Today, I received a letter from Her Royal Highness Catherine, The Princess of Wales.  Yes. That Catherine. I didn’t want to open it at first. The envelope was perfect—crisp edges, royal crest, my name printed on the front like something out of a dream. For a moment, I just stared at it, frozen. I wasn’t ready to open it because deep down, I knew I had no one to open it with. Let me rewind. A few months ago, I sent the Princess a copy of my mental health guidebook. I wrote her a letter, telling her how much I admired her work with early childhood development, how deeply I respected the compassion and conviction she brings to it. I told her she embodies everything I aspire to be—a mother, a woman, an advocate. And then I told her about my mom. How her murder shattered my world. How my grief gave birth to Change the Face of Depression. How, in her absence, I made a vow to make meaning out of pain. I never expected a reply. But today, one arrived. And when I read her letter—my hands trembling, heart wide open—I was flooded with something I didn’t expect: loneliness. Because I didn’t know who to call. There was no one I could think of to scream with, to cry with, to say “Can you believe this happened?” I wished on a million stars in that moment that my mother were here. Because she should’ve been the one I called first. But the cruel irony is—if she were here, I may have never written that letter at all. Grief is funny like that. It carves out holes and fills them with purpose. And now, because of her, the Princess of Wales knows my name. I’m going to frame that letter. Not because of the fame or the fairytale—but because of the truth it holds: even the most unimaginable pain can lead to the most unimaginable places. To anyone who’s lost someone, who’s felt invisible, who’s grieving with nowhere to put it—I see you. You are not small. You are not forgotten. Your story matters more than you know. It can go farther than you imagine. Mine made it to a palace. Thank you, Mom. You didn’t get to stay—but you planted something in me that never stopped growing. This one’s for you. - Casie Ellison, Founder of Change the Face of Depression (CTFOD)

I knew it was coming just as it does every year exactly 3 days after my husband’s birthday and the same day as my steel-magnolia-of-a- best-friend: Toby’s birthday. Previous years I celebrated Toby by jumping off 100 foot platforms, white water rafting class 4 rapids, completing ropes courses, and climbing sides of mountains. This year was different. Stillness and quiet blanketed my heart instead of wild adventures. I chose to be in the simple, everyday moments and to observe nature around me. I spent most of the day walking and talking to God and to Toby. Simple prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude for being given the gift of having an authentic, genuine brother. Prayers asking for Toby to be with me as I walked along. Feeling Toby’s presence is a daily occurrence, but on this birthday, he showed up in a big way. I love looking at the sky when I walk, completely in awe of God’s artwork. The sky was filled with wispy, feathery clouds. Then I saw it: a heart with a rainbow prism of colors floating on top. As I spotted the heart, two dragonflies flew right in front of my nose, then upward toward the center of the heart. I laughed out loud and exclaimed, “There you are!” The neighbor mowing his lawn kept his eye on me as I stood photographing the sky and roaring with laughter. It was a good day. Happy 49th birthday, Toby. I love you. -Claire Cunningham

Grief doesn’t come with a map or a deadline. It’s not something you “fix," it’s something you learn to carry. And if you’ve lost a child, you know this kind of grief rewrites everything. It shrinks our world completely. Some days feel unbearable. Other days might seem calm, but a scent, a photo, or a memory knocks the wind out of you. That’s normal. That’s grief. You are not broken, you are surviving something unimaginable. Here are a few gentle ways to care for yourself when the weight feels too heavy (back to the basics): 1. Breathe Through the Waves Grief often comes in waves and it’s okay to let them come. Take deep, slow breaths. Sometimes, all you need to do is breathe your way through the next moment. 2. Let It Out in a Safe Way You don’t have to hold it all in. Cry. Journal. Pray. Talk. Scream into a pillow. Let the pain move instead of staying stuck inside you. 3. Don’t Do It Alone Even if no one else “gets it,” find someone who will sit with you in your pain not fix it, just be with you. A support group, a trusted friend, or a grief counselor can make all the difference. 4. Make Space for Rest and Nourishment Grief is exhausting. Feed your body. Drink water. Sleep when you can. These aren’t small things they’re survival steps. 5. Create a Way to Honor Your Child Whether it’s lighting a candle, creating a memory box, planting a tree, or simply speaking their name honoring their life is part of healing. You don’t have to be strong every day. You don’t have to “move on.” You just have to keep showing up for yourself, one breath, one moment at a time. And on the days you can’t even do that, let me remind you: You are not alone. You are deeply loved. And your child will never be forgotten.

Expanding the Ball in the Box Theory to Make Room for Real Life

Tuesday, my daughter was followed by a suspicious car while taking our pup for an evening walk. My phone lit up with her text message, “Help! Weird car.” I sprinted out of the front door running toward where I thought she was, while my husband and son took off in the car. We were going to find her. Reunited in the kitchen we huddled and hugged. We stood in silence. We stood in the stillness praising God that she was in our arms. I hugged her so long and hard that she had to ask me to stop. Eventually, we were able to recount every minute detail. I turned into (an all too familiar) furiously focused momma bear detective determined to make sure this situation never happened again. Police were called, neighbors reviewed footage from outside cameras, posts were made on the neighborhood page, and pepper spray was purchased. …then I found myself huddled in my office (also known as the laundry room) weeping, drowning in fear, brimming with anger, and overwhelmed with anxiety. I was reliving the trauma that derailed my world 19 years ago. The anxiety, fear, rage, anger, disbelief, and questions relentlessly crashed into me. Listening as authorities told me there was nothing that could be done, yet reassuring my family that everything would be ok. I have disciplined myself to walk straight into each emotion in order to face each one. This will be a lifelong process: no cutting corners, no denial, no withdrawing . It must be done so that my heart continues to heal and my mind can rest. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham

Holy Moments. It is hard to imagine moments being holy in the pain a survivor of murder endures. The unknown of the who, why, and sometimes even how. I lived for years waiting to know how many times my dad was shot and where. So many questions prevented me from some of the holy moments around me. This past week, I graduated and my dad was not there, again. He missed another moment and another celebration. Every moment, I look up and I imagine him there. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders. I remember him here but that is fading every big moment at a time. Almost 17 years later, and he missed so many moments. God has been so good in the confusion, anger, and grief. I know he has been with me all along, and most of all he SEES the pain and has compassion. He does not leave us in the painful moments, he makes them HOLY . God is the ONLY thing that makes sense in the unknown and pain. A friend of mine got me a grief devotional and I wanted to share an excerpt with you all: I surely cannot change what happened. Or make sense of it. Or find some lesson in it. Or force the wheels of justice to spin to a satisfying end. And so I am left feeling vulnerable, and violated, and helpless. Be my refuge and my shelter, O Lord. Be my shield and defender. Hold me in this hour; hold me through this long, dark night when death’s shadow obstructs the light; cradle and carry me through this vale of sorrows; deliver me to higher ground. Let justice roll down, O Christ. Lift my head that I might see new evidence of your mercies in my life. I am too weak to walk this path alone, or to power through by force of my own will. I know, O God, that you would have me be completely honest in my words to you, voicing even these discouragements and volatile emotions. And you are more than able to bear their weight, never wavering in your constant love and care for me. For you, O God, watched one you love die violently— your only son. You sympathize with me. So I will freely speak to you the depths of what I feel.

“Happy Mother’s Day” is an expression that evokes tremendous emotions for those of us on this side of Heaven. I am spending Friday with my daughter foraging and hiking. Saturday, my son and I will support Charlotte FC as they play Nashville FC. Sunday we will share dinner with Mom. The sadness and immense sadness that I carry becomes crippling on holidays, so I prepare for these emotions by walking straight into the pain and anguish. I allow them to wash over me as I invite them to enter my heart. It’s a controlled burn. Every season without Toby is painful, but spring and early summer offer a tremendous sting anniversaries, birthdays, Mother’s Day. Mom is so very brave in the face of it all. I am so angry that she has to be, but I am proud of her for continuing to put one foot in front of the other at her own pace, in her own time. Mother’s Day isn’t exactly happy; it’s a swirling mix of happiness and sadness as we relive memories and imagine what life would be like if Toby was here. Either way, we are thankful for the brief time we had. Learning to live without Toby is an education none of us signed up for, but here we are figuring it out one step, one holiday, one tear at a time. -Claire Cunningham

This coming Mother's day was made for mothers' hearts, But yours is torn in shattered parts. Not by time, or fate, or chance— But by a cruel, unchosen hand. They speak of joy and breakfast trays, While you remember darker days. The sirens, silence, final breath— The sudden, senseless grip of death. Yet here you stand, still mother-strong, Still holding love where they belong. Their name lives on in how you speak, In every tear that stains your cheek. You are a mother—through the rage, The courtroom, grave, or empty page. Your child was stolen, not your bond— Their light in you still blazes on. So on this day, we honor you, The mothers bearing grief so true. Your strength, your love, your aching flame— We speak, we whisper, say their name. (unknown) To all the mothers who carry grief in their hearts, we see you. You are not alone. Your love is eternal, and so is the bond you hold with your child. Your loss is not forgotten. -Healing Roots Team

April 16, 2005. New Orleans in the springtime. Perfection: Crisp air, vibrant blue skies, and brilliant, intoxicating sunshine. It was your wedding day. Yesterday I opened up social media and let out a sudden breath of air as tears rolled down my face. There you were in your tuxedo smiling that smile that caused your cheek muscles to micro-tremor because you were ‘cheesin’ too hard’. Unexpectedly, I was whisked back in time filled with a flurry of memories that my heart and mind were not prepared to view. There you were, so very handsome toasting your gorgeous bride. There you were pounding and banging on the bingo drums right along with the band. There you were… The two of you would’ve celebrated your 20th wedding anniversary this year. You would’ve celebrated in stunning, elegant style. Initially, seeing your wedding photos left me stunned, but the initial shock quickly melted into storytelling and sharing memories of that glorious, perfect day 20 years ago. 20 years……ago. Happy Anniversary -Claire Cunningham