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.