The very moment I fell into the dark abyss of deep grief was 4 days after my 26th birthday, as a I crossed the threshold from my hallway into my kitchen.  As I walked across, that place and moment marked my before and after.  It was there that I heard my grandmother say three little words: "Baby, she died".  

I could write for days about every detail of that morning.  The power of the denial as I asked repeatedly if they were sure she had died, if anyone had actually checked.  The looks on each of my brother's faces as I told them the news that our mom had died suddenly and unexpectedly.  But all of the details can be compressed into those words- 
"Baby, she died"

It has been many years since that day.  The grief I went through was deep and dark and long.  I still think of her, still feel her, learn from her and miss her; everyday.  

The death of my mom was earth shattering to more then just me. I had three brothers who were all also grieving. Our youngest brother James was only 15 when she died. He was her baby, her youngest, and they had a bond to reflect it. Her death shattered him too.

In the complicated and winding story of our family, there was already a struggle with addiction and my oldest brother.  It is a story with so many layers that I am still peeling them back, but it didn't stop with him.  My youngest brother starting using after our mother's death; addiction and grief were the private wars our family was waging and fighting against.  

Sometimes, finding words to explain loving a family member with an addiction is overwhelming.  Are there enough words in the dictionary to describe all of the emotions we feel?  We struggled and fought and loved and hoped. 

My older brother's addiction led him to incarceration and a continued battle with mental illness.  That is a whole different kind of grief.  Grief and shame and hopelessness, and then hope again.  

James. It still leaves a lump in my throat to know that he isn't here. In the years following our mom's death he struggled. There were times I thought it was hopeless, I'm sure he had more of those moments then I did. Until he found recovery. He dove deep into reading about inner peace, got a job he loved and was planning for the future.

He emerged from that dark place where we had only been seeing pieces of the boy we knew and loved.  He came to every family get together and we had a wonderful summer together, breathing relief that he was okay.  Until the day he wasn't.  He, like so many young people, died of an accidental overdose.  His death has been another lesson in grief and it's many layers.  

Each of these experiences, and the millions of moments that they encompass, have led me here.  I am no expert on grief.  I cannot guide you on your own journey or pretend to have some special wisdom.  What I do know is that stories of the people I have loved and lost are indescribable gifts.  When I have received a random message, a new photo or video that I have never seen; it is worth more then money can buy.  I created RememberGrams because how wonderful would it be if people shared these things more freely?  Remembering does not keep us stuck, it frees us to move forward with them, tucked in close to our hearts.  

You will find pieces of my story throughout the website, particularly the blog.  Thank you for being here, whether you are on your own journey or helping someone else along theirs.