The Heart Expands

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.

Love Holds Both

 

The past several weeks have reminded me just how fragile life can be.

Our community has been shaken by devastating tragedies. Families are grieving the loss of their children. Friends are facing heartbreaking uncertainty. Others are sitting beside hospital beds waiting and hoping for good news.

The pain feels close.

It feels personal.

At the same time, I am here in another city with our youngest daughter, as she prepares to welcome her first child into the world. Her husband is deployed far away serving our country, and I am grateful to be here helping her prepare for the arrival of baby Avi, our second grandson.

And if I'm honest, I have found myself struggling with the contrast.

Part of my heart is celebrating.

Part of my heart is grieving.

I have found myself wondering how to hold both.

How do I celebrate a new life while others are mourning devastating losses?

How do I post pictures of swimming, family gatherings, and baby preparations when people I love are living through some of the hardest days of their lives?

As I sat with those questions, I realized this isn't the first time life has asked me to hold joy and sorrow at the same time.

Years after my cousin Kathy was murdered, I was still carrying anger, regret, and unanswered questions. My sponsor, Laura, suggested a forgiveness study and invited several of us to participate.

Each of us came carrying something.

Different losses.

Different regrets.

Different wounds.

Some of us were learning to forgive others.

Some of us were learning to forgive ourselves.

Most of us were doing both.

For more than a year, we read together, reflected together, prayed together, and learned together.

The work wasn't about forgetting.

It wasn't about excusing.

It was about healing.

The work did not change the past.

It changed us.

Years later, while waiting at John Muir Trauma Hospital as doctors fought to save Matt's life, I remember looking at Laura and saying, "Now I know why we were doing all this forgiveness work."

In that moment, I understood that the spiritual principles we had been practicing—faith, forgiveness, acceptance, compassion, and love—would become the very things I needed to survive.

The grief didn't disappear.

The heartbreak didn't end.

But I learned something that continues to guide me today.

Love holds both.

It holds grief and gratitude.

Heartbreak and hope.

Loss and new beginnings.

Perhaps that is why these recent events have touched me so deeply.

The people who once sat beside me in waiting rooms, prayed with me, cried with me, and helped carry me through my darkest moments are now facing challenges of their own.

I cannot take away their pain.

I cannot fix what is broken.

But I can do what others once did for me.

I can show up.

I can listen.

I can pray.

I can love them through it.

As I wait for Avi's arrival, my heart is celebrating with one family while aching alongside others.

Today, I am learning once again that grief and gratitude are not opposites.

They can exist in the same heart.

Perhaps healing is not about choosing one over the other.

Perhaps healing is staying connected—to God, to one another, and to love—even when life asks us to carry both.

The Blink of a Lifetime

 

Again, I find myself writing about how quickly life is moving.

When I was younger, I remember hearing older people talk about how fast the years go by. They would say, "Just wait. One day you'll understand." I would smile and nod, but honestly, I didn't get it.

Now, at 59 years old, I understand exactly what they meant.

Life doesn't simply move—it races.

The minutes become hours. The hours become days. The days become weeks. The weeks become years. Before we know it, entire chapters of our lives are tucked behind us, waiting to be remembered.

I often find myself wishing there were more hours in a day. There are so many things I want to do, need to do, and hope to accomplish. Yet today, I was reminded that peace often comes from simply doing the things that matter most.

This morning was beautifully ordinary. Raymond and I walked our usual two miles. I finished catching up on my gratitude summaries and completed my ten-minute arm workout on YouTube. Small acts. Simple commitments. Yet these are the moments that ground me. They remind me that fulfillment is often found in following through on the daily habits that bring me peace and a sense of accomplishment.

Later, I talked with Briana and exchanged texts with TeaRae. As I reflected on our conversations, it hit me that tomorrow my youngest daughter will turn thirty-three years old.

Thirty-three.

How is that even possible?

It feels like only yesterday I was holding her in my arms, memorizing every detail of her tiny face. Now she is more than thirty-six weeks pregnant with her first child.

Our baby is having a baby.

Life has come full circle once again.

Briana & William gave us Ansel, my first grandchild, who is now eight years old. We have also been blessed with Joseph and Camryn, Colin's children, who became our bonus grandchildren and have brought so much joy into our lives. Watching TeaRae love them, nurture them, and help raise them has been a blessing. She has such a tender heart, and I know she is going to be an amazing mother.

As I think about my children, gratitude overwhelms me.

I have been blessed beyond measure.

Not because life has been easy—it certainly has not—but because love has remained. Through every triumph and every tragedy, love has endured.

Even Matt's love remains.

Though I can no longer hear his voice, I feel his presence everywhere. I hear his whispers in the wind. I see reminders of him in unexpected places. I notice signs that feel too personal and too perfectly timed to be mere coincidence. The connection between a mother and her child does not end with death. It simply changes form.

Matt still finds ways to remind me he is near.

And because of those reminders, I continue to heal. I continue to grow. I continue to create the life I want to live. Matt still teaches me to pay attention—to the beauty, the lessons, the opportunities, and the people placed in front of me. His life continues to inspire me to live with purpose, gratitude, and hope.

Maybe that is what aging is really teaching me.

Not to mourn the passing of time, but to treasure it.

To recognize that every day is another opportunity to love deeply, forgive freely, learn something new, and embrace the people who matter most.

Life may be moving faster than I ever imagined, but it is also richer than I ever dreamed.

As another generation prepares to enter our family, I find myself filled with gratitude for every chapter that brought us here.

The joyful chapters.

The heartbreaking chapters.

The chapters that changed me forever.

I am grateful for all of it.

Because every experience, every lesson, every loss, every healing, and every act of love has helped shape the woman I am today.

And today, that feels like more than enough.

The Truth About Raising My Children

Over the years, I’ve heard a story repeated that my son, Matt, was raised by his grandmother Chris. I want to lovingly and clearly set the record straight: that is not true.

From the moment Matt and Briana were born, they were my responsibility, and I never gave that up. Between 1985 and 1990, Bird (their biological father) and I lived off and on with his parents, and at other times in several different places of our own. Life was unstable and filled with the chaos of addiction and abuse, but one thing never changed—my children were always with me.

At one point, in my desperation for a better life, I even took Matt and Briana with me to Ohio, believing that if I could just change our surroundings, I could change our lives. But what I didn’t understand then was that it wasn’t about moving to a new address—it was about changing me.

That realization came on April 6, 1990. I was twenty-three years old, with two children, and completely worn down. Just three months earlier, in January, I had finally secured my own Section 8 house. For the first time, we had a place that was ours. That gave us stability. And then in April, when I entered recovery, I found hope. Together, those two milestones gave me the courage to step into motherhood in a new and healthier way.

This doesn’t mean I was alone in raising my kids. Family played important roles in their lives. They offered love, guidance, and presence that I will always be grateful for. Chris, especially, was and still is an important part of our lives. Matt and Briana were very close to their Grandma Chris and their Grandpa Joe, until his passing when Matt was five and Briana was three. Chris has been a beloved part of our family and community, and she continues to be close to us to this very day.

But here is the truth: Chris did not raise Matt or Briana. I did. Raising my children was my sacred responsibility, and although I stumbled and made many mistakes, I carried that responsibility every single day.

As adults, life naturally shifted. Matt chose to live with his grandmother when he was grown, and he was living in her home on Whitehall Circle when he was tragically murdered at just twenty-two years old. That does not change the truth of his childhood, nor the bond that defined our years together.

Now, as a grandmother myself, I see this distinction more clearly than ever. I play a big role in my grandchildren’s lives—I give them love, presence, and support—but I am not raising them. Their parents are. And that difference matters, because raising a child is more than being involved; it is carrying the responsibility day in and day out, through the pain, the growth, the lessons, and the love.

This is the truth about raising my children.

Taking Radical Responsibility

For so long, I used to dread even thinking about what it really meant to take responsibility for my life. Responsibility felt heavy, almost like a punishment. It was easier to deflect, to find fault in someone else, to point the finger away from me.

I can still picture myself standing in line at the grocery store, growing angry as the clerk chatted with the customer ahead of me. I felt impatient, inconvenienced, like my time was somehow more valuable. Yet how many times have I been the one who ran late to appointments, making others wait? How many times did I excuse it away, while demanding grace from others?

It’s humbling to admit the double standards I lived in. I’ve written angry emails to companies because I felt I wasn’t treated “accordingly.” But have I ever written myself a letter holding me accountable for the times I treated others unfairly?

There’s a saying I love: When I point one finger at you, three fingers are pointing back at me. That truth hits hard.

The Shift

Something powerful happens when I stop blaming and start owning. When I take 100% responsibility for the way my life is turning out, I naturally have fewer issues with what others do—or don’t do.

When I want to blame my procrastination on jobs, people, or appointments, I have to remind myself: I am the creator of my time. If I want something done, it’s on me to make it happen. Period.

This shift has been both painful and liberating. Painful, because it forces me to look at the patterns I’ve created—the excuses, the wasted energy, the years I spent convincing myself someone else was holding me back. But also liberating, because if I created those patterns, I can also create new ones.

Owning My Truth

For over 16 years I told myself, “If it wasn’t for this other person, my book would be done.” That was complete and utter bullshit. The truth is, it wasn’t anyone else’s responsibility, it was mine. My writing, my healing, my dreams.

Taking responsibility is not about shame. It’s about empowerment. It’s about standing in the truth that if I want something different, I must do something different.

And today, I feel grateful. Grateful that I get to take responsibility for my life. Grateful that I no longer waste as much time blaming others for the choices I failed to make.

Responsibility isn’t a burden—it’s a key. It unlocks freedom. It puts the pen back in my hand. And it reminds me that I am not at the mercy of what happens to me. I am the author of my story.

Writing My Truths, Again

Writing My Truths, Again

This past year, I’ve been doing a lot of writing, and it’s been both beautiful and brutal.

I’ve already faced many of the painful truths of my past through working the steps and through recovery.
I’ve acknowledged the harm, done the inner work, and committed to a path of healing and accountability.
But writing about these experiences again, now, in this way,  brings them back in full color.

The real-time memories come rushing in:
The smells. The sounds. The weather. The details of the scene.
All of it.

Most people in my life,  those closest to me, already know these pieces of me.
But this book, Mom, Did You Tell Them Who You Are?, is for those who don’t.
It’s for the ones who haven’t heard the whole truth.
It’s for the ones who may feel like they’re the only ones.
It’s for the ones still searching for peace in their own stories.

Once I became an adult, I had to learn that my life, and what I want from it, is 100% my responsibility.
The things I did, the paths I chose, the people I hurt, they’re mine to own.

So I own them.
I learn from them.
And I strive every day to be better than I was the day before.

I can’t change what has already happened.
But I can keep practicing being a better me.

Even when it hurts.
Even when it’s lonely.
Even when the past knocks on the door of my present.

And so, even now,  in the writing, in the remembering, in the healing,
I choose Me. 

Because I know peace is possible.
And it’s worth the work.

Thank you for walking this journey with me.
If you’re doing the work too, through recovery, grief, forgiveness, or finding your voice,
I hope you keep choosing you too.

#MomDidYouTellThemWhoYouAre

#HealingJourney 

#PeaceWithin 

#WritingToHeal #SpiritualGrowth 

#RadicalResponsibility

 #RecoveryWorks

 #LetGoLetGod 

#ProgressNotPerfection

 #StillIChooseMe

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.