Three years later, I still talk to Jesse almost every day.
Not out loud.
Not in any formal way.
But in the little moments when something happens and my first instinct is still, “I need to tell Jesse about this.”
The strange thing about grief is that the relationship doesn’t end when the person dies.
The love remains.
The habit remains.
The desire to share life with them remains.
It’s often the smallest things that catch me off guard.
Recently, I saw that Netflix announced another season of Outer Banks.
Most people would scroll right past that news.
For me, it stopped me in my tracks.
When Season 3 was released in February 2023, just one month before Jesse died, he stayed up until midnight and watched the entire season as soon as it dropped.
He loved that show.
My immediate reaction when I saw the announcement was simple:
“I have to tell Jesse.”
Then reality settled in.
I can’t.
I haven’t even watched the newer seasons.
Not because it’s a bad show.
Not because I lost interest.
Because it feels wrong.
It’s hard to explain to people who haven’t experienced this kind of loss.
To everyone else, it’s just a television series.
To me, it represents a timeline Jesse should still be part of.
A reminder that the world keeps creating new chapters while his story was cut short.
Those moments happen more often than people realize.
A funny video.
A meme.
A random thought.
A family update.
A good day.
A bad day.
Something exciting happens and my brain still reaches for him before my heart remembers.
Even now, I sometimes scroll past his contact in my phone.
He’s still one of my emergency contacts.
I know I could remove it.
But I can’t.
Not because I think he’ll answer.
But because seeing his name there still brings me comfort.
The biggest things I wish I could tell him aren’t really about me.
They’re about the life he’s missed.
Four months after Jesse died, I became pregnant with my daughter, April.
Two years later, I became pregnant with my son, Clyde.
Weeks before he died, Jesse had told me how excited he was to become an uncle someday.
Not just any uncle.
“Uncle Jesse.”
Like Uncle Jesse from Full House.
He thought it was hilarious.
He was excited before the children even existed.
I think about that conversation often.
Because if Jesse could call me for five minutes right now, I know exactly what I’d spend those five minutes talking about.
I’d tell him about April.
I’d tell him about Clyde.
I’d tell him all the funny things they’ve done and all the ways they’ve grown.
I’d tell him how much they would have loved him.
And how much he would have loved them.
He would have been the fun uncle.
The one who showed up with too much energy, taught them things I didn’t approve of, and somehow became their favorite person anyway.
I think about what he would say if he could see Jesse’s Justice.
The scholarships.
The advocacy.
The softball tournament held in his memory.
I know he would have loved the tournament.
He would have been out there playing, laughing, competing, and soaking up every second of it.
And I think he would be proud of what we’ve built.
Not because any of us wanted this tragedy.
But because we’ve tried to create something meaningful from it.
Sometimes people assume grief is only about missing the past.
But I’ve learned it’s also about missing the future.
Missing the conversations that never happened.
The stories you never got to tell.
The milestones they never got to witness.
The roles they never got to fill.
The truth is, I still have things I want to tell Jesse every day.
I probably always will.
If I could send him one message and know he would receive it, it would be simple.
I love you and miss you so much.
I’ll always take care of Mom and Jeb.
I’ll never let your story, your name, or your legacy be forgotten.
Maybe that’s what grief really is.
Love with nowhere to go.
A lifetime of conversations that continue long after one person can no longer answer.
And so I keep telling him anyway.
In the funny videos.
In the memories.
In the stories I share with my children.
In the work we do through Jesse’s Justice.
Because some relationships don’t end when a life does.
Some simply change form.
And no matter how much time passes, Jesse will always be someone I wish I could call.
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.