People often believe that when there is finally justice, an arrest, a trial, a sentence, there will also be peace. That somehow, after all the waiting, something inside will settle. But in my clinical and advocacy experiences, this is rarely the case. In this, there is a truth we need to talk more about. A sentence can hold someone accountable. It can validate what happened. It can matter deeply. BUT it cannot bring your loved one back. It cannot undo the loss, the trauma, or the years spent waiting for answers. And when that long-awaited moment finally arrives, many are left feeling… not at peace, but overwhelmed, numb, or even empty. I am often asked why this is so complicated. Here is a thought: After years of bracing, we need to acknowledge that two things can and are true at once. We may feel: Relief and grief at the same time Anger that still lingers Numbness instead of closure (this is an illusion anyway) Guilt, especially knowing other families didn’t get justice None of this is wrong. It means your love is still here. It means the loss is still real. The idea of “closure” can feel comforting, but murder loss doesn’t work that way. You close a case, but not the life lost.  Instead, healing becomes about learning how to carry both the love and the loss, without expecting one moment, even justice, to resolve it all. Justice matters. It truly does. BUT it’s not a cure, and our healing was never meant to depend on it.

My son is a powerlifter. My daughter is a scientist. We travel around the country chasing their dreams. Without fail, precious, kindred souls are placed directly in our path. Conversations are started, common ground is established, then we realize another commonality: the murder of a loved one. Quietly, we find a place to sit and unpack and share our stories. Contact information is shared along with tears and hugs. We find comfort in total strangers who have experienced similar horrors and debilitating grief. There is zero coincidence in these meetings. It’s a feeling, intuition, vulnerability that pulls like a magnet. Every encounter brings peace and comfort. We call it ‘networking’. Some of these strangers have become ‘framily’ (friends who are family). We call and text one another on anniversaries and birthdays, and are present to listen when no one else truly understands the grief and pain. I am forever grateful. -Claire Cunningham

There are parts of grief we expect, at least as much as we can expect something so life-altering. But there are parts no one really talks about. The part I wasn’t prepared for is this: losing one parent, and then watching the other slowly decline as I continue to age. This year, my mom has had some physical issues and mental changes, too. It’s the subtle shifts. The moments where things feel different. The realizations that things are not what they once were. That kind of grief is layered. It’s not just about loss, it’s about anticipatory loss. It’s loving someone while also grieving what’s changing right in front of you. It’s holding memories of who they’ve been, while trying to stay present with who they are now.  And if I’m honest, it’s heavy. Yet there is gratitude because she is here while my dad is not. After all, underneath it all is this quiet awareness: as I get older, she is who we have left. That thought doesn’t always come loudly. Sometimes it just sits in the background. Other times, it hits all at once. If you’re walking through something similar, this kind of grief can feel isolating because it’s not always visible to others, and we don’t have to carry it alone.

Easter is a season that speaks of hope, renewal, and life after death. But for mothers who have lost a child to murder, these words can feel distant, almost impossible to reach. How can anything feel hopeful when your world has been shattered? For most, hope can feel like something meant for other people. And yet… even here, hope can still exist. Not the kind of hope that rushes healing or erases pain. Not the kind that asks you to “move on” or pretend everything is okay. But a quieter, deeper hope, the kind of hope that gently sits beside your grief and whispers, you are not alone. Grief after homicide is complex. It is the most complicated grief I have experienced and counseled others through. It carries layers of trauma , unanswered questions , and a deep sense of injustice . It is important we remember, as mothers, that your love didn’t end when your child’s life was taken. The love you feel is still alive, strong, present, DEEP , and aching . And that love is not something to be fixed. It is something to be honored (valued). Easter reminds us that even after the darkest day, something new can emerge. Not the same life. Not the same joy. But a different kind of living; a way of carrying both sorrow and meaning at the same time. Hope might look like: Getting out of bed on a day that feels heavy Saying your child’s name out loud Allowing yourself to feel, even when it hurts Connecting with another mom who understands (community) Hope is not loud. It doesn’t force itself. It often shows up quietly, in small moments that remind you that your story is still unfolding. As we know, holidays can amplify absence . They can highlight the empty chair, the missing voice, the life that should still be here. And also, with allowance, if we look, we may be able to see even the smallest glimpse of light. Because hope, like Easter, doesn’t deny the pain of what came before. It simply reminds us that pain is not the end of the story. You are carrying the unimaginable.  Carry it with HOPE AND LOVE.

I was scrolling on social media recently and came across a deeply emotional video. Like so many others, this man lost his sister on 9/11, and the pain is still very real for him. In the video, he stepped into a phone booth and was invited to leave her a voicemail. It struck me how powerful it is to speak to our loved ones, even after they’re gone. I truly believe that writing to them or talking to them is one of the most meaningful ways we can move through grief. If you’ve ever worked with me, or even just met me, you know this is at the heart of how I approach counseling: we go toward the emotion, toward the healing. I decided to write my own “voicemail" below, and I want to encourage you to try it too. It’s private, it’s powerful, it’s hard, and above all, it’s loving. Grief is love. And continuing to include our loved ones in that love is one of the most beautiful things we can do. It’s all for them. 🤍 Hey Dad, It's been 17 years since I ever called you, heard your voice, your laugh, or touched you. You were always a part of my days. My routine was changed forever. I often think of you. You have a granddaughter now. Yep, Paul reproduced. She is hilarious and beautiful. She's almost 15. So much has happened since you have been gone. Our family was never the same, and we all recovered differently. I went back to school (again) and I also help people for a living now. Who knew lol. I remember always wondering who I would be. One thing you always taught us was to work hard, and structure is important. Dad, not a day goes by that I don't wish you were here. We could watch movies, go to markets, and I miss you telling me all you got at Walmart. You were such a significant part of our lives that it feels like a distant memory now. I wish I could remember parts of you that are now gone. I know you more now, though. I learned so much about you after your death. I am thankful, because I love you more because of it all. I will always live to honor your life, Dad. You deserve to be remembered with LOVE and not violence. I choose your life and legacy over whatever happened on that terrible night. I love you, and I miss you every moment.  Love always, your little Coos-Coos princess.

Two decades have passed since February 25, 2006. So Luc, yet so little has transpired since that dreadful day. Time has slowed, yet time has sped by. I wanted everyone in the world to search for Toby’s murderer. My expectations were such that I assumed everyone was as highly motivated and ready to fight with the same vigor and passion that fueled my soul. The police didn’t seem to be advocating for Toby. The media slowly lost interest. Toby’s story faded to background. I felt defeated and crushed by the ominous weight of ‘fighting’ alone. Until I was introduced to an incredible group of survivors and advocates who wanted to walk with me. They lifted me upon their shoulders giving me the strength, courage, and platform to share Toby’s story far and wide. These earth angels have advocated for our family in every way possible. These advocates have held my hand and navigated the maze of media campaigns, interviews, online vigils, posters, podcasts, and conventions. I am forever grateful for their compassion, integrity, wisdom, creativity, and insight. They have kept Toby’s story alive. My heart is full. These advocates continue to show up and support our family in this relentless fight for justice. I am eternally grateful for their grit, tenacity, and perseverance. -Claire Cunningham

"It is easier to bury something than it is to dig it up." This was my thought as I watched a hole be dug for my precious Sunni girl. Today, we buried my beautiful cat unexpectedly. As I watched the hole in the ground be prepared for her, the amount of work it took to dig up the hardened ground was rough. Then, when she was placed in the hole, packing in the dirt on her was easier, less strenuous, and faster. We always take this route with pain, I think. Right? Digging into grief is hard work. It requires effort, patience, and a willingness to face the hardened places in our hearts. It is uncomfortable, messy, and slow. But covering it up is easy. We can pack the dirt down quickly, stay busy, distract ourselves, tell ourselves we are fine, and move on before our hearts are ready. Yet what’s buried too quickly doesn’t disappear; it just waits underneath the surface. Healing asks something different of us. It may ask us to do the harder work first, to sit with the loss, to honor the love that was there, and to let our hearts soften instead of harden. Grief is proof that love existed. And love, even when it hurts, is still something sacred. So if your heart feels like hard ground today, take your time. Healing doesn’t rush. And neither does love.

I am very good at being independent. I pay the bills. I show up to the meetings. I hold the house together with calendars and grit and caffeine and sheer willpower. I am the strong one. The capable one. The one who “has it handled.” Everything is good. Everything is okay. Until it’s not. Until it’s 2:17 a.m. and the full moon is lighting up the room like a spotlight and my toddler throws up in my bed. Not on the floor. Not in the bathroom. In my bed. And suddenly the capable woman disappears and I am just a tired mother in the dark with no clean towels. No backup plan. No extra set of hands. Just the smell of sickness, a crying baby, and that sharp stab of panic when you realize you are the only adult in the room. I whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like I know what I’m doing. I strip the sheets. I wipe the little face. I dig through the house praying something — anything — is clean enough to use. And in the middle of the night, I do something I hate doing. I beg for help. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Desperately. “Please, God. Please let this pass. Please let them be okay. Please help me.” Because when you are the strong one, begging feels like failure. But sometimes independence is just isolation wearing a superhero cape. And then my son presses so close I can’t move. His fever-warm body curls into my side like he’s trying to climb back inside me. He needs me. He needs my steady breathing. My hands in his hair. My whispered reassurances. And I give it. Even though my heart hurts. Even though I’m exhausted. Even though I feel like I am five seconds from falling apart. He needs to be held. And here is the part no one talks about: While I am holding my children, I am longing to be held by my mother. I want her hands. Her voice in the dark. Her “I’ve got you.” But she isn’t coming. She will never come again. And grief doesn’t politely step aside just because your kids are throwing up. Grief sits on the edge of the bed with you. It watches you, mother without a blueprint. It watches you try to give comfort you were never fully shown. It watches you become the soft place to land when you still feel like you’re falling. There is a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from realizing you are now the oldest branch in your direction of the family tree. There is no one above you to call in the middle of the night and say, “What do I do?” There is no one coming to take over. You are the mother. Even when you still feel like someone’s daughter. Especially when you still feel like someone’s daughter. And this is the cruel math of grief: You have to give the love you miss. You have to become the comfort you crave. You have to create safety you never fully felt. And you have to do it while you are tired. While you are unsure. While you are still healing. You have to make something you have no idea how to make. Security. Warmth. Home. I don’t always know how. Sometimes I just stay still and let my sick child breathe against my chest. Sometimes I hum something soft. Sometimes I whisper, “Mama’s here,” and pretend I believe that is enough. Maybe that’s what breaking cycles looks like. Not perfection. Presence. Maybe healing isn’t having all the answers. Maybe it’s staying in the bed when it’s messy and uncomfortable and saying, “You’re safe,” even when you don’t feel safe yourself. Grief changes you. It makes you grow up overnight. It makes you strong in ways you never asked for. It forces you to become both the parent and the child in your own body. And sometimes strength looks like scrubbing sheets at 3 a.m. Sometimes strength looks like crying quietly in the bathroom so your kids don’t see. Sometimes strength looks like admitting: I don’t want to be this independent. I want someone to hold me too. But since she isn’t here, I will do what mothers have always done. I will gather my babies close. I will give the love I never got in the ways I can. I will keep showing up. Even under a full moon. Even with no clean towels. Even with grief sitting beside me in the dark. Because love, even when imperfect, is still love. And maybe that is enough. -Casie Ellison

I always wanted to belong. To be part of something. To be understood and heard, to be seen and loved . On February 25, 2006, I was inducted into such a group. My membership was not a choice that I made; instead, someone made it for me by killing my brother, Toby, and getting away with it. This membership felt like an ominous weight that suppressed any light from shining, allowing only darkness to drown and suppress. So, I ran. I hid. I numbed. I ignored…& ultimately drowned in the depths of despair, grief, isolation, and depression. The shards of my hardened, shattered heart were shredding and ripping me apart. Until I realized the wisdom and strength this niche group had to offer. These fellow survivors spoke a familiar, shared language that I understood. I was drawn to their powerful stories. These beautiful survivors leaned in and spoke truth and listened without pretending to have answers. I was blessed by their perseverance, faith, and willingness to step in when I simply couldn’t find my footing. My membership in this group of survivors has lasted 7,305 days or 20 years. Together we mourn, share stories, pray, gather, love, and encourage. Twenty years have allowed for personal growth and advocacy in the emptiness created when Toby was murdered. This growth was made possible because of God’s redemption power , His grace and love, and the strength of fellow survivors. Twenty more years will pass in a blink, but my roots have grown deeper and stronger, sustaining my soul. -Claire Cunningham, Survived by: Toby John Beaugh June 9, 1976- February 25, 2006