Today marks a marks a milestone I never wanted to (or ever thought I could) reach—the one-year of losing Knox. A year ago today, my world changed in ways I could never have prepared for. This has been the longest, hardest, most complex year of my life. But oddly enough, even when it stretched on painfully at times, there are moments that I look back and time feels like a blur. Grief doesn’t come with a manual (although I wish it did), and navigating life after such a loss is something I could have never braced myself for.
Him dying was a literal shock to the system. Those first days and weeks after Knox passed were a blur. The world kept moving around me, but I felt completely detached, surrounded by a fog that no light, (as cheesy at this sounds that) no matter how bright, could penetrate.. My days were punctuated by disbelief, waves of pain, and moments of numbness. I quite literally lost a piece of me the day he died and I didn't know how to operate without it.
In those "early"days, survival was the only goal. I quote early because I know that we truly are still in the early stages of this loss.
But I reluctantly came to understand survival's raw, unpolished meaning. It wasn't about thriving or overcoming—it was simply about making it through each day—no, moment.
I gave myself permission (as best as I could) to feel everything that came deeply; to grieve, to struggle, to let go of the pressure to be "okay." Allowing myself that space was a hard lesson, but it's been an essential one that has woven itself into other parts of my life. I've learned with Knox's death that healing, or even just holding it together, couldn’t be rushed.. and still can't; I don't know that I'll ever be healed from his death but I can make it through some days without completely losing it.
My closest friends and family became my safety net. They were there (and still are on days) when I couldn’t see beyond my own pain, lifting me up when I couldn’t seem to bear my own weight; brushing my hair, stealing umpteenth loads of laundry to clean for me, loving on my then 2 year old who didn't comprehend what was happening... honestly too many things to count. Survival, I realized, was often less about resilience and more about accepting help—about knowing that sometimes it’s okay to lean on others.
It's not a solitary endeavor.
It's not about stoicism or self-reliance.
Survival is about allowing others to be a part of your journey.
Every day I made it through was a small victory, built not only on my own strength but on the support of those who stood by me. In those moments, survival became something sacred, something shared—a reminder that we aren’t meant to carry our struggles alone.
But family and friends weren't the only ones we leaned on; I'm not sure how we would still be here had we not, first and foremost, leaned on God.
Before Knox’s passing, church wasn’t a part of our weekly routine. For me, belief in God was always there—a quiet, steady presence in the background—but I hadn't, in a very, very long time actively sought Him out. It wasn’t until we lost Knox and with the gentle nudge from my sister to let God in, I ended up finding a love that bridged the distance between us and a place of healing I had never anticipated. Our God is all-knowing God and He knew that I was trying to carry things alone. He knew that I needed to speak out to him in prayer. Talking to Him, felt like I was finally letting myself be held. In those moments, it was as if I were watering a relationship that had long wilted, rekindling a closeness with God that I hadn’t nurtured in years. Though I know He never left, prayers felt like a way of drawing closer... even though He holds a love for me that had been there all along. God’s presence filled the gaps left by the experiences we’d longed to share, reminding us that our love for Knox transcends this life, that he is held in love... even now. Maybe more love that he ever knew here on Earth; a love beyond anything I can even fathom.
I truly believe Knox is safe, cradled in God’s arms. Knowing that brings a sense of peace and this belief has become an anchor, grounding me when I feel myself starting to spiral. I imagine him held in a love that is so vast... and so complete. There is comfort in picturing Knox surrounded by warmth, light, and a peace that I, or anyone, can’t fully understand—a place free from pain, where every sorrow has been lifted and every tear wiped away. It’s a place of perfect peace, untouched by the burdens of this world, where he is surrounded by warmth, love, and unending comfort. He is embraced by God, who I know loves him.. even more perfectly than I ever could. And this faith... it has helped me to hold on because I know that Knox isn’t lost to me entirely.
Though we are apart for now, I trust that he is safe, whole, and cherished. It has given me strength to face each day, knowing he is in God’s presence, and that one day, in some way, I will see him again. This knowledge doesn’t erase the pain, but it brings a gentle sense of hope; a reminder that love continues on and that he is held in a place of eternal rest and joy.
But it wasn't just the early days that were hard. In the months that followed, literally up until this exact moment, we encountered so many “firsts” without him—holidays, birthdays, ordinary moments... and they came with a quiet ache. They came with a blend of love and loss. But they also became a place where we invited God’s grace to meet us; to transform our sorrow into something that honored his memory. Instead of just marking absence, each “first” became a way to carry forward his spirit—whether through small acts of kindness, remembering him in prayer, or sharing his story with others. And while these moments often came with tears, they also brought that profound sense of connection I'm always talking about; a reminder that, even as we grieve, he is never truly gone. This past year has taught me that survival, healing, and honoring Knox’s memory are deeply intertwined. And it is through faith, that we learned to hold both the heartbreak and the hope, trusting that one day, our souls would meet again.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Grief isn’t a linear process. I didn't come up with this saying... but anyone who has grieved knows this to be true. There were days when I thought I was finally “getting through it,” only to be blindsided by a memory that opened those wounds. I learned to accept that grief would come in waves and that I couldn’t control it. However, one of the most challenging parts of grief is that it doesn’t always fit neatly into everyday life. I found myself juggling grief with work, with family responsibilities, and with trying to be present for my loved ones. And I still do. It's still a part of my every day. But this year taught me to be kinder to myself, to accept that it was okay to feel everything, and that healing does not, in any way, mean forgetting. Knox has left behind lessons, memories and a legacy of love. It's easy to want to be angry... to begrudge the world. That would be the easy way. But healing isn't always easy. I have shifted my focus on how I can live my life in a way that can honor him.
This focus shift has been incredibly healing. I'm learning to live with grief. In my last blog post, I shared how I'm slowly finding joy in the small things again. Doing so, doesn't diminish my love for him. It's changed my perspective; I've learned to appreciate life more deeply, to cherish my loved ones and to live with more compassion. It's also taught me that some. things. really. just. do. not. matter. I'm not perfect but his death reminds me constantly to approach life with an open heart, to try to connect with others and to be present when I can.
Final notes on today: I'm constantly trying to move forward, but I'm never going to move on. Knox will always be with me; a part of my heart and a part of my story.
Surviving this year without Knox, without a doubt, has been the hardest thing I have ever had to do... but here I am, doing it. And tonight, I'll go visit my baby at his earthly resting place and snuggle my husband, 3 year old and one month old (tomorrow) with a heavy heart but one that's not lacking gratitude.
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