TURNING PERSONAL GRIEF INTO A MISSION OF HOPE FOR CHILDREN
When my children’s father, my then fiancé, was taken from us our world shattered. Our son was only 3 years old—vibrant, fun, and full of love. One look into his bright eyes, and contagious smile everyone just fell in love with him instantly. We were young parents, but we were dedicated. We promised each other that no matter what challenges came our way, we would raise our children together under the same roof. In a time when many kids in our community were raised by their grandmothers, we committed to being 100% present for our own.
We both worked full-time jobs, I also worked with the youth in the community. He was a local star athlete respected and loved by everyone. Even in a town infested with gangs. In the 90s, that was no small feat. He was a calm presence not just for me, but for the children/teens I mentored. There were times when he would see the youth that I was coaching, in the streets fighting and he’d pull his car over and bring them home. They respected him. He was a father to more than just our children.
Losing him was devastating—not only for our family but for the entire community. I can still see our son standing at the window, waiting to catch a glimpse of his father pulling into the driveway. Every day, he would run to the door, the light in his eyes growing as he saw his dad get out of the car. As soon as their dad opened the door, he would pick them up in both arms and just love on them. The world felt so safe in those moments where joy and love were simple and pure.
After their father passed, the weight of his absence became unbearable. My son, though only 3 years old, began to take on roles no child his age should have to. He would watch me struggle to put his baby sister to sleep and say, “Go to bed, Mommy; I got her.” Night after night, he would pat her back and rock her to sleep—just as his father had done (prior to his passing only daddy could put her to sleep, he just had the touch). My little 3-year-old wanted to help, to fill the void his father’s death left behind. How does a child so small have this innate ability? I can’t explain how it felt to watch a 10-month-old baby, and a 3-year-old mourn. I couldn’t understand it. Her mourning was outward, as she would cry for long periods of time, and when she started to form words, she would cry for her daddy, for hours. I even called her pediatrician and asked if this was normal. His response was, “Yes, she remembers him, and now that she can verbalize it, she is… GIVE HER TIME SHE WILL BE OKAY.” On the flipside, my son’s mourning was silent; I’d see it when he would become quiet, it was evident in his stares when he’d often daydream and zone out. Sometimes he’d become impatient with his sister crying for her dad, he’d say to her angrily, “He’s NOT coming home!”
I would look at him, trying so hard to be strong for his sister and me. My heart would shatter into a million pieces. At such a young age, he was grieving, yet he refused to let me see him cry. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he would drift off into long, silent stares, as if frozen in the trauma he couldn’t understand, or verbalize. It was terrifying to witness. I had no clue how to help them; the only thing I had to offer was love. I was present for them; I gave them so much love, and they gave me so much love. However every moment I was out of their presence, I’d cry for us—in every shower, every closet, every bathroom, and every corner. I couldn’t breathe without him.
As my son grew older, he still internalized everything. Whenever I would leave home, he’d demand to know when I’d be back. If I wasn’t home at the exact time I promised, anxiety would overwhelm him. “Where’s Mommy? She said she’d be back by 9, and it’s 9:05! Why isn’t she here yet?” It took me a long time to realize that my absence triggered his deepest fear—that he would lose me too.
One night, I finally asked him, “Baby, do you wait up for me because you’re afraid I won’t come back, just like your dad didn’t? He looked at me with a quiet honesty that crushed me and said, “Yeah.”
In that moment, I felt powerless as a mother. I wanted to take away his fear, to fix his pain, but I couldn’t. No matter what I did, I couldn’t give him back what he’d lost. That helplessness—it never goes away, not even till this day.
Grief that comes from losing someone who was supposed to be there for you—never leaves, especially when it is a traumatic death. Even now, my children, at 30 and 28, still carry that loss. As their mother, it breaks me. I can’t take away their pain. I can’t make up for what was taken from them, or us. We never got over it-we just got thru it.
So, I asked God, “What can I do? How can I help my children and others like them heal?” That’s when the vision for Help2Heal Avenue Inc. was birthed. I realized that while I couldn’t take away my children’s grief, I could create something that would support other children on their healing journey. So, I created a safe place where children who’ve lost a parent or sibling traumatically could find the help they need—therapy, educational support, extracurricular activities funding, and a compassionate community. Together with their families, teachers, counselors, therapists, pediatricians, and coaches, we can build a bubble of support around them until they reach college age, supporting the total child.
Help2Heal Avenue Inc. exists because I know what it feels like to watch our children suffer in silence. I know what it feels like to be a parent who doesn’t have all the answers. We can’t erase the trauma, but we can provide these children with the tools needed to cope. We can give them a chance to find light in darkness, and help them to get back up, and move forward when LIFE drops them with love and support.
Healing isn’t about forgetting the pain—it’s about learning to live again, and that’s what we aim to offer: hope, healing, and a way forward.