Victory for Colin

Today is 8 months without our Colin. We woke to a heaviness and sorrow that is still incomprehensible. Trevor is struggling without his big brother while trying to navigate middle school and all that entails. He turned 13 earlier this month. Colin never got to see his little brother as a teenager.

We are all trying to carry on and live well without our hero, but some days are still just so hard. Colin, we love you forever, the time and distance only magnify that love. Watch out for your little bro ❤️

Today is exactly 6 months since we said goodbye to Colin on earth. It’s been the hardest stretch of time in my entire life. Finding the will to keep fighting to live well in Colin’s honor and for my three other sons is a daily struggle. But we are grateful for family and the memories we share. We’re grateful for 17 beautiful years with the best, wittiest, and strongest boy we’ve ever known. Colin continues to inspire us to live well and cherish what we have.

We are blessed to be able to get away for thanksgiving week in the mountains in Northern California. Dan, Trevor, Garrett, Christian and I have had a quiet, meaningful time away together, cooking, hiking, playing games, and sharing memories of our beloved Colin. We have spent thanksgivings here in years past with Colin, so the memories surround us here too. He is with us always, whether at home, school, work, or traveling. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

I laid on my son’s grave and cried today. Sobbed really. And so did his little brother Trevor.

We haven’t been there since the day he was laid to rest, the day before his memorial. We have a long history at the cemetery where Colin is buried and it’s very difficult to go there. But we received word that they’re planning to mount his headstone this week and I wanted to see his temporary marker in person. It was smaller than I thought it would be and so much more final. Trevor and I were undone. There’s so much life and meaning and loss in that small marker.

It seems as if the change in seasons and falling leaves have amplified our sorrow. We’ve been making progress in healing, but the seasons are a reminder of time thrusting us forward without our beloved Colin. I think about the hope we had at this time last year heading into the holidays. That hope has changed to an eternal meaning and we cling to the promise of being together again one day.

While Colin was in treatment, after each day in the clinic, he and I would get in the car and I’d tell him how proud I was of him and I’d say, “One day closer.” Colin always responded, “Yep!” Now, each day I wake up and I think, “One day closer.” Different meaning, but hope remains.