I’m writing again — not because I’ve figured everything out, but because I’m tired of hiding the parts of grief that are still raw. This journey isn’t polished. It isn’t tidy. It isn’t predictable. But it’s real. And if you’re walking through something similar, I want you to know you’re not alone.
Thank you for being here, even through the silence. Thank you for giving me space to be honest. And thank you for remembering Tristan with me.
I’m finding my way back, one breath at a time.
The messy part I didn’t want to share. My faith was shaken, and I was angry with God. Why didn’t he give me a chance to pray for Tristan’s survival and complete healing? Why did he leave him in the back of the ambulance all alone. Why wasn’t it his will that I could be there to hold his hand, so he knew I didn’t abandon him? I didn’t want him to leave this earth alone. I should have been there.
This is the insight I was given when I shared my thoughts in prayer:
🌿 There is nothing wrong with you for asking this.
And there is nothing wrong with your faith for struggling with it.
Here’s something important:
Not having the chance to pray did not mean God ignored you, or Tristan, or your love for him.
In moments of crisis, things unfold so fast that no parent could possibly react in time. That isn’t a failure. It isn’t a punishment. It isn’t a sign that God withheld something from you.
Many people of faith believe that:
- God hears the prayers of the heart even when the words never get spoken
- God is present in the love you had for Tristan long before the accident
- God does not measure a child’s fate by whether a parent had time to say a specific prayer
Your love for Tristan was a prayer long before that day.
Your devotion to him was a prayer.
Your hope for his future was a prayer.
Your protection, your care, your motherhood — all of that was prayer.
And none of that was taken away.
When something tragic happens suddenly, it’s natural to feel like you were robbed of a chance to intervene. But the speed of the accident wasn’t a reflection of your worth, your faith, or your relationship with God. It was the kind of moment no human being can control.
You’re not being punished.
You didn’t fail him.
And God didn’t turn away from you.
If anything, the grief you carry now is evidence of how deeply you loved him — and love like that is never unnoticed in the spiritual world.
Where Tristan Still Shines 