One of the hardest parts of grief isn’t just losing someone.
It’s worrying that, little by little, you’ll lose pieces of them too.
People often say, “You’ll always have your memories.”
I know they mean well.
But memories change. They soften around the edges. Details become harder to reach. And that’s one of the things that scares me most.
I’m always afraid I’m forgetting something about Jesse.
His laugh.
His voice.
The little things that made him… him.
I have videos of him. I can hear his voice whenever I want.
But sometimes it’s too painful to press play.
It’s a strange feeling. You desperately want to hear their voice again, but at the same time, you’re terrified of how much you’ll miss them once the video ends.
So sometimes the videos stay unopened.
Not because I don’t want to remember.
Because remembering hurts.
As more time passes, I find myself wondering if I’m remembering things exactly as they happened.
Did he really laugh like that?
Did he always say that phrase?
Would I recognize his voice immediately if I heard it unexpectedly?
Those questions break my heart.
Becoming a mom has made those fears even bigger.
April is just over two.
Clyde is still just a tiny baby.
They’ll never get to know their Uncle Jesse the way I did.
I tell them stories about him all the time.
I want them to know he wasn’t just my brother.
He was funny.
He was easygoing.
He was the kind of person who could make almost any situation feel lighter.
He had an energy that no picture could ever capture.
People always say a photo is worth a thousand words.
Maybe.
But a photo can’t show someone’s presence.
It can’t show the way they made a room feel.
It can’t recreate the sound of a genuine laugh or the comfort of sitting beside someone you love.
Sometimes I worry that all the videos and pictures in the world still won’t be enough.
How do you explain a person to children who never got the chance to meet them?
How do you put someone’s spirit into words?
I don’t know if it’s possible.
One thing I’ve worried about since Jesse died at just nineteen is that people will only remember him as “the kid who died.”
Not the brother I grew up with.
Not the son my mom adored.
Not the friend who made people laugh.
Just the tragedy.
That’s one of the biggest reasons Jesse’s Justice means so much to me.
Every family we support.
Every school we speak at.
Every conversation about Jesse’s Law.
Every life we might help change.
It reminds people that Jesse lived.
His story didn’t end with the worst day of our lives.
His life mattered before that day, and it continues to matter because of what we’re doing now.
Sometimes a memory comes back when I least expect it.
A television show.
A place we’ve been.
Suddenly I’m right back in that moment.
For a second, it doesn’t feel like years have passed.
It feels like he’s still here.
If I could hold onto one memory forever, it wouldn’t be some huge milestone.
It would be sitting on the beach with Jesse, watching the sunrise or the sunset.
No rush.
No plans.
Just existing together.
Looking back now, I realize those ordinary moments become the extraordinary ones after someone is gone.
If you’re grieving someone today and you’re scared that time is stealing little pieces of them, I want you to know you’re not alone.
Tell their stories.
Say their name.
Share the memories, even if they make you cry.
Because every time we tell their story, we keep a piece of them alive.
Maybe that’s how we fight back against time.
Not by remembering every single detail perfectly.
But by making sure the people we love continue to leave their mark on this world.
Jesse certainly has.
And as long as I have breath in my lungs, I’ll keep making sure people know that he was so much more than the way he died.
From Jesse’s Justice
No one should have to walk through grief alone.
Through free grief resources, advocacy, education, and community support, we strive to honor Jesse’s life by helping others navigate theirs.
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🖤♥️ For Jesse. For Justice.