“Those we love never truly leave us. There are things that death cannot touch.” – J.K. Rowling
A Life Gone Too Soon
Tomorrow marks the first year since my nephew Jaret left this world and somehow, it still doesn’t feel real. He was only 24, just beginning his life, too young, too full of light, too deeply loved to be gone. The world keeps turning, but our hearts remain shattered in a way that words rarely touch. I never imagined I’d carry a grief this heavy. A grief that doesn’t ease with time, only grows more familiar. Losing him created a hole in our family, a silence in the middle of conversations, a missing smile in every photo, a space at the table that will never be filled. His absence is constant, but so is his memory and we carry both, every single day.
Memories I’ll Hold Forever
I watched him grow up. I cherished every goofy laugh, every hug, every proud moment. He wasn’t just my nephew, he was like one of my own. He and my son, born just two months apart, were more than cousins; they were brothers in every way that mattered. I always imagined them growing old together, raising their families side by side sharing holidays, and swapping stories only they would understand.. But life had other plans, and now we’re left clinging to memories instead of building more of them.
“The pain of grief is just as much a part of life as the joy of love: it is perhaps the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – Dr. Colin Murray Parkes
A Mother’s Heartbreak
My little sister, his mom, has always been someone I’ve fiercely tried to protect. For as long as I can remember, I’ve done everything I could to shield her from pain, from sadness, from the shadows of our shared past. But this… this pain was too big, I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t save her from the unimaginable heartbreak of losing her child. And accepting tha and knowing I was powerless to protect her from the deepest grief a mother can endure truly has been one of the hardest truths I’ve ever had to live with.
Addiction’s Silent Grip
Jaret had dreams and they were big ones. He was happy, funny, and a little wild. He lived fast and, tragically, that’s what took him. Addiction stole him from us, just as it has taken so many others.
The pain of losing someone to addiction is unlike any other. It’s layered and messy, a grief that carries so many emotions all at once. There’s the deep sorrow of the loss itself, but it’s tangled with guilt, anger, helplessness, and endless questions that may never have answers. You replay conversations, moments, missed signs, still wondering if you could’ve done more, said something different, loved them harder. And then comes the anger mostly at the addiction, at the disease that stole them and sometimes even at them for slipping away.
It’s a quiet, internal battle that doesn’t go away. Even on days when you manage to smile or breathe a little easier, the ache is still there, humming beneath the surface. Because this kind of loss doesn’t just break your heart, it also breaks your sense of understanding. It makes you wrestle with “why” in ways that leave you emotionally exhausted.
But in the midst of it all, there’s love. A love that never left, no matter how dark things got. A love that continues, even in their absence. That’s what makes the grief so heavy. Because despite everything… they mattered. And they always will.
“Addiction is a family disease. One person may use, but the whole family suffers.” – Unknown
Breaking Generational Chains
Addiction has haunted my life from the very beginning. It wasn’t just something we witnessed it was the backdrop of our childhood, shaping the way we saw love, safety, and stability. My sisters and I grew up in the wreckage of our biological parents’ choices, forced to navigate chaos before we even understood what normal was. We knew the damage it caused, we felt it in the silence, the instability, the ache of wanting more than what we were given. The anger that grew within me was enormous. Thinking my biological mother chose addiction before her daughters and her chose led to our adoption.
So we made a vow. It was spoken and unspoken and we said that we would break the cycle. That our children would never have to feel the emptiness we carried. We would be better, we would do better. We promised ourselves we would build lives that looked nothing like the ones we came from and for a while, it felt like we were doing just that.
But addiction is ruthless, it’s generational, it hides in the shadows and resurfaces in the people we love most and even when you do everything in your power to change the story you can still find yourself facing the same heartbreak you swore you’d escape. That’s what makes this loss so painful. We didn’t just lose Jaret. We lost part of the future we were trying to rewrite.
Anchored in Faith
Even in this storm, I still find my anchor in God. I don’t understand this pain, but I trust Him. Somehow, someway, I know He will carry us through.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” – Psalm 46:1
Until We Meet Again
Jaret, you will always be a part of me.
I’ll love you forever.
I’ll miss you forever.
You were one of the brightest lights in our lives, and your memory will forever live close to my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, your smile, your laugh, the way you lit up every room you walked into. Your absence is felt in every moment we wish you were here, but your presence is still with us and in the stories we tell, the pictures we hold close, and the love that never left. You may be gone from this world, but you will never be gone from us.
I carry you with me, always.
“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose, for all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” – Helen Keller
