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

Sometimes the things we try hardest not to feel are the very things that quietly grow heavier inside us. I recently watched someone I love ignore real physical pain. What started as something small became something serious. What could have been treated early almost turned into something life-threatening. Not because she didn’t care about her health, but because facing pain is hard, and fear takes over. Admitting something is wrong is hard. Slowing down long enough to heal is hard. And grief can work the same way. As moms who carry loss, they know how tempting it is to push the pain aside just to survive the day. They stay busy. They take care of everyone else. They tell themselves that they will deal with it later. But unprocessed pain doesn’t disappear; it waits, it lingers. And most of the time, it grows heavier than it ever needed to be. Healing doesn’t ask us to relive everything all at once. It simply asks us to be honest about what hurts. Sometimes healing looks like: letting yourself cry instead of staying strong saying “this is hard” out loud asking for help instead of carrying it alone resting when your body and heart are tired allowing God to meet you in the places you try to avoid, seeking him Small moments of honesty in our open wounds protect us from deeper wounds later. And here is a hope: Nothing you are carrying is too broken, too late, or too far gone for God to meet you there. One honest step at a time… healing is still possible.

Today, grief isn’t poetic. It isn’t soft. It isn’t teaching me anything new. Today, grief is loud and inconvenient and rude as hell. It shows up uninvited while I’m trying to function, while I’m answering emails, making food, folding tiny socks, pretending I’m fine because the world doesn’t stop spinning just because my heart still aches. Grief doesn’t care about productivity. It doesn’t care about timelines. It doesn’t care that it’s been years and people think I should be “better by now.” Grief doesn’t move on. It moves with you. Some days it’s a quiet hum in the background. Other days, like today, it grabs me by the throat and reminds me of everything that never got finished. Conversations that never happened. Apologies that were never spoken. Futures that died right alongside the person I lost. And here’s the part no one likes to say out loud: Grief is exhausting. Not just emotionally, but physically. It lives in the body. It weighs down my chest. It fogs my brain. It steals my energy and then dares to make me feel guilty for being tired. I can love my life and still be wrecked by loss. Those things can coexist, even when people don’t understand how. Some days I don’t want advice. I don’t want silver linings. I don’t want “everything happens for a reason.” I want someone to say, “Yeah. This sucks. And it makes sense that you’re not okay today.” Because grief isn’t a straight line. It’s not stages. It’s not something you conquer or outgrow. It’s a relationship you learn to carry, sometimes gently, sometimes dragging it behind you like a weight you didn’t ask for. Today, I miss who I was before I learned this kind of pain. I miss the version of me that didn’t flinch at certain dates, songs, smells, or silence. I miss the innocence of believing loss was something that happened to other people. But here’s the truth I’m still standing in, even on days like this: Grief is proof of love. And love this deep doesn’t disappear just because someone is gone. So if today you’re barely holding it together, if you’re angry, numb, sad, resentful, jealous of people who don’t carry this kind of ache, you’re not broken. You’re grieving. And today, that’s enough. You don’t need to rise above it. You don’t need to be inspiring. You don’t need to explain yourself. You just need permission to feel what is real. So here it is: You’re allowed to hurt today. You’re allowed to rest today. You’re allowed to miss them loudly, or quietly, or messily. Grief isn’t gentle today. But neither am I. And somehow, I’m still here. -Casie Ellison

This past weekend in the group, many moms shared a deep and aching pain: the fear and grief around their child’s suffering, and the heartbreak of not being there when they died; the unknown. There is a particular kind of grief that comes from imagining what your child may have felt, wondering if they were scared, in pain, or alone. Alongside that often comes the quiet, haunting wish: If I had been there, maybe I could have saved them. The guilt. Even when we know, logically, that we could not have changed the outcome, the love of a mother still asks what if. If this is where your grief sits today, please know this: That wish does not mean you failed. It means you loved deeply, fiercely, and without limits. Grief can carry both truth and longing at the same time. The truth that you could not have prevented what happened, and the longing that says you would have done anything to protect your child from suffering. Today, coping doesn’t have to mean resolving those thoughts. It can look like: Letting the ache exist without arguing with it Offering yourself the same compassion you would give another grieving mother Releasing the burden of responsibility your heart still tries to carry Choosing rest over replaying the unanswerable questions You loved your child. You still do. And nothing about their suffering erases that love or your goodness as a mother. Stay the course.