Last year changed everything.
When I retired on June 20, 2020, I thought I was entering a season of peace. I pictured slow mornings and quiet afternoons in the deep southern suburbs of South Carolina. I had earned rest, or so I believed. But life—oh, life had other plans. You know what they say: we plan, and God laughs.
What followed were not just changes, but a cascade of transformations I never saw coming.
My brother died in my arms. Just weeks later, I became my mother’s caregiver as she healed from a double knee replacement. Then my father passed. Amid my own heartbreak, my daughter gave birth to three beautiful grandchildren—3,000 miles away. Her health began to fail, and I was on and off planes, crossing the country to help her through. All while neglecting my own health until my body finally gave out. I found myself in and out of hospitals, staring at the edge of something darker than I was ready to admit. It felt like a surreal movie I couldn’t walk out of.
So what do you do when life keeps knocking the wind out of you?
You hold on.
For me, that lifeline was Camille—our Camille. You don't know her like I do. She's shared her story through her articles, but as a real living person, I know the truly loving, caring person she is. As both of us have been challenged by people, personalities, and circumstances, we've recognized a kinship. Survival and strength. It is truly a blessing.
When I was too sick to care or blind with worry, it was oftentimes her calm words that pulled me through it. Little by little, I began to reclaim myself.
I returned to the basics: nourishing food, check-ins with my doctor, honest rest, and clear priorities. Healing doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet discipline of choosing yourself every single day.
I wanted desperately to fix everything for my daughter. But during my last visit, the truth finally settled in: this is her life, not mine. As hard as it was, I stepped back. Just like when you’re teaching your child to walk or ride a bike—you have to let go. You have to trust. The little girl I raised is now the mother I believe she’s becoming. I have faith in that.
In February, I arrived for the birth of my grandson only to walk into another storm. My daughter and her teenage daughter, Amythist, were locked in a painful power struggle. Amythist had isolated herself in her room, and my daughter was overwhelmed. And honestly? So was I.
Parenting teenagers is a different world. You can’t meet them where they were—you have to meet them where they are. We, as parents, often see the defiant toddler, forgetting they’re growing into full, aware human beings who carry knowledge, intuition, and a yearning to be heard.
So I didn’t storm in. I didn’t raise my voice or impose authority. Instead, I observed. I asked questions. Gently. Patiently. I offered small tasks and gave her the space to say yes or no. She resisted at first, expecting me to explode. But I never did. Instead, I showed up—inviting her along not for punishment or reward, but simply because I wanted her near me. I wanted her to feel wanted.
Eventually, trust bloomed.
We started talking. Not surface-level, but deep, meaningful conversations. Her insights stunned me. The vulnerability, the wisdom—this child, this young woman, was more aware than many adults I know. And I made a promise then: to protect this fragile bond until it was no longer fragile, but strong. Rooted.
What she wanted wasn’t complicated—she wanted to be a child. Free to grow, to stumble, to feel joy and heartbreak, to learn how to trust and how to set boundaries. She didn’t want to be a second mother or a keeper of responsibilities she never asked for.
So I showed her what honesty looks like by being honest myself. I owned my mistakes. I embraced my flaws. I let her see me—not perfect, but real. She’s seen me fall and rise again. She’s seen me say “no” to things that violate my peace. She’s watching, always watching, and I’m teaching by doing.
Now, she’s with me. She chose to come to South Carolina and try a new chapter. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but she made the decision, and I removed the roadblocks.
And here we are. Week one of a new beginning.
We’re happy. Truly happy. Each day is a new memory in the making. We keep her mom close in every way we can—because this isn’t about replacing anyone. It’s about expanding love, not dividing it.
From her first breath to her first steps, from preschool drop-offs to teenage heartaches—I’ve been there. And now, in this sacred space, I get to be there again. I trust that one day, my daughter will do the same. Just as I did. Just as my mother did before me.
This is the journey.
There is never too much love for a child. It takes a village, and every person who shows up with love in their hands and wisdom in their hearts is a gift. Our children are not possessions to control, but souls to guide. We don’t own them. We’re here to love them. To hold them. And eventually, to let them fly.
