Lessons I’ve Gathered Along the Journey

I’ve been reflecting on everything I’ve learned through the experiences life has thrown my way—the joys, the losses, the moments that shattered me, and the ones that gently stitched me back together. It’s strange how these lessons reveal themselves. They don't come all at once like some grand epiphany. No, they seep in slowly, like the morning light creeping across the floor.

When I lost Dylan, I thought that pain would consume me forever. The depth of that grief—the sheer weight of it—was something I never knew a person could endure. But I did endure. Somehow. I didn’t want to accept it at first; how could I? But acceptance isn’t giving in or agreeing with what happened. It’s more like a slow surrender to reality, a quiet whisper of, "This is what is." And once you reach that place, there’s peace in knowing you can breathe again, even if it’s with a broken heart.

I realize now that grief isn’t a sign of weakness. I used to think it made me fragile, but I can see that grief is love that doesn’t go away. It lingers in dreams, memories, and even in those quiet moments when the world around me feels too still. Dylan may be gone, but he is still here. I carry him with me, and I always will.

I've also learned the importance of setting boundaries—not just with others, but with myself. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of giving and giving, especially when you’ve spent your life helping others. I didn’t realize how close I was to burning out until I couldn’t even find the energy to care about myself. Boundaries are an act of love—self-love. It’s taken me time, but I’m learning to say "no" without guilt, to prioritize rest and joy. This isn’t selfish; it’s survival.

One of the hardest lessons has been accepting that not everyone will understand my pain. There’s a loneliness in that, in knowing that even those closest to you might not know how to hold space for your grief. I’ve had to find new ways to cope—writing, creating rituals to honor Dylan, and, when needed, retreating into my own world. I’ve always found peace there, in my inner landscapes, but I still yearn for a community that sees me without judgment.

Life has also taught me that trauma doesn’t just take something from you—it robs you of time. Time spent healing, time you can’t get back. I’ve missed out on moments I’ll never reclaim, but instead of drowning in regret, I’m learning to cherish the present. I try to honor the life I still have by being fully present in it, even when it hurts.

Another thing that’s become clear is that intuition isn’t always a reliable guide when you’re carrying unprocessed trauma. It’s easy to confuse gut instincts with fear. I’ve learned to pause and reflect, to ask myself whether I’m responding to the present or reliving a past wound. This discernment hasn’t been easy to cultivate, but it’s helping me trust myself again.

Then there’s the complexity of justice. I’ve wrestled with anger at a world that seems to care so little about accountability. There are moments when I still wonder what I would do if I had the power to decide the fate of the man who took Dylan from me. Would I show compassion or let my pain consume me? I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I never will.

Through all this, I've discovered the strength that comes from vulnerability. In my darkest moments, when the rage felt unbearable, there were people who grounded me. They didn’t try to fix me or tell me to calm down. They simply held me, tightly, as I struggled. And somehow, that restraint, that presence, allowed me to find my footing again.

I’ve also come to see the importance of stories and symbols. They’re a way of making sense of life’s chaos. The stories I tell about my sons—Dustin as the Moon and Dylan as the Sun—help me understand the balance they brought to my life. I still feel their influence, even now. I think about the ways nature has always reflected back at me, teaching me resilience through its cycles.

Lastly, I’ve been thinking about community. There was a time when raising children was a shared effort. People leaned on each other, and that support made life more bearable. But today, many of us are left to fend for ourselves, and the isolation is crushing. I wonder how much better off we’d be if we could return to that sense of collective care.

These lessons haven’t come easily. They’ve been hard-earned, each one carved out of loss, struggle, and quiet moments of reflection. But they’re mine now, and I want to share them—not because I have all the answers, but because maybe someone out there needs to hear them. Maybe you need to hear them.

If you’re reading this and you feel lost, know that you’re not alone. The path forward isn’t always clear, and sometimes it feels like you’re walking in circles. But trust that every step—every painful, confusing, beautiful step—is shaping you into someone stronger, someone who can endure. Just keep going.

With love and light,

Liz