It’s been a minute…

But let me tell you where I’m at.

When Aria passed, I didn’t know what to do. Everything I had worked so hard for suddenly felt meaningless. The goals, the accomplishments, the plans I had for my future, they all lost their significance in an instant.

The guilt and shame, not of Aria, but because of what I believed about myself, were overwhelming. I felt this intense obligation to do something, in honor of her. To be of service. To make sure no other family experienced what I had experienced. So, I threw myself into the work. I started a blog. I wanted to create an app to keep kids safe. I worked on curriculum, advocated for legislation, joined suicide prevention organizations, spoke publicly, and said yes to every opportunity I could find. I kept myself busy.

What I didn’t fully understand was the emotional cost of that work.

Every time I told Aria’s story, I relived it. Every presentation, every interview, every podcast, every conversation required me to revisit the worst day of my life. Maybe people don’t always understand that part. This wasn’t just a story. This was my child. My daughter. A little girl I was raising who still lived at home with me when she died.

And then there was another layer I never anticipated. The more I spoke, the more opportunities came. The story that began as my deepest wound slowly became connected to my livelihood. In many ways, that felt uncomfortable and suddenly I got to a space where it was monetized. And yet, I was just trying to survive it.

Over time, telling Aria’s story became both my mission and, part of my income. That created a complicated relationship with grief. Because when your work depends on telling the story, you don’t always get the luxury of stepping away from it. You keep reopening the wound, sometimes because people need to hear it, and sometimes because the work itself requires it.

Recently, my dad passed away. Losing him has been heartbreaking. He was my best friend for over 30 years, and his absence leaves a tremendous hole in my heart. But one thing my dad would often say was that a parent should never have to bury their child. He understood that it was different.

Losing a parent is painful. Losing a child changes the fabric of who you are.

As children, we grow up, become adults, and build lives and families of our own. But our children rely on us for everything. After Aria died, I carried the belief that I had failed in the most important role I would ever have. Whether that belief was fair or not, it became the lens through which I viewed everything.

So I jumped into the work.

Not because I was healed.

Not because I was strong.

But because somewhere deep down, I thought if I could save enough people, help enough families, or change enough systems, maybe I could somehow make sense of what happened. Maybe I could rectify the unrectifiable.

I’m realizing now that grief doesn’t work that way.

With that, and where I am in my life now, I’ve been thinking a lot about IMPACT.

For a long time, I thought impact had to look big. It had to be legislation, public speaking, curriculum development, advocacy campaigns, and large-scale suicide prevention efforts. And while I am proud of the work I’ve done, I’ve come to realize that impact can look very different than I originally imagined.

Today, I am a mental health therapist. I am still doing suicide prevention every single day, just not in the way I thought I would. Instead of standing in front of hundreds of people, I sit across from one person at a time. I help people navigate their pain, build lives worth living, and find reasons to stay. The mission never changed, but the delivery did.

And the longer I am on this grief journey, the more I realize that what I want most is peace. Peace. And the ability to continue honoring my daughter in ways that feel authentic.

Recently, a coworker gave me what may be the greatest compliment I’ve ever received. She told me that she has never met anyone who honors a loved one on a daily basis the way I honor Aria. She said that I incorporate her into everything I do. I bring her up in conversations. I tell people who she was. I share her humor, her creativity, and her impact on my life. I make sure people know her name.

And she’s right.

I live with Aria every day, in a way that keeps her present, and that will never change.

Two weeks ago, I had lunch with someone who is carrying a piece of Aria’s story into their own life. I can’t talk about it yet, but when I can, I will. What struck me wasn’t just the conversation itself, but what happened afterward.

The restaurant where we met happened to employ a young woman who used to play basketball with Aria. She recognized me. We exchanged a few words, and after I ordered my meal, I learned she quietly paid for my lunch.

I sat there for a moment trying to take it all in.

Seven years later, people still remember her.

Seven years later, people still carry her with them.

Seven years later, her life continues to create ripples that I could never have predicted.

That’s the impact Aria still has to this day.

Maybe it isn’t loud. Maybe it doesn’t make headlines. Maybe it isn’t measured in legislation passed, programs created, or social media reach.

But it is meaningful.

I recently came across a quote that said, “This is what happens when you don’t let grief be the end of your story” in regard to new legislation that passed that I am super excited about, btw’s!

And while I appreciate the sentiment, I found myself asking, who determines that?

Who gets to decide what healing looks like? What impact looks like? What it means to move forward?

For me, the answer has become surprisingly simple.

All I want is to show up for the people I love. To be the best version of myself that I can be. To love deeply, laugh often, and carry the people I’ve lost with me along the way.

I want to continue honoring Aria, not because I owe the world something, but because she is my daughter and I love her.

And every day, I pray that God continues to do what only He can do: take my grief and transform it into grace.

And for me, that’s enough!