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.
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.
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.
Where Tristan Still Shines 