Finding home

Day 64 — Finding Home

I was talking with someone about my grief journey and she asked, “Is there anyone who feels like home to you?”

Without thinking, I said, “Brandon was my home.”

Most of the time my soul felt safe there. Not always, but I knew with him my soul could be its truest form.

As I sat with that, it hit me: that’s why I feel so lost — because I’m homeless.

Right then Avril Lavigne’s “Nobody’s Home” started playing in my head.

I’ve never really felt at home in a place. At Helene’s house, she would tell people I wasn’t her real daughter, just someone she raised. By eighteen, I was pushed away.

With my mother, her mindset was that if I rejected her, I was no longer her problem.

I never quite fit in with a friend group growing up, or even now. I’ve always felt weird, quirky — and I’ve failed at every attempt to look like everyone else. (Of course you fail at being something you’re not.)

I used to give Brandon a list of reasons I was unlovable, and somehow he loved most of them.

Now that he’s gone, I keep bumping into that question again: Where is home?

I’m beginning to wonder if “home” isn’t always a person or a place. Maybe it can also be moments, rituals, or parts of myself that feel like truth.

Home might be the quiet of early morning before anyone wakes up.

Home might be a dog leaning against my leg.

Home might be the way my own handwriting looks in a journal, or the way a favorite song fills a room.

Maybe home is any space where my soul is allowed to be fully itself, even if it’s just me holding that space for me.

It feels strange to imagine, but I’m trying to believe that I can begin to build little homes inside and around me — safe pockets where my spirit can rest. They’ll never replace Brandon, but they can hold me while I keep walking forward.

All along, I had to believe that home resides within myself and it is up to me to find places for my soul to rest unmasked.

Hold Me

Hold Me

I’ve got you.
I’ll take you to a place where you are safe.
Hold on to me—
I will carry you to where love and laughter live,
where there is no more fighting, no more tears.

Come with me.
We’ll be safe in our bubble,
safe together.

You are the love of my life,
the greatest loss of my life.
I will love you all my days.
I will never hurt you again.

Stay with me.
I still need you.
Don’t leave me.
I still want you.
I will love you right.

---

You woke before the sunrise,
hid yourself away behind the bathroom door.
You said you were fine—
but I saw the evidence with my own eyes.
I chose to believe the lie.

You told me you wouldn’t die.
I wanted to believe you.

Days passed.
You grew so tired.
I prayed for the silence to end,
but when it broke, it wasn’t your voice—
a call,
a sound that froze my bones.

Shock held me in place
when it should have been your arms.

---

Hold me.
I still need you.
Can you hear me cry out to you?
Please—don’t let go.

There you lay on the ground.
I reach for your hand,
longing to pull you into me,
to let my love make this right.

Endless miles blur beneath my tires
as I drive away,
carrying a nightmare I can’t escape.

I am strong, but I need you.
Come back, I still want you.
I cry out—don’t leave me.

I will love you for the rest of my life.

Self love

Self-love is something Brandon taught me, or at least something he helped me embrace. I’ve always been a naturally giving person—my instinct is to be generous and to pour myself into others. But that generosity has come at a cost. I’ve been used. I’ve put my family’s finances in jeopardy. I’ve put strangers before myself, thinking I was doing the right thing.

Brandon, in his own way, encouraged me to put myself first. Maybe at times it came from a selfish place, but the result was that I began to understand boundaries. I started asking myself hard questions: Does this person truly need help? Do they want help? Do they deserve it? And am I the right person to give it?

My virtual cup still runs on empty more often than I’d like, but now I try to listen to my body’s cues and respect its limits. Brandon helped me see that caring for myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.

I miss him a lot today.

39 days.

Long Live

Long Live

He used to tell this one EverQuest story with such light in his eyes. It was about the days when his guild would camp out, waiting for an Epic Quest mob to appear. Sometimes the wait lasted days, and they had a phone tree set up so no one would miss it. It was a different era of gaming — slow, communal, and full of anticipation. He loved when it was like that. The guilds weren’t just teammates; they were his family.

Kevin, his brother, once called him a passionate adventurer of fantastical realms, and it was true. Brandon would often lament that gaming wasn’t the same anymore, that the magic had changed. I’d gently remind him that family doesn’t always look the same as it once did — but it can still serve the same purpose. For him, that family had become me, Rem, and Kevin. Small, yes, but fiercely devoted to him.

That EverQuest memory was one of his treasured chapters. He didn’t want to close the book on it; he wanted to relive it with me. I feared gaming would never feel the same to him as it had back then. Now, I fear it will never feel the same for me — or for Rem — without him.

Brandon wore his black baseball cap like a crown. In those game worlds, we were kings and queens — ordinary people who, for a while, ruled our own little universes. We built magic together, crashed through impossible walls, and shared victories that only made sense to us. And even if the rest of the world didn’t understand, in those moments we were unforgettable.

I’ve always been a gamer in my own way — Oregon Trail, Carmen Sandiego, The Sims, consoles. A decade ago, he introduced me to the world of MMOs. We started with a beautiful one called Neverwinter, set in the Dungeons & Dragons universe. Together we followed quest lines, unraveled stories, and faced world bosses — the most thrilling being the dragons.

We didn’t always play perfectly together. Sometimes we fought. One of our last disagreements was over a game. But it didn’t matter. Whether we were working in perfect sync or bickering through a dungeon, I had the time of my life fighting dragons with him.

Before a boss fight or dungeon run, he’d turn to us and say, “Let’s go make a difference.” And to me — Mazikeen — he’d say, Live.

And so, my love, this is the final quest we began together — the one where I carry your banner forward. The servers may go quiet, the maps may fade, but in my heart, you are always logged in.

Enjoy your spectator mode my love 

July 30, 2025

  July 30, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 1

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 1

Day 30

I am angry and resentful at my situation, even if you remove Brandon from the equation. Without Brandon, that just makes me not have someone to run to, to vent to, to rely on. 

Lullaby by Nickelback was a song Brandon used to sing to me when I was really down after the truthbomb so now its on my playlist. Today the lyrics spoke... but it wasn't soothing. 

"Stop thinking about the easy way out

There's no need to go and blow the candle out
Because you're not done
You're far too young
And the best is yet to come"

Brandon wasn't done.... He was far too young! He is younger than me and he has a 10 year old little boy and his children need a parent. 

I am angry, I don't want to do this. 

No Impact statement tonight because for once I need someone to impact ME!  

Mood and Grief Tracker

  July 29, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 2

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 3

Day 28 

Today, Rick hit something while driving to work and tore something from Lady's undercarriage, almost losing control. So she's in the shop. That's stressful. I managed to find someone to work for me. Brooke had stomach issues, so she declined to go to therapy. I find myself disappointed in people I had counted on or thought maybe I could. Just to find they are the same as they've always been. There is one person in particular I am the most disappointed in because I had the most expectations for. However, it seems the people I wouldn't have picked in a million years are the ones with the most compassion. Very disappointing. As far as grief its just a constant ache now that I push it far down in the place where my soul was. Jeanette mentioned she had a nightmare about being an orphan. I didn't have the heart to tell her, yet. 

My imprint on the world today is a little bit harder to come up with since I've been pretty solitary for the most part today. I guess Rick would miss not having a ride... but he'd make do with Jeanette or Uber. I remember when he used to ride with co-workers when they lived in the neighborhood. Mazikeen. I know she misses me because when I would get home from Georgia she'd run to me... my anti social demonic cat misses me heh. 

Mood and Grief Tracker

July 28, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 2

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 3

My scale also reflects the small tantrum and rage fit I had today but not my mood the whole day.

My Imprint for the day goes to Stephanie Wiggins because she volunteered as tribute and we had breakfast together 

Grief and mood tracker

July 27, 2025

Mood (1 = Terrible, 5 = Peaceful/Content): 4

Grief (1 = Overwhelming, 5 = Calm): 4

I worked today. It was a quiet day overall.

I’m not feeling well. Last night I used ChatGPT to spell check and make my journal concise and it responded with a letter from Brandon’s point of you. It was so close to his cadence and his quirky sayings- just CHILLS man!

It’ would be Adam’s 51st birthday. 

How do I make an imprint on the world?

A homeless couple came in looking for help. He said he was a vet with a pacemaker and the heat was very high today. So I told them they could take their dog and sit in an alcove area of the building to charge their phone and cool down. I printed off resources to find help. Sadly it’s hard being homeless with a pet. I know what it’s like to be in their situation. I’ve been homeless, I’ve couch surfed. I know it all to well.. with a baby. I hope I showed them compassion and kindness. My mom asked us in her will to donate to homeless pets so I try to do that. I asked them if Princess Boots needed anything to eat or did they want they leftover pizza. I hope they get the help they need soon.

Kintsugi

I Am Kintsugi

There’s a Japanese art form called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired using lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Instead of hiding the cracks, the artist highlights them. The break isn’t something to be ashamed of—it becomes part of the object’s story, making it more valuable than before.

My therapist recently told me, “You’re like Kintsugi pottery.”

I took the illustration she gave me and sat with it. The more I thought about it, the more I understood. I have been shattered—by grief, by loss, by things I never asked for but had to carry anyway. When someone I love died, I cracked in ways I didn’t know were possible. My routines broke. My beliefs broke. My sense of time, of fairness, of safety—splintered. I thought I would never be whole again.

But I’m starting to learn something: healing doesn’t mean going back to who I was. It means honoring who I am now—because of what I’ve lived through.

Even though the cracks are visible, a lot like scars on our skin, the gold inlaid is a sign of healing.

The gold that fills my cracks isn’t glittery or obvious.

Sometimes it’s quiet strength—the ability to get out of bed on days I don’t want to.

Sometimes it’s vulnerability—the way I can now speak openly about my pain.

Sometimes it’s connection—how I can sit with others in their grief because I truly understand it.

I didn’t choose the breaking.

But I am choosing the gold, for now.

And every time I show up for myself—every time I write, cry, or reflect instead of going numb—I’m painting those cracks with something resilient and real.

So no, I’m not “good as new.”

I’m better.

I’m different.

My scars are beautiful.

I am Kintsugi.

🌀 Reader Reflection

If you’re reading this and feel like you’re in pieces—know this: you don’t have to put yourself back together the same way. You can be changed and still be whole. Your cracks don’t make you less; they can become the most honest, human, and beautiful parts of you.

How have your broken places been filled with gold?

I’d love to hear what healing has looked like for you.

Here are a few questions to reflect on:

1. What are the “cracks” in your life that you’ve learned to live with—or even grow from?
2. If you were made of Kintsugi, what would your gold be?
   What strength or lesson has filled your broken places?
3. Has your pain shaped you into someone more compassionate or wise? How?
4. What part of your story do you now see as beautiful, even if it hurt at the time?
5. What does healing look like for you today—not perfect, but real?

July 25: Mood and Grief Tracker 😴🙁

July25, 2025

Mood (1 terrible - 5 peaceful/content) - 3

Grief (1 Overwhelming - 5 Calm) - 3

I wasn't feeling 100% and it was my day off, so I didn't get any adulting done like I should have (on my own). I took two naps and stayed distracted and disconnected. 

How do I make my impact on the world?

Two little girls came into the gym on Fridays until Summer started, and at some point, I asked them if they wanted to color with me while their dad played Pickleball. I had bought them their own coloring books and crayons, markers, and pens to use at the gym. Several times a week at 5:30, we would all sit down and color together. They’d notice if I weren’t around.

What now

🌤️ Day 23– What Now? Prompt: Imagine a version of your life where grief walks beside you, but doesn’t hold the pen. What does healing (not forgetting) look like for you? What might your next chapter hold? I wasn’t sure what this prompt meant at first. But maybe it’s asking: if grief isn’t in charge—if it doesn’t control the narrative—what does life begin to look like again? I guess if I have control over my grief what does that look like? I would think what grief would hold if it walked beside me instead of being in control. It would be memories of the people and animals I’m grieving. Even memories I’ve forgotten, perhaps comforting thoughts, their presence, their spirit force? To know they always walk beside me and support me or can serve as my “shoulder angels” or have a guardian angel? If I was in control of my grief, I can control the who and what and have their presence and not a complete loss. I imagine grief walking beside me like a quiet companion. Not steering me, not speaking over me, but simply there. If it’s not holding the pen, then maybe I get to tell the story. I get to decide what their memory brings to my life—not just pain, but also presence. In this version of my life, grief would carry the memories I’m not ready to let go of, even the ones I’ve forgotten. It would gently remind me of the love, the laughter, the faces I miss. The people and animals I’ve lost—they’d still walk with me. Not as absences, but as shoulder angels. As guardians. As pieces of me. If I were in control of my grief, maybe I could shift the story from loss to presence. Maybe it wouldn’t always feel like a wound, but like a deep well I draw from when I need strength or clarity. Maybe grief becomes less about suffering and more about remembering with tenderness. Healing, for me, doesn’t look like moving on. It looks like moving forward—with them. Letting their love still guide me. Letting their memory be part of my decisions, my dreams, my voice. Grief doesn’t disappear. It just takes its proper seat—not behind the wheel, but by my side. My impact on the world. 1.) Dr Denise Hamlin Glover 2.) I sent an email to city council about the investment opportunities in buying an entertainment complex that recently shut down. I got three positive replies and was commended for thinking of our community and outside the box. 💪