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.

Still, I Walk, I Breathe, I Heal

Sitting in our backyard on this first day of March, I let the warmth of the sun wrap around me while a cool breeze drifts through, carrying the scent of fresh earth and new beginnings. The contrast is soothing—sunlight kissing my skin, the breeze offering gentle relief, a perfect balance between warmth and crispness. I’ve been out here for a while, soaking in the fresh air, feeling the gentle heat against my skin—at least, the parts of me that are allowed to feel it. A wide-brimmed hat shields my face, a necessary precaution now.

Birds flit all around me, each species carrying its own personality. The blue jays, bold and territorial, chase away smaller birds with sharp cries, their presence commanding and unyielding. In contrast, the hummingbirds move with grace, their delicate wings fluttering so quickly they seem to disappear between beats. Their tiny, powerful bodies dance through the air, swift and elegant, undeterred by the larger birds’ aggression. The wind rustles the trees, stirring the leaves with a whisper, as if nature itself is speaking in hushed tones.

Just days ago, I sat in a dermatology office, facing a reality I hadn’t expected but am deeply grateful to have caught in time. The spots on my face and nose that had quietly concerned me turned out to be pre-cancerous. Emerald Goldsmith, the PA, was incredible—steady, kind, and reassuring as she applied liquid nitrogen to freeze them away. A necessary discomfort for a greater peace of mind.

I owe this moment of relief to Krista, who suggested that I have my skin checked. She was right. I listened, and because of that, I caught it before it had the chance to turn into something worse.

Now, as I sit here, watching the birds, breathing in the crisp, cool air, I feel nothing but gratitude—for the sun’s warmth, for the breeze that carries reminders of change, for the simple beauty surrounding me, and for the gentle nudges that remind me taking care of ourselves, even in the smallest ways, can make all the difference.

My face is blistering and sore, each spot a reminder of what was caught in time. The healing process will look worse before it gets better—that’s what they told me. No makeup for a week or two, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but if I’m being honest, it is. I know I should focus on gratitude, and I do, but vanity still lingers in the background. The mirror reflects something raw, something I wasn’t quite prepared to see.

Despite it all, we’ve continued our morning two-mile walks. The rhythm of my steps, the crisp air filling my lungs, the familiar path—it’s all grounding. But I move through it a little differently now. I pull my hoodie up, shielding my face from any passersby. This morning, I added big sunglasses, hoping to disappear just a little. The world doesn’t need to see me like this, and maybe, for now, I don’t need to see it seeing me.

There’s something humbling about healing, about being forced to slow down and surrender to the process. No shortcuts, no quick fixes—just time, patience, and trust. The cool March breeze reminds me that change is always in motion, even when we can’t see it. I remind myself that discomfort is temporary, that in a few weeks, this will be behind me. And yet, in this moment, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my skin.

Still, I walk. I breathe. I heal.

Sunday, January 26, 2025: Reflecting on a Long Week of Being Sick

Today is Sunday, January 26, 2025, and I’ve officially been sick for over a week. It all started back on Thursday, January 16th, when I began to feel "off"—physically and mentally. That day, while creating vision boards at the MGF office, I mentioned to Sheila that something just wasn’t right. By that evening, I had developed a slight cough, and when I woke up the next morning, Friday, January 17th, it was clear I was undeniably sick.

Despite feeling terrible, I managed to push through work that morning, hoping I could recover quickly. I had too much on my plate for the weekend to let myself be sick. Saturday was supposed to kick off with a hike at the new Patwino trails off Rockville Road with Briana and Tearae. Later, I had plans to meet April and then attend a crab feed with Vince and Sheila. I kept telling myself, I don’t have time for this; I need to get better!

But by Friday night, my symptoms had worsened, and I barely slept. When I woke up Saturday morning feeling even worse, I finally caved and took a COVID and flu test. Sure enough, I tested positive for Flu A. After a phone appointment with Kaiser, I was prescribed Tamiflu, more inhalers, and told to rest. It was the confirmation I needed—there would be no “pushing through” this illness. I was officially out of commission.

That weekend was spent entirely in bed, alternating between Tamiflu, Theraflu, and my inhalers, praying for quick relief. Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards. By Monday, January 20th (MLK Day), I was still in rough shape. I really wanted to be there to support Patty as she laid her father to rest on Monday and Tuesday, but my body wasn’t cooperating. Instead, I stayed in bed yet again, occasionally making my way to the lounge chair in the backyard to sit in the sun and get some fresh air.

Tuesday, January 21st, was no better. I tried to work a short 6–10 a.m. shift, but in hindsight, I should have called out. I was so foggy and fatigued that I made a lot of mistakes at work. Finally, I reached out to my doctor and was able to take Wednesday off to fully rest.

By Thursday, January 23rd, I felt slightly better and returned to work, though I was far from 100%. I also worked Friday and even got to babysit Ansel, which was the highlight of my week. Spending time with him felt so healing. I even managed to eat Taco Bell that evening, which was a small but welcome sign that my appetite was returning. Afterward, I came home and rested some more.

Saturday, January 25th, brought a glimmer of normalcy. I joined TeaRae and Camryn for a hike on the Patwino trails. Although it felt good to get outside, I was still coughing and had to take it slow. Later, we stopped by a cleanup event, but I avoided hugging anyone to be cautious. Before heading home, I swung by Luan’s house to drop off Joanie’s grandma shower gift. I made sure to wear a mask and stayed outside to avoid spreading any germs. While it felt great to cross that task off my list, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed about all the other events I’d missed while being sick.

Even in the midst of all this frustration, I’ve tried to hold onto gratitude. I’m thankful for access to healthcare, the ability to rest, and paid time off when I’m too sick to work. I’m also grateful for how well I’ve come to know my body. Without the Tamiflu prescribed early on, I know this illness would have been far worse. And honestly, I’m so grateful for the physical health I’ve built over the past year through consistent 2–3 mile walks with Raymond. Without that baseline fitness, this flu could’ve hit me even harder—possibly even landed me in the hospital, like it has for so many others this season.

And now here I am today, Sunday, January 26th. Last night, I woke up in the middle of the night after hearing something outside. I got up to check but didn’t find anything. Unfortunately, the whole ordeal left me with a pounding headache. This morning, I told Raymond I could literally feel the mucus clogging my head. It’s such a frustrating feeling, but I know my body well enough to recognize the symptoms of a sinus infection. It’s been years since my last one, but I can tell that’s exactly what’s happening now.

I’m currently waiting on a phone appointment with my doctor, hoping they’ll prescribe antibiotics to help alleviate the sinus pressure and relentless headache. The lingering cough is manageable, but the sinus pain and facial pressure are making it hard to function. I know I need to keep resting, but at this point, I’m desperate to feel like myself again.

God, please let the doctor call soon—I need some relief.

Our Monthly Homicide Survivors Support Group

It’s difficult to put into words just how much this group means to me and how vital it has been in my healing journey. Grieving the loss of a loved one is always challenging, but when that loss occurs due to violence, it brings an entirely different and deeply painful dimension. The shock, anger, and heartbreak of losing someone in such a way are overwhelming and often feel incomprehensible.

The Homicide Survivors Support Group (HSSG) provides a safe space for those of us navigating this unique kind of grief. It’s a place where we can begin to process our emotions and find ways to move forward. Some of us in the group are maneuvering through the court process after the perpetrator has been caught, while others live with the anguish of not knowing who took their loved one. Regardless of our individual circumstances, we come together in understanding and support.

At our last meeting, we were fortunate to have a retired prosecutor join us. He answered our questions about the legal system—covering everything from the process before, during, and after a trial to parole hearings. For many of us, this was an enlightening and incredibly helpful experience.

The history of this group is rooted in resilience and love. It was originally founded years ago by two amazing women, Valerie Dodini and Rita Edmonds-Norris, after their sons were tragically murdered. I was invited to join the group after my son Matt’s death. For a time, we met at the Solano Family Justice Center, but when COVID-19 struck, those meetings came to a halt.

On January 10, 2023, we relaunched HSSG under the umbrella of The Matt Garcia Foundation, and I couldn’t be more grateful for this new chapter. Each month, we’re joined by a licensed clinical social worker who provides guidance, grounding, and support as we work through our grief.

In addition to our monthly meetings, we’ve also participated in a few therapeutic outings. One of our trips was to a local “smash room,” where we were able to safely channel our anger by breaking items like furniture, TVs, and radios using sledgehammers and other tools. Another outing took us to a sound bath healing session, where we lay on mats as a practitioner used sound bowls to help calm our minds, bodies, and spirits. These experiences have been cathartic and deeply healing for many of us.

I truly believe that this is what I am meant to do—not only to help heal myself but to create a space where others can find comfort, understanding, and hope as they navigate their own grief.

If you feel called to support our group, your contributions would mean so much to us. Tax-deductible donations can be sent to:

The Matt Garcia Foundation/HSSG
P.O. Box 3301
Fairfield, CA 94533

You can also visit our website at ffinest.org to explore additional ways to donate.
Our Tax ID is #26-3904201, and all donations are fully tax-deductible.

Thank you for your support,
Teresa

Living Life While Navigating Grief

I still remember the day my cousin Kathy was murdered. The grief was unbearable, a weight that consumed my every thought. I couldn’t comprehend the horrific circumstances of her death or how life around me carried on as if nothing had happened. People went to work, shopped, and even smiled. How dare they? Didn’t they know what had just happened to Kathy?

Grief is a tricky, all-encompassing thing. Looking back, I realize how self-centered my grief was at that time. I made her murder about me. How insane does that sound? I would berate myself, saying, “If only I had spoken to her the last time I saw her instead of staying angry at her for relapsing.” Then came the blame—toward myself, toward others, toward the universe. Grief is a journey through anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and, eventually, a fragile acceptance.

Kathy was killed in 1999, and I still think of her often. I had dealt with death from a young age: my dad was killed in a car accident when I was a baby, and over the years, I lost my grandmother, my aunt, my babysitter, our neighbor—the list went on. But nothing had prepared me for Kathy’s murder.

Then, in September 2008, my world shattered again. My only son, Matt, was murdered. He was 22 years old, full of promise, and doing extraordinary things. At just 21, he was elected to the Fairfield, California City Council, becoming a leader with a vision to prioritize the community’s youth. He understood that investing in young people was the key to a brighter, safer future for everyone.

The shock of Matt’s death—the fact that he had been shot and taken from us—still haunts me. Sixteen years have passed, and I have found ways to navigate my grief, but the pain, the sadness, the devastation—they linger. Sometimes, I still wake up hoping it was all a terrible dream. But I’ve come to accept that I cannot change what happened. All I can do is try to be better and do better in every moment moving forward.

These days, many of my friends are facing their own losses. I don’t pretend to understand their pain or offer unsolicited advice. I simply show up. I think often of my dear friend Nadine, who used to come and sit with me every morning before work during the darkest days of my grief. Sometimes I cried; other times, we just sat in silence. Her presence was a gift—simple, selfless, and unforgettable.

Grief doesn’t go away. It changes shape, shifts into the background at times, but it’s always there. What I’ve learned is that we don’t need to fix grief. We just need to hold space for it—both for ourselves and for those we love. And in doing so, we find ways to keep living.