Author: Carrie Hornyak

🌿 “Why I’ve Been Quiet”

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.

🌿 All Souls Day, Identity, and the Quiet Work of Becoming

    “I am still a mother. I am still love. I am still becoming. My story didn’t end—it’s unfolding.”

    This All Souls Day, I found myself sitting in the pew, surrounded by flickering candles and whispered prayers, feeling both deeply present and painfully absent. The mass was beautiful—gentle music, soft readings, the names of the departed spoken aloud like sacred poetry. But I felt hollow. Not because Tristan wasn’t there, but because I didn’t know who I was anymore.

    For the last 24 years, I’ve been Tristan and Trenton’s mother. That identity shaped every decision, every heartbeat. And now, with Tristan gone, I feel like I’ve lost part of myself. Not just him—but the version of me that existed in his laughter, his needs, his presence. I’m still Trenton’s mom, and that matters deeply. But I’m also… someone else now. Someone I don’t fully recognize.

    So I’ve started the quiet work of becoming.

    🌸 My Vision Board: Becoming Carrie

    To help me navigate this shift, I created a vision board—a gentle, visual reminder that I am still here, still growing, still becoming. It’s not about forgetting Tristan. It’s about weaving his memory into the fabric of who I am now.

    At the center is a simple truth: “My past will be a garden, not a cage. I am still becoming. Even in this grief, I shall grow.”

    Each image reflects a part of me:

    • Butterflies for transformation
    • Open paths for possibility
    • Soft florals for grace
    • Hands and bridges for connection
    • Fog and light for the mystery of healing

    This board doesn’t fix anything. But it gives me a place to start

    🌼 An Invitation to You

    If you’re grieving, shifting, or simply searching—create your own vision board. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. Use photos, colors, words, textures. Let it reflect who you were, who you are, and who you’re becoming.

    You can start with questions like:

    • What parts of me feel lost?
    • What parts are quietly growing?
    • What do I want to carry forward?
    • What do I need to release?

    To those who feel invisible in their grief: You are not nobody. You are becoming. And that is sacred work.

    ✨ How to Create your Vision Board

    Each section represents a layer of your evolving identity:

    • 🌳 Roots: Honor your past, your loved ones, and the foundation of who you are.
    • 🌊 Grief & Grace: Acknowledge your pain and the quiet strength that carries you.
    • 🎨 Creative Spirit: Celebrate your gifts, passions, and ways you express yourself.
    • 🌅 New Identity: Explore who you’re becoming—your hopes, dreams, and voice.
    • 🤝 Connection: Reflect on relationships, community, and how you want to support others.

    The Weight of Resistance

    There’s a part of me that still refuses to accept Tristan is gone. I know what happened. I’ve lived every moment since. But something inside me keeps fighting the truth, as if denial could somehow undo it. I catch myself avoiding thoughts of him—not because I don’t want to remember, but because remembering hurts. And yet, not remembering hurts even more.

    This resistance isn’t strength. It’s suffering. It shows up in the quiet hours, in the heaviness behind my eyes, in the ache that never quite leaves my chest. I try to push forward, to be okay, to function. But grief doesn’t work like that. It waits. It whispers. It demands to be felt.

    I’ve come to realize that my pain isn’t just about losing Tristan—it’s about the fight against that loss. The refusal to accept what life has handed me. And while I’m not ready to fully embrace this reality, I’m learning that acceptance isn’t surrender. It’s not forgetting. It’s not letting go of love. It’s simply allowing myself to feel, to grieve, to heal.

    Every day is a choice: to resist or to soften. And while I’m still learning how to live with this, I know that Tristan’s love is still here. Maybe acceptance begins with that.

    For Trenton, With Love

    In the midst of my own grief, I often think about Trenton—my younger son, my steady light, and someone who’s also navigating the heartbreak of losing his brother. Tristan and Trenton were together nearly every day of Trenton’s life. Their bond was layered: full of laughter, teasing, deep loyalty, and yes, sometimes that classic love-hate rhythm only brothers understand.

    I’ve watched Trenton carry this loss in his own quiet way. And I want him to know—deeply and truly—how much I love and appreciate him. His strength, his humor, his resilience. The way he still talks about Tristan, still remembers the little things, still holds space for his brother in his heart.

    Being their mom is the greatest gift I’ve ever known. And while grief has reshaped our world, it hasn’t dimmed the love. If anything, it’s made it clearer. Trenton, you are so loved. You are seen. And I’m endlessly proud of the way you continue forward, even when it hurts.

    Their Winding Paths

    Tristan and Trenton were born into a rhythm only brothers know—one of shared rooms, shared jokes, shared battles, and shared love. From the very beginning, they were side by side. Every day of Trenton’s life was touched by Tristan’s presence, whether in laughter, teasing, or quiet companionship. Their connection was layered and real—sometimes playful, sometimes stormy, but always rooted in something deeper than words.

    Now, their paths have diverged in ways we never imagined. Tristan’s journey continues in spirit, in memory, in the light he left behind. Trenton’s journey continues here, in the tangible world, carrying both his own story and the echoes of his brother’s. And yet, they are still intertwined. I see it in the way Trenton remembers. In the way he speaks Tristan’s name. In the way he holds space for him, even when it hurts.

    Their bond didn’t end—it transformed. One path visible, one path unseen, but both winding through the landscape of love. As their mom, I walk both trails in my heart. I honor Tristan’s legacy and nurture Trenton’s growth, knowing that each step forward is stitched with memory, resilience and the unbreakable thread of brotherhood.

    Where Laughter Once Lived: Naming the Numbness

    When Joy Feels Out of Reach: Anhedonia in Grief

    Since Tristan’s passing, I feel a numbness. It lingers like a shadow, even in moments that used to sparkle. I keep trying the gentle ways others have suggested to relieve grief – walking in nature, journaling, connecting with those who understand. Some days they help, some days they don’t. But I hold onto hope. With time, I believe I can once again feel the zest for life I had before that tragic day. Not the same as before – but something new, something tender, something that honors Tristan.

    Grief doesn’t always arrive with tears. Sometimes, it settles in quietly—like fog over a lake—muting everything that once felt vivid. You may find yourself staring at a favorite meal, a beloved song, or a sunset that used to stir something inside… and feel nothing. This emotional numbness has a name: anhedonia.

    It’s not a failure to heal. It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself when the heart has been shattered. In grief, anhedonia can feel like melting into the background of your own life, disappearing from joy’s reach. You might wonder if you’ll ever laugh again, or if the colors will return.

    This silence is not permanent. With time, warmth, and gentle reconnection—to nature, to memory, and gentle reconnection to others—joy begins to whisper again. Not in the same way, perhaps, but in a way that honors what was lost and what still remains.

    In Loving Memory of Tristan, Whose Light Continues to Guide

    🌅 The Day Everything Changed:

    Posted on October 10, 2025

    💔 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.

    🌟 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.

    🎣 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.

    🌱 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

    🕯️ 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.