When Grief Speaks Loud: A UniqMom Grief

Memorial Day. One of those early summer days when the sun feels a little warmer, the air a little softer. For many, it’s a day of remembering, of gratitude. But for me, it became the day my world changed forever.

My 14-year-old daughter, Jahmya, had a smile that could light up even the darkest room. That morning, Jahmya was in a deep, peaceful sleep. Her care team gently prepared her to go outside for some fresh air, something she had been looking forward to. Then the doctor walked in and softly said, “Jahmya, we’re getting ready to take you out!”

To our amazement, she slowly opened her eyes, and that radiant, unforgettable smile spread across her face. Even though she was intubated, she was present! So fully alive in that moment. I leaned in close, watching her lips move carefully, and as clear and sweet as ever, she mouthed through the tubes,

“Apple juice! Ice?!”

I read her lips, smiled through held back tears, and knew: she was ready. Ready to feel the sun on her skin. Ready to go home. That moment was her light shining one more time for us. For me.

What I didn’t know was that it would be the last time I’d see that smile in this life.

The day began beautifully. It ended peacefully. And the next morning, in the stillness before sunrise, my baby girl transitioned.

May 27, 2025, became the worst day of my life.

Her heart waited for me. She waited for me. I climbed onto the gurney beside her and whispered, “Mya, Mommy loves you soooo much.” I kissed her warm forehead. She took one final, deep breath then the monitors blared, and I looked up to see the screen go flat. Zeroes. My heart shattered into a million pieces in that moment.

Grief came crashing in, not just as sadness, but as a physical pain that seized my body. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was survive that moment, raw and broken.

In the days and weeks that followed, people constantly tell me I was “so strong.” That I was “holding it together so well.” But what they don’t see is the storm raging inside me. Every compliment about my strength feels like a stone in my chest. Because I am not strong! I am drowning in silence, exhaustion, heartbreak, and longing. Their words don’t comfort me. They deepened the ache.

Grief, Love, and the Balance Between

Grief isn’t linear. It isn’t neat. It doesn’t show up on a schedule or wrap itself up when you think it should. It’s messy, unpredictable, and deeply human. It sneaks up on you in the grocery store aisle, in the quiet of the night, in laughter that feels out of place.

But grief is also sacred. It’s the price we pay for deep love.

Through Uniqly Made Foundation, I’m finding  a way to carry Jahmya’s legacy. Not by moving on, but by moving forward with her. This isn’t about finding purpose in pain. It’s about turning the boundless love I still feel for her into something living, something that touches others. Something that says, she’s still here. Her love is still here.

Uniqly Made is my offering. It’s my heartbeat. It’s a way to transform sorrow into service, heartbreak into hope.

Your Grief Is Welcome Here

Whether your grief is loud or quiet, recent or long-held, you belong here. Whether you heal by speaking, writing, walking, creating, or simply being, your journey matters. There’s no right way to grieve, clearly only your way.

For some, healing means sitting still. For me, it’s action. For many of us, it’s both.

What unites us is the truth that we have loved deeply and that love hasn’t disappeared. It has transformed.

This space, this blog, this community is your invitation to heal, to speak, to rest, and to be seen.

An Invitation to Heal Together

This isn’t just a blog about grief. It’s a blog about relentless love. About the kind of love that doesn’t die when someone does. About a mother’s love that continues to stretch across heaven and earth.

So take a breath. Let your shoulders drop.

You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.

Let’s walk this path together. Through the valleys. Through the silence. Through the nights when the pain feels unbearable and the mornings that bring unexpected grace.

Because even when grief speaks loud,

love speaks louder.