"Erased: How a Law Meant for Dignity Hurt Families Like Mine"

Lately, my mind has been swirling with something I never imagined I’d have to process: the man who murdered my son Matt has legally changed his name while serving time in prison.

Yes, you read that right.

Henry Don Williams—the man who shot my only son, my daughter’s big brother, in the back of the head while he was simply visiting a friend—has changed his name. The date the law allowing this passed? September 1, 2018. That date landed like a punch to the gut. It’s exactly ten years to the day Matt was killed. The timing is almost too cruel to believe.

We didn’t find out through a court notice or an official call. We found out through a letter in the mail.

No warning. No explanation. Just a piece of paper telling us that the man who took Matt’s life is no longer Henry Don Williams. His new name? Don Maliano Ominoso Batalla. The name sounded more like a fictional villain than the person responsible for such real, permanent pain.

But what shook us even more was what we found next.

When we searched his new name, nothing came up. No connection to Matt. No trace of the murder. No accountability. It was like the crime had vanished. As if, through a simple name change, he had been granted a fresh start—clean, unburdened.

He got to start over.
And we got to relive it all over again.

This was made possible by California’s Name and Dignity Act (SB 310). I want to be very clear: I understand and support the original intent of this law. It was designed to allow transgender individuals to change their names and gender markers, so they can live with the dignity and identity they’ve long been denied. I believe in that. I believe in human dignity. I believe in seeing people for who they truly are.

But this law, as it stands today, has a serious and painful loophole—one that directly impacts families like mine.

Under SB 310, incarcerated individuals can legally change their name or gender marker without needing the permission of a warden or sheriff—and most importantly, without any obligation to notify the families of their victims. Once approved by a judge, their new name becomes official. Their birth name? Just an alias. A footnote. Nothing more.

That means someone convicted of murder can adopt a completely new identity, one that severs all public connection to the crime they committed. No transparency. No accountability. Just a clean slate.

As a mother who has spent every day since 2008 learning how to live with unimaginable grief, I find this not only heartbreaking—but unacceptable.

Matt didn’t get a second chance.We didn’t get a chance to forget.

So why should the man who took his life get to erase his past?

This isn’t just about our family. It’s about justice, transparency, and making sure that laws meant to protect dignity don’t unintentionally strip it from those left behind.

I will not stay silent.

Not when a name can erase a life.

A Beautiful Gift of Love and Legacy

Over the past few days,

 I’ve been revisiting my old journals,

 flipping through memories

 captured in ink.

As I read through my entries from 2003,

I stumbled upon something Grandma Chris

had shared with me back then.

It was June 1, 2003—the day we celebrated

 TeaRae’s 10th birthday at Scandia Fun Center.

 After the celebration,

 Matt, Briana, TeaRae, and I went

 to Grandma Chris’s house

 to go swimming.

I don’t remember exactly how the

 conversation started, but at some point,

 she mentioned something very specific:

When her time came, she wanted the song

"To Each His Own" played at her funeral—

not the original version by Eddie Howard,

 but the one by Willie Nelson.

That version was her favorite.

Reading those words in my journal,

 I felt an urgency to call Grandma Chris.

She’s 93 now, battling leukemia,

 with her liver failing due to cancer.

When I reminded her of what she

 had told me all those years ago,

 she shared something new—

the original version of the song had been

 played at her and Joe’s wedding.

They had both loved the

 Willie Nelson rendition, making it

 even more special to her.

In exactly 21 days from now,

 Grandma Chris will have her

 Celebration of Life—

a gathering she planned herself so that her family

and friends could celebrate with her,

rather than without her.

Her funeral,

 however, will be private.

 She has desired to be cremated and

 laid to rest with Matt.

This was a decision made over

 16 years ago,

 after Matt was killed.

At the time, insurance money was delayed,

 and she came to Raymond and me with an offer

—she wanted to give Matt her own crypt in the

 marble wall at Fairmont Memorial Park.

 Grandma Chris also expressed her wish to be

 buried with him when

 her time came.

We agreed.

But later, I found myself wondering—

why had I said yes so quickly?

 Why wouldn’t she want to be buried

 with her husband, Joe, or one of her sons?

But today, I understand.

Matt loved Grandma Chris deeply,

and she loved him even more.

And in the end, it doesn’t really matter where

 we are placed after we’re gone.

 What truly matters is how we love

 while we’re here.

I feel incredibly blessed to have

 these conversations

 with Grandma Chris—and

 with my daughters.

 We get to decide not only how we live,

 but also how we go.

Knowing that Grandma Chris will be reunited

with Matt, just as she has wished for all these years,

brings me peace.

What a beautiful gift.

Still, I Walk, I Breathe, I Heal

Sitting in our backyard on this first day of March, I let the warmth of the sun wrap around me while a cool breeze drifts through, carrying the scent of fresh earth and new beginnings. The contrast is soothing—sunlight kissing my skin, the breeze offering gentle relief, a perfect balance between warmth and crispness. I’ve been out here for a while, soaking in the fresh air, feeling the gentle heat against my skin—at least, the parts of me that are allowed to feel it. A wide-brimmed hat shields my face, a necessary precaution now.

Birds flit all around me, each species carrying its own personality. The blue jays, bold and territorial, chase away smaller birds with sharp cries, their presence commanding and unyielding. In contrast, the hummingbirds move with grace, their delicate wings fluttering so quickly they seem to disappear between beats. Their tiny, powerful bodies dance through the air, swift and elegant, undeterred by the larger birds’ aggression. The wind rustles the trees, stirring the leaves with a whisper, as if nature itself is speaking in hushed tones.

Just days ago, I sat in a dermatology office, facing a reality I hadn’t expected but am deeply grateful to have caught in time. The spots on my face and nose that had quietly concerned me turned out to be pre-cancerous. Emerald Goldsmith, the PA, was incredible—steady, kind, and reassuring as she applied liquid nitrogen to freeze them away. A necessary discomfort for a greater peace of mind.

I owe this moment of relief to Krista, who suggested that I have my skin checked. She was right. I listened, and because of that, I caught it before it had the chance to turn into something worse.

Now, as I sit here, watching the birds, breathing in the crisp, cool air, I feel nothing but gratitude—for the sun’s warmth, for the breeze that carries reminders of change, for the simple beauty surrounding me, and for the gentle nudges that remind me taking care of ourselves, even in the smallest ways, can make all the difference.

My face is blistering and sore, each spot a reminder of what was caught in time. The healing process will look worse before it gets better—that’s what they told me. No makeup for a week or two, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but if I’m being honest, it is. I know I should focus on gratitude, and I do, but vanity still lingers in the background. The mirror reflects something raw, something I wasn’t quite prepared to see.

Despite it all, we’ve continued our morning two-mile walks. The rhythm of my steps, the crisp air filling my lungs, the familiar path—it’s all grounding. But I move through it a little differently now. I pull my hoodie up, shielding my face from any passersby. This morning, I added big sunglasses, hoping to disappear just a little. The world doesn’t need to see me like this, and maybe, for now, I don’t need to see it seeing me.

There’s something humbling about healing, about being forced to slow down and surrender to the process. No shortcuts, no quick fixes—just time, patience, and trust. The cool March breeze reminds me that change is always in motion, even when we can’t see it. I remind myself that discomfort is temporary, that in a few weeks, this will be behind me. And yet, in this moment, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my skin.

Still, I walk. I breathe. I heal.