Sunlight poured over the stroller, warming the small blanket around the baby. Lila held it tightly as she pushed down the sidewalk, groceries stacked in the basket below. Each step felt heavy and deliberate, as if she was carrying more than just the infant. Her classes seemed distant now, with textbooks gathering dust on the shelf. She shifted the baby in her arms and looked up past a woman rushing toward a café. The woman wore a sharp blazer, and her heels clicked against the pavement. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and she held papers under one arm. Lila blinked. There was something in the woman’s eyes—determination? Familiarity? But the street separated them, and the moment faded away. The other Lila walked through the glass doors of the office she had dreamed about for years, a badge clipped neatly to her blazer. She took a deep breath, straightened her blazer, and watched a colleague wheel a cart of coffee past. In the reflection, she saw a mother with a stroller, moving slowly and focused. Their eyes met briefly in the mirrored glass, sparking a sense of recognition that she couldn’t quite place. Then it disappeared as they moved in their own worlds. One carried responsibility that shaped every second of her day, while the other carried ambition, deadlines, and the thrilling taste of independence. Back in the apartment, the first Lila sang softly to the baby, her lullabies clashing with her ringing phone. A notification for a missed lecture blinked on her cracked screen, but she left it alone. Her life felt full, overwhelming, beautiful, and exhausting. She rocked the stroller, thinking about a future she never asked for but had to navigate. She imagined tiny hands in hers during each heartbreak and joy. Meanwhile, the other Lila typed quickly at her computer, crafting a presentation that could help her land the promotion she had pursued for years. Her apartment smelled faintly of takeout. The walls were lined with motivational posters and unopened novels. She paused at the window, looking down at the street, and spotted the mother again, pushing the stroller, focused and alive to a different rhythm. She shook her head, laughing softly at how strange it was to feel both envy and admiration at the same time. Then she sat on the edge of the bathroom, legs pressed together, laughing nervously. Her friend leaned against the doorframe, holding the test. Lila flipped it over. Negative. A wave of relief washed over her, lifting the weight of possibility. The parallel lives of the two Lilas she’d glimpsed, each full of consequences, sacrifices, and choices, collapsed back into a single reality. She would live her life on her own terms, her dreams secure, her freedom hers alone. Her friend grinned. “Well,” she said, nudging Lila, “looks like the universe gave you the choice.” Lila exhaled, closed her eyes, and let out a small laugh. Choice, freedom, control. In that moment, she understood everything she needed to: life was complicated, but her path was her own.

The day I lost my brother Jaden was the day the world felt like it stopped spinning. Being the only girl among three brothers, Jaden had always been my protector, my guide, and my constant source of support. He was the backbone of our family, the one who kept us steady when life felt chaotic, and the one who celebrated my victories, big or small, as if they were his own. Losing him to gun violence left a hole that no one could fill, and for months, I didn’t know how to breathe, how to function, or how to even make sense of the world. In the immediate aftermath, I dissociated, feeling as though I was floating above my own life, watching it continue without him. Denial hit first how could this be real? I remember staring at his empty room, feeling the weight of his absence in every corner of our home. Sadness followed closely behind, a heavy, constant ache that made even basic tasks feel impossible. I was lost, unsure of who I was without him, and overwhelmed by the reality of my grief. It was in therapy, months after his passing, that I first learned about journaling as a tool to navigate my emotions. My therapist encouraged me to write daily not just about what I was feeling, but about the memories, regrets, and love that I carried for Jaden. At first, it felt strange, almost forced, but over time it became a lifeline. I could pour out my sadness, anger, and longing onto paper, giving form to emotions I had nowhere else to release. Journaling helped me reflect on the moments I shared with Jaden, on his encouragement, and on the dreams he had for me. It allowed me to process grief in a way that felt safe and personal. Later, I discovered meditation through a campus program at Towson University. Meditation taught me to sit with my thoughts, to breathe through the pain, and to reconnect with myself. It helped me recognize that my grief did not define me, that I could honor Jaden’s memory without being consumed by sadness. These practices became more than routines they became tools that helped me heal, rebuild my sense of self, and regain clarity in my life. I want to continue my education because it is part of the promise I made to Jaden in my heart: to strive for excellence, to pursue my goals, and to honor his belief in me. He was always my biggest cheerleader, pushing me to focus on school and reminding me that I was capable of more than I knew. Though he never witnessed my high school graduation or the start of my college journey, I carry his encouragement with me every day. The biggest influences in my life are Jaden and my family. Their love, guidance, and resilience have shown me that even in tragedy, strength can emerge. My family has been my foundation, teaching me that connection, support, and perseverance are essential to navigating life’s challenges. Through grief, therapy, journaling, and meditation, I have learned that healing is possible, that I am resilient, and that honoring those we have lost means living fully and purposefully. Jaden’s absence will always be felt, but his influence continues to guide me. Each step I take toward my education, each moment I center myself through meditation or reflection, I do with him in mind. He shaped me, inspired me, and gave me the tools to carry on and I will continue to honor his memory every day.