As I sit here this morning in the quiet beauty of Arnold with a cup of coffee in my hands, I find myself reflecting on everything our family has experienced over the past few weeks.
We have said goodbye.
We have welcomed new life.
We have celebrated.
We have grieved.
We have laughed.
We have cried.
We have prayed.
And through it all, I have discovered something I don't think I fully understood before.
On June 20, 2026, our family experienced two of life's most sacred moments on the very same day.
Our beloved Grandma Chris took her final breath.
And just hours later, our youngest daughter, TeaRae, and her husband, Colin, welcomed their beautiful son into the world—our precious grandson, Avi Bram Itzko.
One life ended.
Another began.
I have often wondered if heaven smiled that day as one generation was welcomed home while another was welcomed into our family.
As I watched TeaRae labor for nearly 40 hours, I found myself praying constantly. I prayed to God for strength, peace, and protection over my daughter. And I talked to Matthew.
"Please help your little sister."
I don't know exactly how heaven works. I only know what I felt.
I felt God's presence.
I felt Matthew's presence.
And I felt a peace that carried all of us through those long hours.
I was in awe of TeaRae.
Even when she was exhausted...
Even when she was frightened...
Even when the pain seemed unbearable...
She remained kind.
She remained gracious.
She remained determined.
She never stopped believing she could bring her son safely into this world.
Watching her become a mother was one of the most awe-inspiring experiences of my life.
Briana had been by her sister's side throughout much of labor, encouraging her, loving her, and reminding her she wasn't alone. Later that Saturday morning, around 2:30, she headed home to be with her own family. Before long, she received the call that our beloved Grandma Chris had passed away.
Just hours later, TeaRae gave birth to beautiful baby Avi.
One daughter was receiving the heartbreaking news that someone she dearly loved had left this earth, while her little sister was welcoming new life into it.
Life can change in a single phone call.
Life can change in a single breath.
And somehow, our hearts are asked to hold both.
Watching Raymond stand beside our baby girl throughout her labor was another gift I will always treasure. His quiet strength, gentle reassurance, and unwavering love reminded me what it looks like to simply show up for the people we love. There was nothing he could do to take away her pain, but his presence reminded her, "You don't have to carry this alone."
Today, our eight-year-old grandson, Ansel, absolutely adores his baby cousin, Avi. Watching him love on his little cousin fills me with hope. It reminds me that love doesn't end with one generation. It continues to grow, weaving together the stories of those who came before us and those who are just beginning theirs.
Then came July 14th.
Matthew's 40th Heavenly Birthday.
For many years now, I have spent Matt's birthday at our annual Women's Spiritual Retreat. It has become a sacred place for me—a place to be surrounded by God's beautiful creation, to be still, to write, to cry, to remember, and to heal.
Yesterday, I read every message that was shared in honor of Matthew's 40th Heavenly Birthday.
Some came from classmates.
Some remembered him as a teammate, a friend, a co-worker, a banker, a City Councilmember, or simply someone who made them feel seen.
Others never had the opportunity to meet Matthew. They first learned of him through the tragedy that took his life. Through the work of the Matt Garcia Foundation—our scholarships, youth sports sponsorships, community events, support groups, and acts of service—they've come to know the kind of young man he was and the legacy of kindness, compassion, and service that continues to live on.
So many of you wrote, "It seems like just yesterday."
The truth is...
To me, it does too.
There are still mornings when I wake up and, for just a second, I think maybe it was all a horrible nightmare.
Then reality quietly reminds me that I have been practicing how to live without my son for nearly eighteen years.
Matthew had an extraordinary gift.
He remembered people's names.
He remembered their stories.
He noticed people.
Whether he had known someone for years or only a few minutes, he made each person feel seen, valued, and important.
That was his superpower.
On our way to Arnold for the retreat, I accidentally left my purse in a public restroom at a gas station in Copperopolis. I didn't realize it until we were nearly thirty minutes away.
My heart sank.
We turned around, hoping and praying it would somehow still be there.
An incredible human being had found it and turned it in.
Everything was still inside.
On one of the days I miss Matthew the most, I was reminded that there are still people quietly choosing honesty, kindness, and goodness every single day.
I smiled through my tears and thought, "That is exactly the kind of thing Matt would have done."
Over the years, I've stood beside far too many parents whose hearts have been shattered by the loss of a child. Every story is different, but our hearts recognize one another without words.
As I finish writing these thoughts from this quiet cabin in Arnold, surrounded by towering pines, dear friends, and a cup of coffee that has long since grown cold, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude.
Gratitude for every person who remembered Matthew.
Gratitude for the stranger in Copperopolis who reminded me that goodness still exists.
Gratitude for Grandma Chris, whose love continues to shape our family.
Gratitude for TeaRae's courage.
Gratitude for Briana's steadfast love.
Gratitude for Raymond's quiet strength.
Gratitude for Colin and Will.
Gratitude for Ansel and Avi.
Gratitude that this heart of mine is still capable of loving so deeply.
My heart was forever broken by the violent loss of my son.
But I have discovered that a broken heart doesn't become smaller.
It expands.
It stretches until it can hold grief, joy, fear, gratitude, new life, death, memories, hope, and love—all at the same time.
Joy and sorrow are not opposites.
They can live together in the same heart.
Life is tragic.
Life is fantastic.
Life is scary.
Life is breathtakingly beautiful.
Maybe every experience—every heartbreak, every miracle, every goodbye, every hello—is meant to open our hearts just a little wider.
I don't want to waste one second of this life.
I want to love deeply.
Forgive more quickly.
Notice people.
Remember their stories.
Show up.
Extend grace.
Leave people feeling seen.
Because that's how Matthew lived.
And if I can do that, even imperfectly, then a part of my beautiful boy continues to live on through me.
My heart will always ache for my son.
But it will never stop expanding.
There is room for all of it.
