This blog is a space where I share my spirituality, the loss of my son, and the raw grief I live with as I find my path again.
Previous PageOne of the most amazing things I have witnessed since losing my son is the unwavering love from his friends.
When Tucker died, I thought I would lose everything connected to him. I thought the world he built - the laughter, the chaos of teenagers in my house, the friendships that filled every corner of his life - would slowly disappear. I thought his friends would be the ones who would - cut surprisingly it was not it was more adults. Friends. Family. People who once stood close slowly faded away. Some didn't know what to say. Some didn't know how to sit with grief this big. Others simply vanished, like my son's life was too uncomfortable to remember.
But his friends stayed. These young humans stayed, remained by my side, understood my grief and do not judge me for how I grieve
They were teenagers when Tucker died, and now are young adults, growing up. The friendships that were supposed to grow beside my son are now growing beside me instead. A bond that should have continued with him was forced to reroute through grief, and somehow it brought us together. Forever. 3 years, 5 months later and they are still here bedside me, no explanations, just pure understanding and love.
And the truth is - these young people understand my grief more than some adults ever have.
They knew Tucker. Not the version people politely remember after someone dies. They knew the real Tucker. His laugh. His sarcasm. His loyalty. The way he loved his friends fiercely and without hesitation.
And they love him just as fiercely still.
They honour him in the most Tucker ways possible - fireworks exploding into the sky for him, his favourite drink poured into shot glasses, one raised in his name and the rest poured out for the friend who should still be standing beside them.
They refuse to let him disappear.
Some of them have tattooed his name or symbols of him onto their bodies. Permanent. Ink that will live on their skin for the rest of their lives. In a world where people can walk away from grief, tattoos are different. You cannot erase them. You cannot pretend they didn't matter.
That is loyalty. That is love.
These young women and men - teenagers when their hearts were shattered too - have shown more courage, compassion, and loyalty than many grown adults ever could.
I honestly don't know if I would still know how to love this life without them. I don't know if they realize how important they are to me. How much I need them in my life.
They are not just my son's friends anymore. Somewhere along this painful road they became my friends. In many ways, they became my children too. Each one carries a piece of Tucker with them, and through them I still get glimpses of the boy who should still be here.
They keep his stories alive. His laugh alive. His memory alive. His love alive.
Through them, I am still connected to my son.
And sometimes, deep down, I believe Tucker has something to do with it. That somehow he is still working quietly behind the scenes, making sure none of us are alone in this.
Because they didn't just lose a friend. They lost someone they loved. And through that shared love for one unforgettable boy, we found each other in the wreckage.
No matter where life takes them - near or far - we will always be connected by Tucker. And I will forever be here for them
My son may be gone from this world. But he will never be forgotten. And I thank our friends so deeply for their love of my boy.
As a child, I felt everything.
Not just emotions, but currents - things moving beneath the surface of the world. I was deeply empathetic, though it was often mislabeled as being "too emotional" or "too sensitive". As a Pisces, feeling is woven into who I am, but this went beyond temperament. It was instinctual. I felt animals before they came into view. I felt insects, plants, trees - the quiet intelligence of nature itself. The earth did not feel separate from me. It felt aware. It felt alive. It felt like home.
Even then, I knew love was not a fairy tale. It was not something ornamental or fragile. Love felt ancient, binding, and powerful - something that existed beyond rules and reason. My imagination was vast and unguarded, and I trusted it completely. I believed in ghosts, aliens, other realms, and unseen beings. I knew there was more than what we are taught to see. Magic did not feel extraordinary to me - it felt woven into the bones of reality.
But what is buried does not die.
As a teenager, tarot cards found me. Or maybe I found them - it's hard to say. They spoke in a language that felt familiar, like remembering something I already knew. I worked with them instinctively, without instruction or permission. I didn't have my cards read by another person until adulthood, when I met Kathleen. And I never went to a psychic until after my boy left this earth. Those moments belong to another chapter - one shaped by loss, rupture, and awakening. They will be told when I am ready.
There are times I ache for the child I once was. The version of me who didn't question her inner knowing. Who didn't shrink herself to fit into what was expected. I wish I had followed this spiritual path sooner, before grief ripped me open, before loss forced me to see what I had spent years avoiding. But wishing does not change the shape of a life.
And it was Tucker who broke me open.
First, as he grew, his curiosity mirrored my own from childhood - the wonder, the questions, the way he seemed to sense that the world was bigger than what we name it. Watching him move through life reminded me of the little girl I used to be, before I learned to doubt myself, before I learned to disconnect. Through him, parts of me stirred awake again.
Then losing him completely shattered the illusion of a neat, orderly world.
The world did not make sense anymore - and I could not force it to. The structure I had relied on collapsed. The beliefs that told me life was predictable, fair, or contained by logic disintegrated. The veil I had spent years carefully holding in place tore wide open. Grief does not ask for permission. It drags you into places you never intended to go.
Through that pain came questions I could no longer silence. Through that devastation came a knowing I could no longer deny. Love did not end when he left this earth - it transformed. It became vast. Uncontainable. It stretched beyond time, beyond language, beyond death itself. And in that love, I felt the unseen again. Not as fantasy. Not as comfort. But as presence.
Shadow work teaches us that nothing is wasted.
I am here now - not innocent, not untouched, not healed in any neat or linear way. I am awake. I am still searching, still remembering, still pulling buried pieces of myself back from the dark. I am looking for that little girl who believed in fairies and witches, vampires and ghosts, forest people and hidden realms. I am finding her not in innocence, but in truth.
Maybe this path was never meant to be gentle. Maybe it only reveals itself when everything else has been stripped away. Maybe magic waits for us in the breaking.
Now, walking through grief, through shadow, through remembering, I feel that little girl's hand in mine again. And I feel Tucker - not gone, not silent, but just beyond the veil. And together, they are guiding me back into the magic I once knew.
The magic I never truly lost.
Moon water has always been more than water to me. It was something Tucker and I shared each month. He would remind me when I forgot, "Mom, it's a full moon tonight."
I haven't made it since my boy left this world. I still have the last jug we made together, untouched. Sacred. A vessel of love and moments that mattered. This ritual doesn't require perfection, only presence.
Moon water is simply water placed under the moon to absorb its energy. Though most make it under the powerful full moons, it can be made during any phase, each holding its own meaning-new moons for beginnings, waxing moons for growth, full moons for release and clarity, waning moons for rest and healing. The full moon is the most powerful phase of the lunar cycle, representing a peak of energy and a time for high emotions and surfacing truths. Its primary spiritual themes are release, clarity, and gratitude. its heart, it's about intention. The moon reflects what already lives within you.
All you need is water, a clean container, and a quiet moment. Set your intention, place it under the moonlight, and bring it in before sunrise. You can drink it if safe, use it in baths, anoint your skin, water plants, or keep it close for comfort. Some is meant to be used. Some is meant to be kept.
You can cry. Sit in silence. Speak a name. All of it counts. One affirmation you may say is: I release what no longer serves me. I honor my grief and my healing equally. I carry love forward.
Tuck, this was ours. You remembered the moon. I still have the last water we made. I will forever keep it with me. I think of you every time the moon rises my boy.
People say it's just age, that memory fades as you get older. But this... this is something different. This isn't that. This is trauma. This is grief.
This is watching my son die in front of my eyes and never being the same again.
My brain has changed - completely. And it hurts me when people throw the word "trauma" around like it's something light, something temporary. This is real trauma. The kind that rewires you. The kind that stays.
I don't think people truly understand what it's like - unless they've been through this the loss of a child - the trauma of child loss (I am not discounting any trauma this can be the same for many people in different situations).
I repeat myself because I don't remember that I already said something. You can tell me something, and I'll ask you the same question the next day like I never heard it. I lose time - hours, days, sometimes even weeks or months blur together. I try to reach back into memories I know should be there, and there's just... nothing. I'm grasping at air.
Sometimes I can't find words. Or the wrong ones come out. Or my mind just goes completely blank and I'm left staring, not knowing what to say or how to say it. Even something simple - like making a phone call = can take me weeks, even months, to build up to. And trying to explain something basic feels impossible.
I wasn't always like this.
I was a case manager. I handled up to 30 people's lives at once. I made calls, wrote notes, stayed organized. Yes, I had some memory struggles before because of a brain injury - but not like this. Never like this. I could still function. I could still be someone.
Now people say, "just write it down", but it doesn't work like that anymore. I can write something down and forget I wrote it. I can't find the paper. Or I find it, and the words don't even make sense to me. Like they belong to someone else and I don't know what to do with that.
I don't know how to become part of society again. Maybe I won't. Maybe I don't have to. Maybe I've been trying so hard to fix myself for everyone else that I forgot to ask what I actually need.
Maybe this is who I am now. But I don't know if I can accept that.
Because this isn't the life I had. This isn't the brain I knew. This isn't me.
I just wish people understood.
Losing my only child - my son, my Tucker - at 16... watching him die and being completely helpless... it didn't just break my heart. It shattered me. It shattered my world. It tore me apart. And it changed my brain, my memory, my ability to function - everything. Even when it looks like I am doing "fine" it's a mask I wear to hide my true self.
Life feels bleak. And the brain fog, the confusion, the forgetting - it's not "just getting older". It's grief. It's trauma. And it deserves to be heard.
Another ritual Tucker loved was smudging. Another ritual my boy would remind me to do, or ask to do when energies felt negative.
Smoke cleansing, also called smudging, is an ancient practice used across cultures to clear negative energy, invite peace, and bring balance to a space, a person, or even an object. The ritual is simple: herbs, woods, or resins are burned, and the smoke is directed around the area with intention. As the smoke rises, it carries away stagnant energy, leaving the space refreshed, grounded, and lighter.
While traditional smoke cleansing items include sage, cedar, and sweetgrass, many people also use natural incense sticks or cones as a gentle alternative. When using incense, choose natural or resin-based options, as these maintain the cleansing effect rather than heavily perfumed, commercial varieties.
Here are 10 common and accessible items that are safe and effective:
White Sage- Purifies and clears negative energy.
Cedar- Protects and grounds the space.
Sweetgrass - Attracts positive energy and harmony.
Lavender - Brings calm, peace, and emotional balance.
Rosemary - Protects, purifies, and clears mental fog.
Bay Leaves - Brings protection and luck.
Cinnamon Sticks - Invites abundance, warmth, and vitality.
Palo Santo - Purifies, uplifts energy, and connects to higher vibration.
Frankincense Resin - Spiritual purification, grounding, and clarity.
Myrrh Resin - Healing, protection, and release of negativity.
Remember, less is more - use only what resonates. Move smoke slowly and mindfully. Repeat weekly, monthly, or whenever the energy feels heavy. Try to use matches over lighters.
Smoke cleansing is a simple yet powerful way to refresh your space, clear negative energy, and invite peace, protection, and positive vibrations into your life. Starting with just a few easy-to-find items like sage, cedar, or sweetgrass makes it accessible for anyone, even beginners.
The most important part of any cleansing ritual is your intention. Whether you burn traditional herbs, resins, or natural incense, focusing on the energy you want to release and invite is what makes the practice effective.
Start small, explore what resonates with you, and over time, you'll discover the herbs, woods, and resins that feel most aligned with your space and spirit. Smoke cleansing isn't just a ritual, it is a mindful way to care for your environment, your energy, and your well-being.
What a beautiful, cruel day when your only child is gone.
People still wake up celebrating. Flowers. Brunches. Smiling photos. Phones ringing with "Happy Mother's Day."
And here I am... trying to understand how I'm supposed to survive a day that reminds me of everything I lost.
How am I supposed to celebrate being a mother when the person who made me one is no longer here?
People say, "You're still his mum."
And I know that's true.
But they don't understand the emptiness that comes with it. The silence. The ache of not hearing his voice. Not getting the text. Not seeing his face walk through the door.
Motherhood didn't end when Tucker died.
That's the cruelest part.
I still wake up as his mother every single day.
I still love him with every piece of my soul.
I still carry him in everything I do.
But now motherhood looks different.
Now it looks like holding ashes instead of hugs.
Talking to the sky instead of hearing "Mum".
Crying in silence while the everyone else celebrates.
There is no card for mothers like us.
No guide on how to survive this kind of grief.
Just an endless longing for one more moment. One more laugh. One more "I love you".
If love alone could have kept my son alive, he would have lived forever.
And even now, after everything, I am still his mom.
Still proud of him.
Still loving him.
Still missing him with every breath I take.
Mother's Day will never feel beautiful again.
But my love for my son will never die either.
Surrounded by pictures. I wish they would come to life. I wish I could reach through and pull you back. Back for real. Not just frozen moments. Not just memories. A life that feels like it belonged to someone else.
Happy memories. Shards of joy. They break the second I touch them. All I have left - your face. Your eyes. Your smile. Your goofiness. The way you laughed at the silliest things. The way your hair stuck up in the morning. The way you argued over nothing just to make me laugh.
Some say I shouldn't. Shouldn't surround myself with my boy. Shouldn't have little shrines, keepsakes, reminders of him. Flowers. Toys. Stones. Coins scattered everywhere. Even a Christmas bulb.
I want to scream.
It's okay for you to post pictures of your kids because they're alive. Mine is dead. So I should hide him? Erase him? Pretend he never existed.
Would you? Really? Remove every trace of your child from your life? They don't know. They don't get it. They still get to call. Text. See their children.
It rips me open. Tears I can't stop. Pain that twists in my chest.
But also... smile. One you can't see. Because remembering - remembering means knowing. I had the most beautiful family. My boys. My husband. That life existed.
Even though it hurts more than anything, I will surround myself with pictures of my son. Pictures of his mischievous grin. His little quirks. His favorite t-shirt. Pictures of my past. Of my old life. The one where I had it all.
I will keep every gift he leaves me. Every coin. Every flower. Every stone. Every little thing that carries a piece of him. Even the Christmas bulb.
Because in this unbearable pain... I can feel him. Tucker. His love wrapping around me. Hugging me. A warmth that pierces the ache. Forever within me.
Even when the world tells me I should hide him. Even when they say it's too painful. I will not hide him. I will not apologize for loving him out loud.
He is my boy. He is my life. And I will carry him - always.
Tucker... you are still here in every picture, every memory, every small sign that makes my heart pause. You are still my boy. Always my boy. And I will keep loving you out loud for the rest of my life.
I sit here, and I wait.
I wait for you to come home, my boy.
I wait to hear the door open, to hear your voice call out, to hear your footsteps moving through the house like they always did.
But you don't come through that door anymore.
Still, some part of me waits.
Like a mother's heart never got the message that you are gone.
Like love refuses to accept what death has done.
I sit here, and I wait.
I wait for one more moment with you.
One more hug. One more laugh. One more "Love you, Mom."
I would give anything for one more ordinary day with you.
Instead, I sit here alone.
And the strange thing about grief is that you can be surrounded by people and still feel completely abandoned inside it.
People talk. Life moves. The world keeps spinning.
But inside me there is only this ache - this endless ache for you.
An ache that does not lessen.
An ache that settles into the bones and becomes part of breathing itself.
Before, my life was filled with hope.
Dreams of your future.
Wondering who you would become, where life would take you, what memories we still had left to make together.
Now the future feels hollow.
The house is quieter.
The days are longer.
And loneliness has become something far deeper than simply being alone.
It is the loneliness of missing the one person who made my world feel whole.
People say love never dies.
And maybe that is true.
Because this pain - this unbearable pain - exists only because my love for you still does.
I sit here carrying a mother's love with nowhere to place it.
No arms to wrap around.
No forehead to kiss.
No son to tell every single day how deeply he is loved.
So I sit here, and I wait.
I wait for the moments I can feel you close again.
In dreams.
In memories.
In songs.
In the quiet.
Because even death cannot stop me from being your mother.
And no matter how much time passes,
no matter how silent this house becomes, I will alone waiting for you to come home my boy.
There are these moments, these milliseconds, where I forget that Tucker is dead. I'll think, oh my God, I can't wait to see him so I can tell him whatever it is I was doing in that second. For that brief moment, everything feels normal again. Tucker is alive. He's still here. I can tell him the story, share the joke, hear his response, and laugh with him like we always did.
Then reality hits.
And all over again, I have to live with the fact that my son is dead.
I have to remember that I will never be able to see him, tell him things, share our inside jokes, or hear his voice. It's all gone.
For that one second, that one millisecond where I forget and think he is still alive, it is an amazing feeling. A feeling of relief. A feeling of normal. A feeling of having my son back, even if only for the briefest moment.
But the pain and despair that come when I realize I am wrong are unexplainable.
The raw, shattered grief.
It's like losing him all over again.
People think grief is something that happened when Tucker died. They don't understand that it keeps happening. Every time I forget for a split second. Every time my first thought is to tell him something. Every time something happens and my instinct is still to reach for my son.
Then comes the realization.
The crushing truth.
The fact that Tucker is dead, and I will never be able to tell him that story. Never hear his laugh. Never share another inside joke. Never have another conversation.
For one beautiful millisecond, I forget.
For one beautiful millisecond, my son is alive.
And when reality comes crashing back, I am left standing in the pain of knowing that he isn't.
That is the part of grief no one talks about.
The beautiful milliseconds.
And the devastation that follows them.
I have always felt like I didn't belong. Like I was different, weird. I have always been my own worst critic. I don't believe in myself. I have very little self-esteem, and in every aspect of my life, I have felt like a failure.
In my spirituality, I have struggled. I do not believe in myself, so when I used to do journeys, I always felt it was my imagination. Because how could someone like me do something that taps into the spiritual world? Beyond ordinary me? And how could my jars actually work? I don't have that magic or power.
This is how I talk to myself - and even that is the kind version. I am much harsher in my own mind. Yet I still want to believe I can tap into the spiritual world. That my jars do help and make a difference. That when I journey, it is real, not just my imagination.
Not only do I feel like a failure at life in general. But I feel like a failure on my spiritual path - to my spirit animals, guides, teachers, and ancestors. Why do I not believe in myself?
I was told I was a dream interpreter. I have always paid attention to dreams and their meanings, but I have done nothing with that ability or tried to develop it, all because I don't believe in myself.
How do I change this? How do I walk this spiritual path feeling so broken? How do I look in the mirror and not only believe in the person I see, but also love her?
One thing I do know is that staying where I am - not trying, not learning, not building faith in myself - will not connect me to the spirit world. It will block me.
There are two paths I walk that have become deeply tangled. My spiritual path, which I didn't just wander from but fell away from completely. And my grief path, which has brought me to my knees in every aspect of my life.
Will I be able to climb back up spiritually? With my spirit animals, my guides and teachers, will I be able to make my jars and believe in the power and the magic that we all have inside us?
Every day I wake up and have to face a world without my son in it. Some days that weight feels impossible to carry. But I know that if I stay lost in my grief, I will lose another part of myself too. Somewhere beneath the pain, I know I need to find my way back to my spirituality. Not because it will take away my grief, but because it may help me learn how to carry it.
Maybe by finding my way back, I can reconnect with the universe, with my guides, teachers, and spirit animals. Maybe I can learn to trust myself again. And maybe, in whatever way is meant to be, I can feel closer to my son on the other side. Not by letting go of him, but by strengthening the connection that love has never broken.
A few years ago - before my son Tucker passed away, my husband and I were driving home, coming down off the highway into the part of town where we live. It's a familiar drive, one we've done countless times, where you crest the hill and slowly descend back into everything you know.
It was a beautiful summer day. The kind where the sky feels wide open, endless, almost too big to fully take in.
As we came down the hill, we both happened to look up.
And there they were.
Three lights in the sky, perfectly positioned in a triangle. Not scattered. Not drifting. Intentional. Still enough to notice, strange enough that you couldn't look away.
We both saw it at the same time. That immediate, silent recognition. Are you seeing this too?
What struck me just as much as the lights themselves was everything happening around us. Life was going on as if nothing unusual was unfolding overhead. We pulled into the school near the rec centre, where adults were playing baseball and kids were in the middle of soccer games. Laughter, movement, noise - and not one person looking up.
Not one.
It felt surreal, like we had stepped into something separate from everyone else, witnessing something that somehow wasn't meant for the crowd below.
We sat there watching, trying to make sense of it. Trying to ground it in something logical. But it didn't fit. It didn't move like anything familiar. It didn't behave like something explainable.
And of course, only afterward did we think of it - the cliche of our time. We should have taken a picture. A video. Something.
But in that moment, we were just in it.
Watching.
Wondering.
My curiosity has always been strong. My imagination even stronger. I can go down a hundred different paths trying to explain what we saw. But the truth is simpler, and maybe a little more unsettling.
We don't know.
We don't know what's out there. We don't know what we're seeing sometimes. And maybe we're not meant to have all the answers.
All I do know is this.
There are strange things in the sky.
And if you pay attention, you might just see them too.
Your 20th birthday. The fourth one without you.
Wow.
I'm speechless.
First, how can I be the mother of a twenty-year-old? And second... how the fuck are you not here?
Birthdays are supposed to be happy. A day to celebrate. A day to reflect on where you've been and dream about where you're going. Instead, your birthday is wrapped in grief.
I catch myself pushing memories away because sometimes they hurt too much. Then I feel guilty for doing that because those memories are all I have left. I don't want to forget a single thing about you. Not your laugh. Not your voice. Not the way you made me smile. Grief is confusing like that. It makes you want two impossible things at the same time-to remember everything and to escape the pain that remembering brings.
It's your birthday. I should be happy.
Your friends are planning a party for you. Twenty years old. They're excited to celebrate you, to spend the day together telling stories, laughing, and remembering you. As your mom, that fills me with so much love because it reminds me just how many lives you touched. I want to feel that excitement too.
But, baby boy... it hurts. It sucks. And then comes the guilt. Guilt because I can't just celebrate. Guilt because every birthday reminds me of everything we've lost instead of everything we should have had.
Happy 20th Birthday, Tucker.
Twenty.
I can't even picture it. Or can I? I try - though sometimes that too is painful (more guilt...)
What would you look like now? What kind of man would you have become? Would you have fallen in love? Would you be away at school? In the Army? Working? Travelling? Living on your own?
The possibilities are endless.
And that's one of the hardest parts.
We'll never know.
We'll never know the man you were becoming. We'll never know the dreams you would have chased or the life you would have built. We were robbed of all of it.
I miss the birthdays we should have celebrated together. I miss watching you grow. I miss hearing your voice. I miss wondering what adventure you'd be off on next.
I just miss you.
Happy 20th Birthday, my beautiful boy.
Forever 16.
Forever my son.
I hope wherever love goes after this life, you can still feel ours. Every single day. Especially today.
Happy Birthday, baby boy.
I just finished reading a book by a psychic medium. It was actually a really easy read. Nothing over the top. Just simple ideas and little exercises to help reconnect with your spirituality.
I've been trying to get back to mine.
The thing is... think I'm the most skeptical spiritual person you'll ever meet
I believe. I honestly do. I believe there's more after this life. I believe our loved ones are still with us. I believe in signs. I believe we have spirit guides and a spirit team. But then my brain jumps in and starts asking...
But how?
How does any of this actually work?
How can they hear me?
How can they be everywhere?
How do people just know?
Then I feel guilty for even thinking those thoughts. I picture my spirit team watching me, probably shaking their heads like, "Seriously, Wendy? We've shown you enough already."
I try. I really do.
But I don't think I've healed enough. Or maybe I haven't surrendered enough. Maybe I'm too impatient.
I'm quick to anger. Quick to cry. Quick to assume the worst.
I'll read pages about choosing peace, trusting the universe, letting go... and then five minutes later I'm swearing because someone cut me off in traffic or I'm crying because grief hit me out of nowhere.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm completely missing the point.
Then again... maybe I'm not.
Maybe spirituality isn't about becoming this calm, perfectly balanced person who never doubts anything.
Maybe it's about trying. About learning. About questioning. About catching yourself a little sooner than you did yesterday.
Maybe our spirit team isn't expecting perfection. Maybe they're just happy we're still showing up. Still reading. Still learning. Still asking questions instead of giving up altogether.
Because let's be honest... being human is hard. Being human after trauma is even harder.
Maybe the goal isn't to never get angry or never question. Maybe the goal is simply to keep coming back. To keep believing, even when doubt creeps in. To keep learning, even when we feel like we're failing.
To keep trying. And maybe... just maybe... trying is enough.