Six Years Later…

It's amazing how time can move so quickly, yet stand completely still. People often say, "Time heals all wounds." I've learned that isn't entirely true. Time doesn't erase love. It doesn't erase memories. It doesn't erase the longing to hear one more laugh, receive one more hug, or have one more ordinary conversation.

What time does do is teach you how to carry your grief.

It becomes a quieter companion. It no longer announces itself every minute of every day, but it never truly leaves. Sometimes it arrives in the most unexpected moment - a song, a familiar perfume, a birthday, a family gathering, or watching a young woman about Lilly's age living the life I had imagined for her.

Six years later, I still miss you every single day.

This year has been different. Over the past few weeks I've been fortunate enough to travel through Europe - walking ancient streets, standing in cathedrals built hundreds of years ago, looking across mountain ranges that were once hidden beneath the sea, watching sunrises and sunsets over lakes that have existed long before any of us and will remain long after we're gone.

Travel has a funny way of putting life into perspective.

You realize how incredibly small we are. How temporary everything is. Empires rise and fall. Cities are built and rebuilt. Volcanoes reshape landscapes.

The ocean patiently carves away mountains. Yet somehow we spend so much of our lives worrying about emails, deadlines, money, appearances, and things that won't matter a year from now.

I've caught myself sitting in places that people dream their whole lives of seeing, only to realize the greatest gift wasn't the destination. It was simply being alive long enough to experience it. And then my thoughts always come back to you. I wonder what places you would have loved.

Would you have stood in awe of the Dolomites?

Would you have loved the little streets of Italy?

Would you have taken hundreds of photos?

Would we have laughed over getting lost together?

Those thoughts never leave me.

A dear friend shared a simple mantra with me:

"This too shall pass."

Words I’ve heard before. Words I’ve struggled with…

How could something as devastating as losing a child ever "pass"? I didn't want the pain to pass because it somehow felt connected to you. I worried that if life became easier, it meant I was forgetting. Now six years later, I understand those words differently.

"This too will pass" doesn't mean grief disappears. It means seasons change. The unbearable days become survivable. The tears become mixed with smiles.

The memories hurt a little less and comfort a little more. The storms don't last forever. Neither do the perfect days. Everything in life is temporary. The difficult moments pass. The beautiful moments pass.

Success passes. Failure passes. Youth passes.

Even life itself passes. And perhaps that's exactly why each moment matters so much.

Losing Lilly has changed the way I look at everything.

It has made me question things I once took for granted.

What is the purpose of life?

Why are some people given decades while others leave far too soon?

Why does suffering exist?

Why do we spend so much energy planning for tomorrow when none of us are promised today?

I don't pretend to know the answers.

Maybe no one does.

But I've come to believe that the purpose of life isn't found in titles, accomplishments, or possessions.

It's found in how we love.

It's found in the people we encourage.

The forgiveness we choose.

The kindness we extend when no one is watching.

The memories we create.

The lives we touch.

Because when everything else fades, love remains.

Travel has also reminded me to stop waiting.

How often do we postpone joy?

"We'll take the trip next year."

"We'll spend more time together when work slows down."

"We'll make that phone call tomorrow."

"We'll tell them we love them later."

The truth is...

Later is never guaranteed.

If losing Lilly taught me anything, it is this:

Don't wait.

Take the trip.

Watch the sunrise. Watch the sunset.

Eat dessert.

Forgive.

Spend time with your children.

Tell your friends you love them.

Hold someone's hand.

Take the photo.

Say yes more often.

Because the ordinary moments become extraordinary memories far sooner than we realize.

People often tell me how strong I am. The truth is, I don't always feel strong. Some days I still feel like a mother missing her daughter. Some days I still wonder what life would look like if things had been different. Would she have been married? Would she have had children? What career would she have chosen? What dreams would she have fulfilled?

Those questions will never have answers.

And that's okay.

I've learned that healing isn't about finding answers.

It's about learning to live with the questions.

Lilly, I hope you somehow know that not a single day passes without you being loved. You continue to shape who I am. You remind me to be kinder.

To be more patient. To complain less. To appreciate more. To stop rushing through life. To notice sunsets.

To be grateful for simple conversation. To hug the people I love a little longer. You have taught me more in your absence than I could have imagined.

Six years have passed.

The world has kept moving.

Seasons have changed.

Countries have been explored.

New memories have been made.

Yet one thing has never changed.

You remain part of every chapter of my life.

You travel with me in every sunrise.

You are in every prayer.

You are in every act of kindness I choose.

You are in every reminder to slow down and appreciate this beautiful, fragile gift called life.

If there is one lesson these past six years have given me, it is this: Life is breathtakingly beautiful because it is breathtakingly fragile. Nothing is promised. Nothing is permanent. So choose gratitude over resentment. Presence over distracion. Love over pride. Faith over fear. And when life feels overwhelming - as it inevitably will - remember these words:

This too shall pass.

The pain shall pass.

The fear shall pass.

The uncertainty shall pass.

But love...

Love never passes.

It lives on in every memory, every smile, every lesson, and every life we touch. I miss you today just as much as I did six years ago. And I always will.

Until we meet again, my LillyLum 💕