Losing my grandpa this year to suicide is something I’m still trying to understand. Grieving his death feels different. It’s confusing. Sometimes I feel so angry, other times I’m met with guilt. One of the hardest parts of losing my grandpa is accepting that love alone isn’t enough to save someone’s this changed how I see the people around me. I’m more aware of the people around me and what they could be carrying. I know how important it is to check in on others and create a space for people to safely talk about mental health. I would love to say that this loss has made me grow, but it’s hard to act like this loss has been anything other than devastating. I have to move forward everyday with new questions and no answers. Mixed in with my fond memories of my grandpa is the anger. This experience has shaped me into someone who values connection deeply. While this loss will always be a part of my story, it also has made my desire to be there for others all the more stronger. Every day I live a life trying to honor my grandpa and the lessons that his life left me.

I grew up in a single-mother household, and from a young age I learned what it meant to be independent and resourceful. My mom was constantly working toward building a better future for us, and a big part of my childhood was watching her push through challenges with determination and strength. Because of that, our home was very much a DIY environment. We figured things out as we went, learned to adapt quickly, and made things work even when it wasn’t easy. One memory that stands out to me is how, when I was younger, I would go to my neighbor’s house every morning to sleep before school so my mom could make it to nursing school in Detroit. At the time, it felt like just part of my routine, like something normal I didn’t question. But looking back now, I realize how much sacrifice that really involved. It meant early mornings, constant movement, and adjusting to different spaces just so she could keep working toward a better life for us. It also meant learning, even as a kid, that love sometimes looks like sacrifice and quiet effort in the background. Growing up this way made me very self-sufficient. I learned how to take care of myself, how to solve problems on my own, and how to stay calm when things didn’t go according to plan. I don’t rely on others to figure things out for me because I was raised in an environment where adapting was necessary. That independence has carried into every part of my life, from school to leadership roles, and even how I handle stress. At the same time, my relationship with my mom has always been incredibly close. I tell her everything. She is the person I go to for advice, comfort, and honesty, and that open communication has always been a constant in my life. Even when things are messy or overwhelming, she is my safe place to land. Growing up watching her carry so much while still showing up for me taught me what real strength looks like, not perfection, but persistence. Overall, being raised in a single-mother, DIY household shaped me into someone who is resilient, independent, and grounded. It taught me how to take care of myself while also valuing deep connection, especially with my mom, who continues to be my biggest support and role model in everything I do to this day.

If I could start a business with my sister Riley, it would be an animal rescue. It would be a place where abandoned or injured animals could be taken in, cared for, and given a second chance, while also offering a space where people could find comfort and connection through them. Riley loved animals and had a gentle, patient way of caring for things that needed extra attention. I can picture her being the kind of person who would sit quietly with a scared dog until it felt safe, or celebrate the smallest step forward in an animal’s recovery. She had a softness that made people and animals feel at ease, and I think she would have naturally fit into rescue work. The center wouldn’t just be about saving animals, but about healing in both directions. People who are struggling with grief, stress, or trauma could come spend time there, volunteer, or simply be around the animals. There would be calm spaces, walking trails, and areas where people could slow down and breathe. I would want it to feel peaceful and welcoming, and I know Riley would be the heart of that environment. She would be the one making people smile, remembering small details about them, and helping them feel included without even trying. For me, this business would be a way to keep her close. After losing Riley, I’ve learned how powerful care and connection can be, even in small moments. This space would reflect who she was kind, gentle, and full of love for anything that needed a second chance and allow her memory to continue helping others heal.

When I lost my sister Riley, everything changed. She was twelve years old and I was ten when a four-wheeler accident took her from us. Both of my sisters, Riley and Peyton, had been riding alone without helmets when they crashed into a tree. Peyton survived but was left with severe injuries. Riley was declared brain dead, and we had to make the unimaginable decision to take her off life support. When all of this happened, I spent a week at my grandparents’ house to try to process my grief. It was my first real experience with death, and I didn’t understand what was happening or how to respond to it. I was a kid, but everything around me felt heavier than I could explain. It felt like I was being asked to understand something that didn’t make sense, no matter how many times I replayed it in my head. That week is still something I remember clearly because it was the first time I realized life could change instantly and permanently. Grief didn’t come all at once. While mourning Riley, we were also in the process of helping Peyton recover through surgeries, physical therapy, and trauma recovery. Our family was dealing with both loss and survival at the same time, which made everything feel overwhelming and confusing. I had to learn how to comfort others while also trying to understand my own sadness. I watched the adults around me struggle too, trying to stay strong while going through the same pain in their own way. Riley was an amazing sister. I still think about all of the small but meaningful moments we shared. Going to her Science Olympiad competitions, taking Polaroid pictures together, and just spending time with her in everyday life. One of my favorite memories is when we made pancakes together. We were singing along to a song on the radio and laughing, not paying attention, and she accidentally set the hot pan down on the wooden table. Now, every time I see the burn mark, I am reminded of her and that moment of joy we shared without even realizing how special it was. I stay in touch with her best friends to keep her memory alive, and we often share stories about her and the little things we miss. Losing a sibling is not something I’ve moved on from. It is something I continue to carry with me every day. Riley shaped so much of who I am, even in the years she hasn’t been here. I carry her in the way I love people, the way I remember moments, and the way I try to appreciate time more deeply. She is still a part of my life in everything I do.

Losing my grandpa this year to suicide is something I am still trying to understand. Grieving his death feels unlike anything I have experienced before. It is not a straightforward sadness, it is complicated, heavy, and often confusing in a way that doesn’t resolve itself with time. Some days I feel overwhelming anger, other days I feel guilt I struggle to explain, and often those emotions shift without warning. It has made grief feel less like a single emotion and more like something I have to learn to carry. One of the hardest parts has been accepting that love alone is not always enough to save someone. That realization has deeply changed the way I see people and the world around me. I find myself more aware that others may be struggling in silence, even when they appear fine on the outside. Because of that, I have come to understand how important it is to check in on people in meaningful ways, to listen without immediately trying to fix things, and to create space where mental health can be talked about honestly and without shame. I would love to say that this loss has made me stronger in a clear or inspiring way, but the truth is that it has been devastating. I still move forward each day carrying more questions than answers. There are moments when I hold onto memories of my grandpa and feel warmth and gratitude for the time I had with him. In other moments, those same memories bring pain, anger, and confusion about why things unfolded the way they did. Learning to live with those emotions existing at the same time has been one of the most difficult parts of my grief. Even in the midst of that pain, this experience has shaped me into someone who values connection more deeply. It has made me more intentional about showing up for the people in my life and more empathetic toward struggles I may not fully understand. I have learned that resilience does not mean being unaffected by loss, it means continuing forward even when healing is not linear and clarity does not come easily. While this loss will always be a part of my story, it has strengthened my desire to be present for others in meaningful ways. Every day, I try to live in a way that honors my grandpa, carries forward the love I have for him, and reflects the lessons his life and passing have left me with.

When I lost my sister Riley, everything changed. She was twelve years old and I was ten when a four wheeler accident took her from us. Both of my sisters Riley and Peyton had been riding four wheelers alone without helmets when they crashed into a tree. Peyton survived but was left with severe injuries. Riley was declared brain dead, leaving us to make the decision to take her off of life support. When all of this happened, I spent a week at my grandparents house to process my grief. It was my first real experience with death and I didn’t know what was going on. I was a kid, but everything felt heavier. I was forced to understand something that just didn’t make sense. Grief didn’t come all at once. While mourning Riley, we were also in the process of helping Peyton fight through surgeries, physical therapy, and trauma. I felt like overnight I had to learn how to both try to comfort others and grieve at the same time. I watched adults around me struggle with the same thing. Riley was an amazing sister. I still think about all of my small but memorable moments with her. Going to her Science Olympiad competitions, taking Polaroid pictures with her. My favorite memory with my sister was this time we made pancakes together. We were singing along to a song on the radio and we weren’t paying attention, she accidentally set the hot pan down onto the wooden table. Every time I see the burn mark I get to remember that moment. I stay in touch with her best friends to keep her memories alive. Losing a sibling isn’t something I've moved on from, I still carry her with me. I carry Riley in everything I do.