Living Life While Navigating Grief

I still remember the day my cousin Kathy was murdered. The grief was unbearable, a weight that consumed my every thought. I couldn’t comprehend the horrific circumstances of her death or how life around me carried on as if nothing had happened. People went to work, shopped, and even smiled. How dare they? Didn’t they know what had just happened to Kathy?

Grief is a tricky, all-encompassing thing. Looking back, I realize how self-centered my grief was at that time. I made her murder about me. How insane does that sound? I would berate myself, saying, “If only I had spoken to her the last time I saw her instead of staying angry at her for relapsing.” Then came the blame—toward myself, toward others, toward the universe. Grief is a journey through anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and, eventually, a fragile acceptance.

Kathy was killed in 1999, and I still think of her often. I had dealt with death from a young age: my dad was killed in a car accident when I was a baby, and over the years, I lost my grandmother, my aunt, my babysitter, our neighbor—the list went on. But nothing had prepared me for Kathy’s murder.

Then, in September 2008, my world shattered again. My only son, Matt, was murdered. He was 22 years old, full of promise, and doing extraordinary things. At just 21, he was elected to the Fairfield, California City Council, becoming a leader with a vision to prioritize the community’s youth. He understood that investing in young people was the key to a brighter, safer future for everyone.

The shock of Matt’s death—the fact that he had been shot and taken from us—still haunts me. Sixteen years have passed, and I have found ways to navigate my grief, but the pain, the sadness, the devastation—they linger. Sometimes, I still wake up hoping it was all a terrible dream. But I’ve come to accept that I cannot change what happened. All I can do is try to be better and do better in every moment moving forward.

These days, many of my friends are facing their own losses. I don’t pretend to understand their pain or offer unsolicited advice. I simply show up. I think often of my dear friend Nadine, who used to come and sit with me every morning before work during the darkest days of my grief. Sometimes I cried; other times, we just sat in silence. Her presence was a gift—simple, selfless, and unforgettable.

Grief doesn’t go away. It changes shape, shifts into the background at times, but it’s always there. What I’ve learned is that we don’t need to fix grief. We just need to hold space for it—both for ourselves and for those we love. And in doing so, we find ways to keep living.