2025 was the year that changed everything.
I lost my dad. Losing him to suicide left a silence so loud it echoes through my everyday life. Demons don’t knock; they live in plain sight. They sit quietly in memories, in what-ifs, in the empty space across the room, while the kids open Christmas presents. The world doesn’t stop for someone who is hurting. I’ve laughed less. I feel more. I keep moving, not because I am okay, but because he would want me to.
And yet, in the middle of the darkest year of my life, light arrived.
I welcomed a baby boy, Tein Scott.
Holding him for the first time rewrote something inside me. His breath reminded me to breathe. His tiny heartbeat reminded me why I have to keep going. There’s a deep ache knowing my dad never got to meet him, never got to hold him, but there’s also a promise in my son that love doesn’t end; it continues.
Through it all, I didn’t walk alone.
Grief has a way of shrinking the world until only what truly matters remains. In that small, sacred space, a tight circle of loved ones becomes everything. In the midst of loss, their love grew clearer, uncomplicated, and steady.
My husband is my anchor, sturdy and unwavering in his vow to be our family’s protector and safe place. He carried more than his share. He woke me from nightmares, held me through quiet breakdowns, and gently pulled me back to the present when my mind tried to disappear into the pain. When I couldn’t see a way forward, he became it. His love wasn’t loud or showy; it was patient and relentless.
My brother is the one person who understands my pain in a way no one else ever will because we lost the same father. When the world feels impossible to explain, he just knows. He’s always a phone call away, no matter the hour, no matter how heavy the moment. We don’t always have the right words, but we don’t need them. We’re loving each other the only way we know how in this disaster: by showing up, by listening, by surviving together. In a year defined by heartbreak, he has reminded me that I’m not carrying this alone.
My mom’s love after the loss of our dad has become something deeper, heavier. Though my mom and dad were divorced, they loved us first and always. Now that love lives on through her in a new way. She carries the weight of being the only parent left, holding space for her children’s grief while managing her own. She doesn’t get the luxury of falling apart for long. Her love is proof that even after unimaginable loss, a mother’s heart expands to hold everyone else first.
The steady presence of coworkers, friends, and family became more important than I ever expected. They didn’t need to have the right words. Their consistency was the comfort. In a season when the world felt unrecognizable, their care became a lifeline, proof that support doesn’t always arrive loudly.
2025 broke my heart and rebuilt it at the same time.
Strength doesn’t always look loud. Surviving is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.
I’m still breathing, and that’s worth more than gold.
