To understand any of this, you need to know who she was.

Kahlia wasn’t just my daughter. She was my soulmate, my soundtrack, my mirror. We were bound by a love that didn’t need explaining’ the kind that spans lifetimes and lingers in the corners of every day.

She was fiercely empathetic, wildly funny, and endlessly kind. She loved hard, danced freely, cried deeply, and made everyone she met feel like they mattered. She left half-drunk coffee cups in every room and scented the air with coconut and care. She kissed the spoon before stirring your coffee, so it was “made with love.” She showed up; fully, ferociously, for everyone.

She made things: jewelry, candles, playlists.
She gave things: time, presence, space.
She carried more than she ever should have had to, and still gave everything she had.

She wrote music. She held people. She made you feel safe.

And she tried. Again and again. Until she couldn’t.

Kahlia died by suicide on April 27th, 2024. She was 24.
My world stopped, but the world kept spinning. This space: this book, this offering; is for her. In honour of her, because love doesn’t end when a person dies. If anything, it roars louder.

Kahlia isn’t here in body.
But she’s here in every word.
In every offering.
In every hand we hold through this space.

This isn’t just for her.
It’s with her.