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.

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.