Five Years Into Forever: The Day I Didn’t Survive, But Still Lived

Today marks five years since my world split open. Five years since everything I knew, everything I loved, and everything I believed about how life was “supposed” to go got ripped to shreds. Five years since my dad and my son, Dakota, were taken from me just three days apart.

And let me tell you something very honestly:Healing doesn’t magically happen because another year passes. Grief doesn’t care what the calendar says.

This post is for Dakota—my son, who left this world at 24 and took half of me with him.It’s also for anyone who has their own date stamped onto their heart with a burn so deep you can still feel the edges. If you have one of those days, pull up a chair—you’re not alone.

There are days we celebrate. And then there are days like today.

Today is the day.The day I didn’t choose.

The day that barged in, tore the floor out from under me, and left me trying to crawl through the rubble of a life I barely recognized.

Today is the day everything changed, and not in one of those “wow, personal growth” ways people post on Instagram.

No. Today is the day the light dimmed.The day the world went quiet.

The day death walked in with no explanation, no warning, and absolutely no mercy.

People always try to soften days like this with phrases like “he gained his wings.”

Let’s be blunt:I didn’t feel angel wings.

I felt shattered.Gutted.Hollowed out to the bone.

There was nothing poetic about it. There still isn’t.

Five years later, and this date still hits like a sucker punch to the soul.

It doesn’t matter how much “work” I’ve done or how many coping skills I’ve collected like emotional Pokémon.

Today still knocks the wind out of me.

And every year on this day, the memories come back—some gentle,some brutal,some so sharp they cut all over again.

But they’re his memories, so I let them come.

There’s always that moment where the “what ifs” try to drag me under—What I should’ve seen.

What I should’ve said.

What I should’ve somehow magically prevented even though I am, inconveniently, human.

But I refuse to live in that hole anymore.It doesn’t bring him back.It only breaks me further.

Some people call this the “deathiversary.”

Not me. For me, it’s just forever.

Forever the day my life cracked wide open.

Forever the moment grief made itself at home and refused to leave.

Forever the day the world went dark and I had to learn—against my will—how to walk in it anyway.

But even with the hurt, even with the shaking hands and the tight chest and the memories that land like punches…I honor him today.

We speak his name.

We carry his light.

We celebrate the life he lived, not just the day he left.

We hold his love in a way that grief can’t take from us, no matter how hard it tries.

Because love doesn’t disappear.

It just changes shape.

And so do we.