Brayce Yourself

05/02/2026

04/22/2026

Six years ago today.
A Wednesday.

And somehow it’s a Wednesday again… like time circled back just to make sure I remember every detail of the day my life split in two.

Brayce, I miss you in a way that doesn’t soften. Not with time. Not with anything.

How does a parent live without their child?
I’m still trying to figure that out. Navigating this life without you has been hard in ways I can’t even fully explain.

I miss your laugh the way you would make yourself laugh before anyone else even could. I miss you saying things just to get a reaction out of me… and me shaking my head, even when I didn’t want to smile.

I miss our talks.
And now I find myself listening to the music you loved Green Day, Dance Gavin Dance, Yellowcard, and so many more. It’s the closest I can get sometimes… it feels like you’re right beside me, jamming out like you always did.

I miss you in all the ways that matter and all the ways that hurt.

You were protective in a quiet way. You didn’t always show it, but when it counted… it was there. I see that so clearly now.

Six years later and I still can’t make sense of a world that doesn’t have you in it. I just exist in it.

I love you just as fiercely as I always have. That didn’t go anywhere.
Neither did the ache.

I wish I had one more talk. One more laugh. One more chance to look at you and know you’re okay.

I hope somehow you know…
I never stopped needing you.
I never stopped loving you.

Forever your mom 🤍

04/18/2026

04/15/2026

A week away from 6 years without you.

Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you, Brayce.
Forever loved. Forever missed. 🤍

04/03/2026

You are my 7 minutes.

03/31/2026

I miss you, Brayce. A song written for you from us. Love you sweet boy ❤️

Listen Now & Create your custom Memorial Song for a loved one, with RememberMe

03/23/2026

Be patient with me
I am six years into
a life I was never taught how to live,
a language still unfamiliar
no matter how many days I’ve spoken it.

Six years
of waking up
and remembering all over again.
Six years of carrying his name
in the quiet spaces between breaths.

I was never shown
how to exist this long
without my son,
how to keep going
when the world expects healing
but my heart only knows learning.

Be patient with me
when grief still finds me
like it did in the beginning
sudden, sharp,
unapologetic in its return.

Because some days
I have learned how to laugh again,
how to stand in the sunlight
without completely breaking
and other days,
I am right back there,
missing him with the same ache
that time has not touched.

Six years
and I still say his name
like a prayer,
like a lifeline,
like a way to keep him near.

Be patient with me
if I need to speak of him
not as a memory,
but as my son,
because that is who he still is to me.

I am not who I was
before loss found me.
I am someone rebuilt
in pieces,
stitched together
with love that never left.

So be gentle
this is not a path with an end,
only one I am learning
to walk
with him beside me in spirit,
six years later…
and forever.

03/06/2026

My sweet boy,

Today my heart feels especially heavy. There are days when I can smile at the memories, but today I just miss you so much. I wish I could hug you, hear your voice, or sit and talk with you about nothing at all. I would give anything for one more moment like that.

I hope you know how deeply you are loved. That love didn’t end when you left this world. It lives in me every single day. I carry you in my heart, in my thoughts, and in every quiet moment when I look up and wonder if you can somehow feel how much I miss you.

Some days I just want to tell you about life, about the little things, about how much you still matter here. You are still my boy. You will always be my boy.

I’m trying to keep going, trying to heal, trying to honor you with the love I still have to give. But today I just needed to tell you that I miss you… more than words can ever say.

If love could reach heaven, you would feel my arms around you right now.

Forever your mom. 🤍

02/03/2026

To someone who is grieving.