This Is Peace

This Is Peace

I spend a lot of time alone,
And most days, I prefer it.
So much lives in my heart and my mind—
Unwritten prayers, unspoken truths,
A hunger to release it all,
To put it on paper,
To taste my own words,
To hear my soul breathe.

I long for peace—
That ever-elusive stillness
In the chaos of my thoughts.
My mind tries to take over,
Crowding me with useless noise,
But I push back, whispering,
God, clear my mind and heal my heart.

I see myself there—
Bare feet sinking into warm sand,
The tide kissing my ankles
As the ocean inhales and exhales
In rhythm with my chest.
Salt hangs in the air,
Cool and crisp,
As the waves slap the rocks
And the mist blesses my skin.
This is peace.

But I am not there.
I am here—
In my backyard sanctuary.
I hear the trees,
The soft rustle of leaves,
The front-yard chimes clanging bold,
The back-yard ones tinkling light,
All blending into a hymn
That only the wind knows.

I close my eyes,
And I am everywhere.
The gift of my mind is vast,
A universe all its own—
But why do I wrestle it?
Why do I resist
The stillness already waiting
Inside me?

Perhaps peace
Has been here all along,
Whispering in the trees,
Breathing in the chimes,
Resting quietly
In me.

The Alchemy of Grief

"I have been thinking about my life and it is not complete, but it is getting there. I thought about the things I have accomplished over the years; it has truly been a blessing. It just shows people when you put your mind to something you can make it happen. I still haven't accomplished everything, but I am working toward it and I believe if it is God's will, it will happen."

— Matt Garcia, August 2008

There are days when I feel strong—purposeful, grounded, even radiant.

As I write this, we are approaching Matt’s birthday, July 14th. He would be

turning 39. It’s hard to fathom that he’s been gone for

nearly 17 years. The last birthday we shared with Matt

before he was murdered was his 22nd. Edgar and Veronica

of Favela's Fusion graciously opened their restaurant to

host his party. Matt was so excited and happy that so

many people came to celebrate—not just his birthday,

but also the fact that he had been serving on the

Fairfield City Council for over seven months.

What we didn’t know then was that night, that

beautiful celebration, would be the last birthday

we would ever share with him. Just 49 days later, on

September 1st, Matt would be shot. And then

there are days when just getting out of bed feels like

a small act of courage.

I know I’m not the only one trying to make peace with the

unthinkable. So many of us are walking wounded—learning,

step by step, how to love life again after loss.

I see it every second Tuesday of the month, when the

chairs in our Homicide Survivors Support Group fill with

faces that carry unbearable stories. Some people speak.

Others sit in silence. But the energy in the room is always

the same: grief wrapped in love. Pain made softer by being

seen. We show up for each other because we understand

what it’s like to live in the aftermath. We are not just surviving—

we are learning to grow through the ache.

What’s been transforming for me is giving myself permission

to recalibrate, to let my light shine even in the shadows.

I used to feel guilty for smiling. For laughing. For feeling joy

again. But I’m learning that it’s not about waiting for the darkness

to pass—it’s about choosing to stand in it with grace and purpose.

And that purpose has become clearer to me over time.

I understand now that I’ve been called to something greater.

We all have. The difference lies in recognizing the

calling—and having the courage to step into it.

For me, that calling came wrapped in heartbreak.

My heart is still broken from the loss of my son, Matt.

That will never change. There isn’t a day that I don’t ache

for him. But there also isn’t a day I don’t feel him with me.

Matt taught me to live boldly, to speak truth, to serve.

I’ve discovered that I can help others and heal myself at

the same time. The two aren’t separate. They’re woven together.

And when I need to—I go to the closet, close the door,

and allow myself to cry, to grieve, to feel it all. That, too,

is part of the healing—and so is the love of my husband

Raymond and our daughters, Briana and TeaRae.

It is alchemy, turning pain into passion and purpose.

What I’ve come to know is that grief and growth are

not opposites—they are companions. And love—Matt’s love,

my family’s love, the love we share in that group and in this

life—is what binds it all together.

This is the alchemy of grief: we do not erase the pain,

but we allow it to transform us. We let it deepen our

compassion, awaken our purpose, and expand our capacity to love.

I used to think healing meant fixing the broken pieces.

Now I know it means learning how to live with

them—how to let light shine through the cracks.

And maybe, just maybe, healing means having the

strength to forgive… even when your heart still breaks.

What Peace Looks Like to Me

This morning, after our two-mile walk around the neighborhood,  

my amazing husband Raymond turned to me and asked,

“What does peace mean to you?”

Without much thought, I smiled and described one of my

favorite moments:

sitting in our backyard, early in the morning, listening to the

birds sing and

watching squirrels leap from branch to branch.A hot cup of

coffee in hand,

nestled in my favorite lounge chair,

that's a piece of peace for me.

But I also know peace runs deeper than these quiet moments.

Peace is our sacred morning walks and talks, an hour carved

out just for us.

It started as a routine, but it has evolved into something sacred.

We talk about everything, including the ways we’re different.

I want to travel the world, to walk through ancient temples and

cathedrals,

to place a handwritten note in a crevice in Thailand, to brush my

fingers along

the stone walls of Tuscany. He may not dream of those same places,

but we both value connection, adventure, and shared purpose.

Peace, for me, is not loud. It's not flashy. It’s simple. It’s intentional.

And it’s taken me years to understand that.

Growing up, I quit anything I wasn’t instantly good at.

I thought if something didn’t come easily, it wasn’t for me.

I didn’t understand that mastery, whether in a skill or in

personal growth,

requires practice. I never allowed myself the grace to

grow into something.

But for the past 35 years, I’ve been practicing peace.

Even when it eludes me, I haven’t given up. I seek it, I pursue it,

I surrender to it. It has become my mission. When I realize

I’m not at peace, I turn inward. I ask God to clear my mind

and heal my heart.

I’ve learned that peace isn’t found outside of me, it’s

cultivated within.

Today, I am grateful for all that I have and all that I am.

I’ve learned to

pause and ask myself better questions. I’ve learned to others like

my husband, to ask me the questions that challenge

me to think deeper:

“What does peace look like to you, Teresa?”

Do I surround myself with people who elevate my thoughts and

help me expand my vision? Am I allowing myself to grow into my

highest potential? I don’t want to settle.

I want to soar.

I’ve heard too many people, later in life, speak of regrets.

Not of things they did, but of the things they didn’t do.

The dreams they left unexplored. The risks they didn’t take.

I don’t want to add my name to that list.

Even when something seems impossible, there is always another way.

I’ve learned that when

I allow others to help me,

new possibilities open up. What seemed like a dead-end becomes

a new path.

It's up to me to decide the kind of life I want to live. It’s up to me to

give myself permission to grow, to learn, to be surrounded by

people who think bigger and live bolder. It’s up to me to stay

open to love,

to healing, to peace.

And most importantly, it’s up to me to remember that I must be

filled up in order to pour into others.

Peace begins with that choice.

Practicing Peace: Loving All of Me, Letting Go of Control

As I continue writing my book Mom, Did You Tell Them Who You Are?, I’m constantly reminded of who I really am.

I am a fierce woman.

I am also afraid at times.

I am loving—and yet I can be impatient.

I’m funny—and sometimes inappropriate.

I exude peace—and still, I wrestle with inner turmoil.

I am all of these things, wrapped up together. And day by day, I’m learning to embrace them all.

I’ve been practicing how to love the whole of me—not just the shiny, admirable traits, but also the parts I’ve spent years trying to hide or fix. I’m learning to extend grace to myself. But in doing so, I’m also beginning to see the contradiction: how can I offer myself so much love and forgiveness, and yet be quick to judge others? That kind of hypocrisy humbles me.

I’m grateful to notice this within myself—not to shame myself, but to grow. If I truly want peace in my life, I have to practice peace. Not just preach it, not just write about it, but live it. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when I think I’m right.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself some hard questions:

Why do I feel the need to tell others how they should think, act, or feel?

Why do I get pulled into arguments online or feel the urge to prove my point?

Why am I so willing to sacrifice my peace just to be “right”?

The truth is, when I focus on others—what they’re doing or not doing—I take the focus off of myself. My ego wants to control. It wants to be validated. It whispers lies like, “If I ignore my husband, he’ll try harder to fix things for me,” or “If I withhold love, I’ll get what I want.”

But I’ve done enough work to recognize manipulation when it creeps in. And while recognizing it doesn’t always stop me from falling into the pattern, it gives me a choice. When I know better, I get to practice doing better.

Self-discovery is a powerful, often painful journey. It’s beautiful when I take full responsibility for my actions. And it’s brutal when I see myself clearly and still choose control over connection. But I’m human. I won’t always get it right. And that’s okay. What matters is that I keep showing up, learning, and trying again.

What I’m realizing is this: If I can forgive myself for my mistakes, I must learn to extend that same grace to others. If I expect progress, not perfection, from myself—why do I hold others to a different standard?

As I wrote these words, I received a phone call from someone struggling in a long-term relationship. She’s been lied to and betrayed for over a decade. Despite therapy, forgiveness, and countless second chances, nothing has changed. Her heart is heavy with disappointment.

I shared a piece of my story with her—not from a place of superiority, but from deep experience. There came a point in my life when I had to choose me—not because I was better than anyone else, but because my life depended on it.

I told her: You cannot change another person. You can only change you. If forgiveness becomes a one-way street, and peace continues to elude you, it’s time to ask different questions.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean we have to sit at the same table or pretend everything is okay. It means I will no longer allow someone else’s behavior to own my peace or dictate my worth. I don’t need to carry what isn’t mine.

I can't change you. But I can—and will—change me.

Thank you, God.

The Power of Perseverance and a Grateful Heart

My personal mission is to model

the power

of perseverance

with hope and

inspiration, everywhere I go.

To me, this means that no matter what life throws my way,

and life does throw things at all of us, I choose to use every

experience to grow. I’ve learned that I get to decide how

I see and respond to what happens. Like the old saying goes:

I can see the glass as half empty or half full.

It really is that simple. It’s a choice.

My son, Matt, was murdered at the age of 22. In 2007,

at just 21 years old, he had become the

youngest elected city councilmember in Fairfield, California.

Less than 10 months later, he was gone.

My life was shattered. Nothing would ever be the same.

There was a time in my life when I saw everything through

the lens of pain and scarcity.

My glass always seemed half empty.

And not surprisingly,

life felt

heavy, unfair, and overwhelming.

 But at some point, through recovery,

community,

faith, and love,

something shifted.I started practicing

gratitude.

I started choosing to see the

good.

And that shift in perspective?

It changed everything.

Suddenly, goodness started

finding me

more easily.

That’s not just some fluffy quote on a

coffee mug.

It’s real. What we focus on multiplies.

I’m so incredibly grateful that today,

I get to practice this mindset. It means

that

more often than not,

I live in a space of beauty and

appreciation.

That doesn’t mean I have it all figured out.

Some days,

I take it one hour at a time.

Other days, one minute at a time.

I can be in peaceful gratitude, and then,

bam!—a car cuts me off,

and I’m in full reaction mode.

But the difference today is:

I don’t have to stay there.

I can pause. I can reset.

One of my favorite daily practices

is listening to the same

audiobook during my two-mile walk.

I’ve heard it dozens of times,

but I always seem to catch

something new.

A phrase. A truth. A message that

lands in a

way it never has before. That’s grace.

Recovery has taught me that same lesson.

We read the same 12 steps.

We hear the same readings.

And yet, every now and then, something

hits differently, like a lightning bolt of understanding,

and I think, “Oh my God, I finally get it.”

That’s the beauty of staying open.

As long as I remain willing and teachable,

the gifts keep coming.

So, why doesn’t everyone do it?

Because it’s also really easy not to.

There were times when I got complacent.

Let my ego take the wheel.

I had to hit a few brick walls

before I was willing to see my part in

the wreckage.

But even those moments? I’m grateful for them too,

because I’m still here. Still learning. Still growing.

My daily prayer is simple:

God, clear my mind and heal my heart.

That prayer grounds me. It reminds me that

I don’t have to have all the answers.

I just need to stay connected to the

Source that does.

To me, that’s wisdom.

And it's a wisdom I try to live and share,

one day, one breath,

one grateful step at a time.

"Erased: How a Law Meant for Dignity Hurt Families Like Mine"

Lately, my mind has been swirling with something I never imagined I’d have to process: the man who murdered my son Matt has legally changed his name while serving time in prison.

Yes, you read that right.

Henry Don Williams—the man who shot my only son, my daughter’s big brother, in the back of the head while he was simply visiting a friend—has changed his name. The date the law allowing this passed? September 1, 2018. That date landed like a punch to the gut. It’s exactly ten years to the day Matt was killed. The timing is almost too cruel to believe.

We didn’t find out through a court notice or an official call. We found out through a letter in the mail.

No warning. No explanation. Just a piece of paper telling us that the man who took Matt’s life is no longer Henry Don Williams. His new name? Don Maliano Ominoso Batalla. The name sounded more like a fictional villain than the person responsible for such real, permanent pain.

But what shook us even more was what we found next.

When we searched his new name, nothing came up. No connection to Matt. No trace of the murder. No accountability. It was like the crime had vanished. As if, through a simple name change, he had been granted a fresh start—clean, unburdened.

He got to start over.
And we got to relive it all over again.

This was made possible by California’s Name and Dignity Act (SB 310). I want to be very clear: I understand and support the original intent of this law. It was designed to allow transgender individuals to change their names and gender markers, so they can live with the dignity and identity they’ve long been denied. I believe in that. I believe in human dignity. I believe in seeing people for who they truly are.

But this law, as it stands today, has a serious and painful loophole—one that directly impacts families like mine.

Under SB 310, incarcerated individuals can legally change their name or gender marker without needing the permission of a warden or sheriff—and most importantly, without any obligation to notify the families of their victims. Once approved by a judge, their new name becomes official. Their birth name? Just an alias. A footnote. Nothing more.

That means someone convicted of murder can adopt a completely new identity, one that severs all public connection to the crime they committed. No transparency. No accountability. Just a clean slate.

As a mother who has spent every day since 2008 learning how to live with unimaginable grief, I find this not only heartbreaking—but unacceptable.

Matt didn’t get a second chance.We didn’t get a chance to forget.

So why should the man who took his life get to erase his past?

This isn’t just about our family. It’s about justice, transparency, and making sure that laws meant to protect dignity don’t unintentionally strip it from those left behind.

I will not stay silent.

Not when a name can erase a life.

A Beautiful Gift of Love and Legacy

Over the past few days,

 I’ve been revisiting my old journals,

 flipping through memories

 captured in ink.

As I read through my entries from 2003,

I stumbled upon something Grandma Chris

had shared with me back then.

It was June 1, 2003—the day we celebrated

 TeaRae’s 10th birthday at Scandia Fun Center.

 After the celebration,

 Matt, Briana, TeaRae, and I went

 to Grandma Chris’s house

 to go swimming.

I don’t remember exactly how the

 conversation started, but at some point,

 she mentioned something very specific:

When her time came, she wanted the song

"To Each His Own" played at her funeral—

not the original version by Eddie Howard,

 but the one by Willie Nelson.

That version was her favorite.

Reading those words in my journal,

 I felt an urgency to call Grandma Chris.

She’s 93 now, battling leukemia,

 with her liver failing due to cancer.

When I reminded her of what she

 had told me all those years ago,

 she shared something new—

the original version of the song had been

 played at her and Joe’s wedding.

They had both loved the

 Willie Nelson rendition, making it

 even more special to her.

In exactly 21 days from now,

 Grandma Chris will have her

 Celebration of Life—

a gathering she planned herself so that her family

and friends could celebrate with her,

rather than without her.

Her funeral,

 however, will be private.

 She has desired to be cremated and

 laid to rest with Matt.

This was a decision made over

 16 years ago,

 after Matt was killed.

At the time, insurance money was delayed,

 and she came to Raymond and me with an offer

—she wanted to give Matt her own crypt in the

 marble wall at Fairmont Memorial Park.

 Grandma Chris also expressed her wish to be

 buried with him when

 her time came.

We agreed.

But later, I found myself wondering—

why had I said yes so quickly?

 Why wouldn’t she want to be buried

 with her husband, Joe, or one of her sons?

But today, I understand.

Matt loved Grandma Chris deeply,

and she loved him even more.

And in the end, it doesn’t really matter where

 we are placed after we’re gone.

 What truly matters is how we love

 while we’re here.

I feel incredibly blessed to have

 these conversations

 with Grandma Chris—and

 with my daughters.

 We get to decide not only how we live,

 but also how we go.

Knowing that Grandma Chris will be reunited

with Matt, just as she has wished for all these years,

brings me peace.

What a beautiful gift.