I know she's dead.
I just can't comprehend that I'll never see her again.
Somehow, after almost two and a half years, those two truths still live side by side.

The world keeps changing, and with every new thing comes the same thought: Kahlia would have loved this.

People stop saying their name.

The stories become fewer.

And sometimes your grieving brain begins to wonder...

Did they ever exist at all?

"How did they die?"

It's a question people ask all the time.

But when the answer is suicide, the conversation changes.

Even in my dreams, I find out she's dead.

I want her to know that each day I get up and do my best, even when it’s hard.
That my heart didn’t “heal.”
It broke.

I was scared of sleep.
Because waking up meant remembering she was gone. Is sleep only for the innocent?

It’s coming up to two years.
And somehow, it feels like it’s about to happen again.

Easter again.
It’s strange how a date that moves can still feel so exact.
My brain doesn’t care about the calendar, it remembers the feeling. And suddenly, I’m back there… missing her in a way that feels sharper than yesterday.

Grief doesn’t just live in your heart. It lives in your body, your thoughts, your nervous system. Writing became the place I could put what I couldn’t carry anymore - not to fix it, but to give it somewhere to exist outside of me.

Sometimes grief sits quietly beside your life, letting you believe you’ve found your footing again. And then something reminds your body what happened, and suddenly the ocean feels deep all over again.

Yesterday was the launch of The Year After Kahlia. It was beautiful, proud, and full of people who care. And underneath it all was one quiet truth: I wished she was in the front row.

Since Kahlia died, my relationship with control has changed completely. I work harder, plan tighter, brace faster - not because I’ve become rigid, but because I learned the worst can happen and love can’t always stop it. This launch week has shown me how grief reshapes trust, time, and the need to hold the world still.

From the outside it looks like momentum. Inside, it’s still a relationship. This week I’ve been reminded that advocacy and ache can live side by side; microphones and whispers, movement and presence.

When someone says her name, she feels close again - not as “the loss,” but as my daughter. Many people are afraid to mention the person who died, but silence hurts more than tears. Saying their name is one of the kindest gifts you can give.

I didn’t collapse in year two. I accelerated. This is about the restlessness, overdoing, and quiet forms of avoidance no one talks about.

I miss you’ sounds small. Polite. Almost tidy. What it feels like is collapse

I’ve always trusted my body to carry me through. Until the day grief stopped me halfway up a mountain. This is a story about limits, listening, and the physical reality of loss.

December is loud, and grief is louder. This post is about the strange comfort of doing nothing, the safety of solitude, the weight of upcoming birthdays and anniversaries, and the quiet dignity of saying no - even to Christmas.