June 17, 2025: The Day Our Lives Forever Changed

One year ago today, our lives changed forever.

Not in October.

Today.

June 17, 2025, was the day my husband, Dany, was without oxygen for eight minutes. While his body continued to breathe on machines for months afterward, the reality is that this was the day everything changed. This was the day the life we had built together was shattered in an instant.

You never know when the last time will be.

The last conversation.

The last hug.

The last kiss.

The last time you'll look your spouse in the eyes and tell them you love them.

One moment you're making plans for the future, and the next, that future no longer exists.

People often say they understand grief, but unless you've experienced the loss of a spouse—especially a spouse who was your best friend, your partner, your teammate in every sense of the word—you cannot truly understand the weight of it.

Dany wasn't just my husband.

He was my best friend.

My business partner.

My confidant.

My person.

For 27 years, we built a life together. We grew up together. I was 15. He was 19. We navigated childhood, adulthood, marriage, parenthood, dreams, disappointments, victories, and struggles side by side.

We assumed we'd grow old together.

We assumed we'd watch our hair turn gray together.

We assumed we'd continue building memories together.

And then, suddenly, all of that was gone.

One of the most surprising parts of grief has been people.

Some people showed up for me in ways I never could have imagined. People I never expected became a source of strength and support when I needed it most.

Others didn't.

Some said hurtful things.

Some made assumptions.

Some added to the pain rather than helping carry it.

And while I understand that many of those words came from a place of their own hurt, that understanding doesn't erase the impact.

There were moments during this journey when I told my sister, "I am not comparing myself to Jesus, but I feel like I'm hanging on the cross being slashed from every direction."

Everything seemed to be going wrong.

The misdiagnoses.

The heartbreak.

The criticism.

The family conflicts.

The opinions.

The judgments.

It felt relentless.

But through all of it, God never left me.

People often tell me how calm I seem.

How peaceful I appear.

What they don't understand is that none of that comes from me. It comes from God.

There is no explanation for the peace I've experienced other than His presence carrying me through the darkest season of my life.

I thought I knew God before all of this happened.

I thought I was close to Him.

I wasn't.

Not like I am now.

This experience stripped away everything I thought mattered and revealed what truly does.

My relationship with Christ has become the foundation of everything.

And as I have grown closer to Him, I have learned lessons that weren't easy to accept.

One of those lessons is that even Jesus walked away from people.

We often focus on loving others, forgiving others, and serving others. Those things matter. But Jesus also demonstrated boundaries.

There are times when protecting your peace, your spirit, and your relationship with God requires distance from people who continually bring chaos, toxicity, or harm into your life.

That was one of the hardest lessons I've had to learn.

Not everyone is meant to continue walking beside you.

And that's okay.

My desire now is simple: to live as Christ-like as I possibly can.

Not perfectly.

Just faithfully.

That means biting my tongue when I want to respond.

Showing grace when I feel hurt.

Choosing kindness when anger would be easier.

Protecting my heart while still loving people.

Trying every day to ask myself, "Would Jesus do this?"

I finally understand what those old "What Would Jesus Do?" bracelets were trying to teach us.

I understand the words Amazing Grace in a way I never did before:

"I once was blind, but now I see."

Because I do see now.

I see what matters.

I see how precious life is.

I see how quickly everything can change.

I see how much time we waste holding grudges, criticizing others, and taking the people we love for granted.

There is a reason people say never go to bed angry.

Tomorrow is not promised.

I know that firsthand.

Today, Emma and I continue learning how to navigate life without Dany.

People often say you eventually move on.

I disagree.

You don't move on from losing the love of your life.

You move forward.

You learn how to carry the grief.

You learn how to build a life around the missing pieces.

You learn how to laugh again while still carrying sadness.

You learn how to honor the person you lost while continuing to live.

But the loss never leaves.

And neither does the love.

The reality is that I am now the only living parent Emma has.

I am the provider.

The protector.

The decision-maker.

The financial support.

The comfort.

The stability.

The weight of that responsibility is something most people will never fully understand.

And that's okay.

Not everyone is meant to understand my journey. But I have learned that I don't need everyone's understanding. I only need God's guidance.

This past year has changed me.

I am stronger.

I have firmer boundaries.

I no longer allow people to walk over me.

I am less concerned with pleasing others and more concerned with honoring God.

Because at the end of the day, what matters most is my relationship with Him and my responsibility to raise Emma well.

If there is one thing I hope people take away from my story, it's this:

Don't take the people you love for granted.

Tell them you love them.

Forgive quickly.

Show kindness.

Give grace.

Put your phone down.

Spend time together.

Because one ordinary day can become the day that changes everything.

And you never know when it will be the last time you get to say goodbye.