Eight years ago today, I said goodbye to my mom.

Some anniversaries creep in quietly, others hit you with a wave. This one came with both. I’ve found over the years that grief changes—it softens at the edges, but it never fully leaves. Still, this year, I’m choosing something different. I’m choosing to remember the good.

My mom, Mary Jo, was born in 1951—a triplet, which was rare back then. She had a big heart, wore her emotions openly, and wanted nothing more than to be a grandmother. That dream came true when Jackson was born. She held him. She loved him. And just three months later, she was gone.

My mom loved deeply and felt life intensely. As I got older, our relationship became more complicated, but my love and respect for her never faded. She had her own battles, ones I’ve come to understand more as time has passed. Through it all, her love for me was constant—and for that, I’m forever grateful.

This past week, Jordan and I traveled to Michigan to say goodbye to my Uncle Tony—my mom’s brother, and the last of the triplets. As we gathered with family, I saw so many people I hadn’t seen since my mom’s passing. Her cousins hugged me like no time had passed. One held me tightly and whispered, “It’s like hugging Mary Jo.” I didn’t expect that to hit as hard as it did—but I felt it deep

Even in loss, there is beauty. Even in grief, there is gratitude.

Now I’m home, sitting in my office, looking at the peace lily my Aunt Roseanne insisted I take. She told me to think of Uncle Tony every time it blooms. And I will. It’s a quiet reminder—steady, peaceful—that even in the hardest seasons, life gives us something to hold onto.

This little life Jordan and I have built—our three kids, our work, our rhythm—it’s not flashy or perfect. But it’s ours. And I don’t take any of it for granted. I know how quickly things can change. I know how precious the “ordinary” days are.

Maybe that’s part of why I love this job so much. Photos help us hold on to the fleeting. They give us something solid when the edges of memory start to blur.

So today, I’m not sinking into sadness. I’m not pushing it away either. I’m letting the love speak louder. I’m choosing joy. I’m remembering the laughter, the good stories, the hugs that still feel warm in my memory.

Here’s to my mom. Here’s to Uncle Tony. Here’s to choosing joy—even when it’s layered with loss.

Thanks for reading,