We Are Still Becoming

This morning I was listening to something about belief, persistence, the power of our thoughts, and continuing forward even when it feels like we are walking alone.

Something in it stayed with me.

Our mind is the gateway. What we focus on, we get more of.

I started thinking about how much attention we can give to what is wrong. What somebody else is doing. What didn't work out. What we regret. What we're afraid might happen. What we wish we could change.

And I thought about something I've been practicing more intentionally in my own life:

Telling myself the truth and taking responsibility for myself.

My choices. My reactions. My boundaries. What I focus on. And most importantly, what I do next.

I can't control what other people do. I can't control whether they understand me, agree with me, support me, or believe in me.

But I can be responsible for me.

There is freedom in that.

Belief Is Something We Grant Ourselves

We can spend so much time waiting for permission.

Permission to change. Permission to dream bigger. Permission to start again. Permission to forgive ourselves. Permission to become someone we've never been before.

But I'm learning that belief is something we grant ourselves.

I am the permission.

That doesn't mean I don't need other people. Quite the opposite.

I need the women in my life who love me enough to tell me the truth and hold space for me while I figure things out.

This morning, I started thinking about the women I have walked beside for many years.

We have shared our lives.

We know each other's mistakes, fears, and regrets. We've watched one another fall down, get back up, change, grow, grieve, heal, struggle, and begin again.

I don't walk beside other women because I have life figured out.

I don't.

I'm still learning. I'm still practicing. I'm still becoming.

Today I decided to send individual text messages to some of the women in my life. Not a group text. I thought about each woman individually—where she is, what we've walked through together, what I love about her, and what I wanted her to know.

Nearly every one of them responded with such gratitude.

It reminded me of something so simple:

Tell people you care about them. Don't assume they know.

Holding Space for One Another

As women, we don't always need to fix each other.

Sometimes we can't.

Sometimes there aren't any words that will make something better.

Holding space can simply mean:

I see you.

I'm thinking about you.

You don't have to have everything figured out.

I'm still here.

I believe in you.

And sometimes it means saying:

If you can't believe in yourself today, borrow some of my belief in you until you can.

That doesn't mean carrying another woman's life for her. It means walking beside her while she carries her own.

There's a difference.

I want women in my life who are willing to show up for themselves.

Not perfectly.

Not every day with a smile on their face.

Not pretending everything is wonderful when it isn't.

I mean women who keep coming back to themselves.

Women who tell themselves the truth. Women who take responsibility. Women who ask for help. Women who rest when they genuinely need to rest. Women who get back up.

Women who can say:

This road is hard right now, but I'm not giving up on myself.

Those are my kind of women.

This Journey Isn't a Race

Somewhere along the way, we started acting like we're supposed to arrive.

But arrive where?

There is no finish line where suddenly we've mastered life.

We will never perfect this journey. We're supposed to experience it.

Some stretches of the road are beautiful and smooth. The sun is shining, the view is incredible, and everything seems to be falling into place.

Enjoy those stretches.

Breathe them in. Be grateful.

Don't rush past the good because you're already worried about the next hill.

And then there are the climbs.

Those long, steep climbs where you wonder how much farther you have to go. Sometimes you can't even see the top.

Keep going.

Maybe today you take ten steps. Maybe tomorrow you take two. Maybe you need to sit down on the side of the road for a while and catch your breath.

Resting isn't quitting.

And when you finally reach the top, stop for a minute.

Look back.

Look how far you've come.

Look at the woman who made that climb.

Then breathe it in.

Eventually there will be another hill. That's life.

But the hills are teaching us too.

The difficult stretches can show us things about ourselves that the easy roads never could. They teach us perseverance, surrender, and gratitude. They show us who we can count on.

And sometimes, most importantly, they teach us that we can count on ourselves.

Keep Showing Up

Life is short.

Far too short to keep shrinking ourselves.

Far too short to withhold love because we assume somebody already knows how we feel.

I want to surround myself with women who are showing up for themselves.

Women who aren't giving up when the road gets bumpy or when those long climbs seem like they're going to last forever.

Women who understand that we can love and support one another without fixing one another.

Women who celebrate each other's smooth roads and sit beside each other during the climbs.

Women who remind one another:

Keep going.

You're learning.

You're growing.

You're becoming.

And when one of us forgets, the rest of us can hold space until she remembers.

Our minds are powerful.

What we focus on matters.

What we tell ourselves matters.

What we believe about ourselves matters.

So tell yourself the truth.

Take responsibility for your life.

Show up for yourself.

Rest when you need to.

Get back up when you can.

And love your people enough to tell them while you have the opportunity.

When you reach one of those beautiful, smooth stretches of road, don't immediately start worrying about the next hill.

Stop.

Look around.

Breathe it in.

Be grateful for where you are, where you've been, and even for some of those hard climbs that taught you things about yourself you may never have learned any other way.

Because this is your life.

Not just the destination.

Not just the mountaintop.

The entire journey.

And every bit of it is teaching you something about the woman you are becoming.

I'm still learning.

I'm still practicing.

I'm still becoming.

We all are.

Keep believing. Keep showing up. Keep becoming.

You don't need permission.

You are the permission.

Returning

On Monday, August 3, our family fulfilled Grandma Chris's final wish.

She now rests beside Matt.

Before the Mass and burial, I wrote that I had no idea what to expect. I had decided not to make assumptions about how the day would unfold. I knew the marble would have to be opened. I knew I would see Matt's casket again.

I just wasn't prepared for what my heart and body would remember the moment I did.

When we arrived where Matt rests, the marble cover had already been removed. For the first time in nearly eighteen years, I saw his black chrome casket again.

His MG707FF license plate was exactly where I remembered it.

Beneath the license plate were the white gloves worn by Matt's family and friends as they carried his casket eighteen years ago. The moment I saw them, I wasn't standing at Grandma Chris's burial anymore. I was back at Matt's funeral, watching the people who loved him carry him to his final resting place.

In an instant, eighteen years disappeared.

My body began to shake as memories I hadn't expected came rushing back. I could feel the emotion throughout my entire body. The August heat only intensified what I was already feeling. I stayed through the service because I wanted to honor Grandma Chris, but I carried those emotions home with me.

The truth is, I know Matt isn't in that casket.

Just as I know Grandma Chris isn't there either.

I believe their spirits live on.

But seeing Matt's casket again reminded me of the day I had to say goodbye to my son's physical body.

For almost eighteen years, I have lived with the reality that I no longer get to hear Matt's laugh. I can't smell his cologne. I can't lovingly scold him for leaving his hair gel on the bathroom door handle. I don't get to hear him call me, "Mom."

Those ordinary moments ended the day he was murdered.

Knowing his spirit lives on brings me comfort.

It does not erase the pain of remembering the day we laid his body to rest.

Those two things can exist together.

One gives me hope.

The other reminds me how deeply I love my son.

Yesterday, I found myself returning to Matt's and Grandma Chris's resting place.

I didn't go because there was something that needed to be done.

I went because I needed to be there.

Family and friends had already stopped by, leaving beautiful fresh bouquets for Grandma Chris. Seeing them there reminded me how deeply she was loved.

I quietly removed the faded flowers from the wall vases and replaced them with soft, light-colored ones. Then I added a few small lights.

Grandma Chris's name and photograph have not yet been added to the marble, but I don't need them to know she is there. On Monday, I stood with my family and watched as she was placed beside Matt, exactly where she wanted to be.

As I stood there this evening, I realized I was still carrying Monday with me.

Returning wasn't about trying to erase the pain of seeing Matt's casket again.

It was about giving myself permission to simply be there.

To stand quietly.

To straighten the flowers.

To look at the fresh bouquets left by family and friends.

To remember.

Grief has taught me that healing doesn't always happen by moving away from the places that hold our deepest sorrow.

Sometimes healing comes by returning to them with love.

As I stood there quietly, I realized something else.

One was my son.

The other came into my life when I was fifteen years old. Nearly forty-five years later, I stood beside her one last time, grateful for every year she loved me, challenged me, encouraged me, and became one of the women who helped shape my life.

Both left an imprint on my heart that will remain for the rest of my life.

I left with tears in my eyes, but also with gratitude.

Gratitude that I had nearly forty-five years with Grandma Chris.

Gratitude that she trusted me to help her prepare for her final wishes.

Gratitude that those wishes were fulfilled.

And gratitude that love endures.

Together again.

Together Again

This morning we begin preparing for Grandma Chris's Mass and burial.

As I sit quietly with my coffee, I notice something unexpected. I don't feel overwhelmed by sadness. More than anything, I feel grateful.

I'm grateful that I had so many conversations with Grandma Chris in these last years. Grateful that I got to bake sourdough bread for her, take her to the dentist, and simply spend time with her. Those ordinary moments have become extraordinary gifts. I'm grateful for a lifetime of memories.

I feel especially honored that she trusted me to help her prepare for what she knew was coming. She asked me if I would help her choose her urn and the keepsake urns for her grandchildren. I've often wondered why she asked me. Maybe losing Matt changed the way I talk about death. I don't know. I never asked. I only know that it was a privilege to help her make those decisions.

She picked each one herself. She chose hummingbirds because they were her favorite.

What a privilege that was.

I think losing Matt changed something deep inside me. After Matt was murdered, my relationship with death changed forever. I no longer see it as something to avoid talking about or pretend won't come. Instead, I've come to believe there is a gift in preparing and in making your wishes known. I love that Grandma Chris was able to choose the urn she wanted, the one that reflected who she was.

This morning, though, I noticed another feeling quietly making its way into my heart.

Today Grandma Chris will be placed beside Matt.

I found myself wondering what that moment will look like. Will I see Matt's black chrome casket with his license plate on the end? Will those memories come rushing back?

Then I realized I'm trying to prepare myself for something I know nothing about.

The truth is, I have no idea how the funeral home will place Grandma Chris's hummingbird urn beside Matt. I don't know what I'll see or how I'll feel in that moment.

And maybe I don't need to know.

What I do know is this: Matt never had the chance to make these decisions. He never chose a casket. He never told us what kind of service he wanted. Those choices were stolen from him, and we had to make them while living through every parent's worst nightmare.

Grandma Chris was given something different. She was given the gift of choosing.

There is something beautiful about that.

As I prepare for today, I don't want to fill my mind with assumptions or fears about how it will unfold. I want to simply be present.

In the end, the details aren't what matter most.

What matters is that Grandma Chris will be exactly where she wanted to be.

Together again with Matt.

And somehow, in the grand scheme of things, that brings me peace.

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.