Grieving: A Journey Through Loss and Healing

 

Grieving: A Journey Through Loss and Healing

Grief is the price we pay for love. It is a universal human experience, yet intensely personal and deeply individual. No two people grieve in the same way, just as no two relationships are ever identical. Whether we lose a parent, a child, a friend, a partner, or even a pet, the pain of that loss is real, raw, and often beyond words. Grief is not something to "get over" — it is something we learn to live with, something that shapes who we are from the moment of loss onwards.

At its core, grief is the emotional response to loss. It can be triggered by death, but it can also emerge from the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, a home, or even a sense of identity. But in its most profound and debilitating form, grief is often linked to death — the permanent absence of someone we loved and still love. In those moments, time seems to stand still. Life as we know it fractures. The person we were before the loss is no longer the person we become after. Something breaks — and for a while, or perhaps forever, it remains broken.

In the immediate aftermath of loss, we often enter a fog. This numbness can serve as a kind of emotional anesthesia, shielding us from the full impact of what has happened. The days blur into nights. Tasks become mechanical. We might forget to eat, or struggle to sleep. Everything feels surreal. For some, there are tears; for others, a cold stillness. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve — no formula, no timeline.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously outlined five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. While these stages offer a helpful framework, grief is rarely linear. We do not graduate neatly from one stage to the next. Instead, grief can loop and spiral. We might feel acceptance one day and rage the next. We may bargain with God in the morning and feel hopeless by nightfall. The human heart doesn’t follow a schedule, and mourning has no expiry date.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of grief is how long it lasts. Well-meaning people might urge us to "move on" or "be strong" after a few months. But the truth is, grief never fully disappears. We carry it with us — not as a wound that constantly bleeds, but as a scar that tells a story. Over time, the pain may become less sharp, but it never vanishes. Certain dates — birthdays, anniversaries, holidays — can bring everything back with a vengeance. A familiar scent, a song on the radio, a photo tucked away in a drawer can crack the facade of normalcy and transport us back to the moment of loss.

Grieving is not weakness. It is not a failure of character. It is not something to hide or be ashamed of. In a culture that prizes productivity and positivity, grieving can feel inconvenient, even taboo. People don’t always know what to say or how to act around someone who is mourning. Sometimes, friends disappear because they don’t know how to show up. Sometimes, silence surrounds us when what we need most is compassion and understanding. That isolation can make grief even heavier.

It is important to make space for grief — not just in private, but in public life. Rituals like funerals and memorials give us a container to hold our sorrow. They allow us to come together, to share stories, to cry without judgment. But the real grieving often begins after the rituals end, when everyone else goes back to their lives and we are left to pick up the shattered pieces of ours. That’s when support is most needed. That’s when love, in the form of presence and patience, becomes a lifeline.

For many, grief is not just emotional but physical. It can manifest as fatigue, tightness in the chest, digestive issues, or even chronic pain. It affects our appetite, our memory, our ability to concentrate. It rewires our brain and shifts our internal compass. Some people lose faith; others find it. Some become quieter; others more expressive. Grief transforms us. And while it may feel like we are being pulled under, drowning in sorrow, eventually we begin to resurface — not as who we were, but as someone altered by the depth of our loss.

Healing from grief doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. It means finding ways to carry the love and the memory of the person we’ve lost into our new reality. It means allowing ourselves to feel joy again, even if it comes wrapped in guilt. It means honouring the person we’ve lost not by ceasing to miss them, but by continuing to live in a way that would make them proud.

One of the most powerful aspects of grieving is its capacity to deepen empathy. When we’ve walked through the valley of loss, we understand others in pain more profoundly. We recognize the silent signals, the ache behind the eyes, the long pauses in conversation. Grief can open us up to the pain of others and foster connections rooted in vulnerability and truth. It can make us kinder, more present, more attuned to what really matters.

Grief can also be a catalyst for change. Many people who have lost someone dear to them go on to create foundations, write books, advocate for causes, or start support groups. In this way, grief becomes a bridge — a way to transform personal pain into collective healing. These acts of legacy honour those who have died while offering comfort and meaning to the living.

It’s essential, too, to speak about grief with children and young people. They are not immune to loss, and shielding them from its reality can do more harm than good. Children need honest, age-appropriate conversations about death, and they need space to express their emotions. Whether it’s the death of a grandparent, a pet, or even a classmate, their grief is valid. Listening without judgment, allowing them to cry, draw, talk, or simply sit in silence is one of the greatest gifts we can offer.

Faith and spirituality often play a significant role in how people navigate grief. For some, belief in an afterlife provides comfort. For others, prayer or meditation offers solace. Some turn to their religious community for support; others find meaning in nature, art, or human connection. Grief has a way of shaking our foundations — and in that shaking, we sometimes rediscover our core values, or we build new ones.

There are also those who grieve in silence — who feel they cannot talk about their loss because it is stigmatized or misunderstood. This includes those who lose loved ones to suicide, overdose, or estrangement. Their grief is compounded by judgment, shame, or societal discomfort. That is why we must broaden our understanding of grief and create inclusive spaces where all types of loss are acknowledged and respected.

Ultimately, grief is love’s echo. We grieve because we have loved deeply. And in the wreckage of loss, we find reminders of that love in the most unexpected places: a sunrise, a scent, a phrase once said, a shared song. These moments become sacred. They connect us to the person who is no longer here in body but lives on in memory and spirit.

Grieving is not a task to complete; it is a path we walk. Sometimes, we move forward with strength. Other times, we stumble or sit down and cry. That’s okay. There is no "right" way to grieve. There is only your way. And that path, as winding and painful as it may be, eventually leads us toward light. Not a blinding, forgetful light, but a gentle one — the kind that flickers at first, then steadies with time. The kind that illuminates the love we carry, the lessons we’ve learned, and the resilience that slowly, quietly, grows in the wake of loss.

So if you are grieving, know this: you are not alone. Your pain is real. Your journey is valid. Let your grief breathe. Let it cry. Let it speak. And when you are ready, let it teach you how to live again — not as if the person you lost never existed, but because they did. Because love endures, even in the face of death. Because grieving, though painful, is proof that we once had something — someone — worth mourning.

Mental Health and Suicide in Our Youth: A Personal Reflection and a Call to Action

 

I never imagined I would write about this, at least not so soon. The wounds are still fresh, and the memories are still raw. For a long time, I chose silence over sharing, partly because I didn’t have the words to express what we had gone through, and partly because the heartbreak was too overwhelming to articulate. But time has a way of giving pain some space to settle, and today, I’m ready to speak — not only for myself but for countless others who may be suffering in silence. This is a story about my daughter, her best friend Dhar, and a tragedy that has changed us forever. More importantly, it is a story about mental health, suicide, and the urgent need for awareness, compassion, and action in our communities.

In October last year, my daughter lost her best friend to suicide. Dhar wasn’t just another name or face in a yearbook — he was like family. He was a regular presence in our home, often laughing in the kitchen with us, lounging on the couch, or brainstorming school projects with my daughter. His energy filled the room. He was bright, warm, and had a spark that made people gravitate toward him. So, when news of his passing reached us, it didn’t just shatter my daughter — it left our entire household reeling. There are no words to adequately describe the heaviness of losing someone so young, so deeply woven into your life.

What followed was one of the darkest times I’ve ever experienced as a parent. My daughter, once full of life and light, spiraled into a deep depression. It was like watching a candle flicker in a windstorm, unsure whether it would hold on or be snuffed out. I could see her struggling to make sense of what had happened, questioning everything, including her own existence. The grief was unbearable. She was grieving the loss of her best friend, and I was grieving the version of my child that seemed to be slipping away. I barely slept during those weeks. I would wake in the middle of the night just to check that she was still breathing, still here. I was terrified that her pain might pull her into the same abyss that had taken Dhar.

After many sleepless nights and countless conversations, I finally found a therapist who could see her. Getting her to agree wasn’t easy, but thankfully, after a few sessions, I saw some light returning to her eyes. Therapy began to help, even if just a little. My mother and I took her to visit Dhar’s grave so she could say goodbye — or at least, try to. Standing in that cemetery, watching my daughter fall apart, is a moment etched into my soul. As a parent, you want nothing more than to take your child’s pain away. But grief doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, the best you can do is just stand there and hold them as they cry.

This experience opened my eyes to something we often don’t talk about enough: the mental health crisis in our youth. Suicide is now one of the leading causes of death among young people worldwide. And yet, the stigma around mental illness persists. We teach our children to look both ways before crossing the road, to say no to drugs, and to be cautious around strangers. But we don’t teach them enough about managing emotions, asking for help, or recognizing signs of mental distress in themselves and others. And we, as adults, aren’t always equipped to recognize those signs either.

There were no obvious red flags with Dhar. That’s the part that still haunts me. He smiled, he laughed, he texted funny memes. But something was clearly going on beneath the surface. That’s the cruel thing about mental illness — it can be invisible, masked by a smile or hidden behind a joke. That’s why we, as parents, friends, and community members, need to pay closer attention. We need to look for subtle changes: withdrawal from activities, sudden mood shifts, changes in sleep or eating patterns, or even offhand comments that hint at hopelessness or despair.

Prevention starts with conversation. It starts with creating spaces where young people feel safe to speak, without fear of judgment or ridicule. We must normalize talking about mental health the same way we talk about physical health. Just as we don’t shame someone for having diabetes or a broken bone, we must not shame someone for struggling with anxiety, depression, or suicidal thoughts.

As parents, our role is critical. We must be present, not just physically but emotionally. We must listen — really listen — without always rushing to give advice or fix things. Sometimes, our children just need to be heard. We must also model healthy emotional habits. It’s okay to show vulnerability, to admit when we’re having a hard day. When kids see that, they learn that emotions are human, not something to be hidden.

Community support is equally vital. Schools need to have trained counselors, not just for academic guidance but for emotional well-being. Teachers should be trained to recognize signs of mental health struggles. Peers should be educated on how to support one another — to know when to speak up, when to offer help, and when to seek adult intervention. Churches, community centers, sports teams — all of these can play a role in creating a culture of care and openness.

And yes, the government must do more. We need policies that prioritize mental health funding, that make therapy affordable and accessible, that train professionals in trauma-informed care, and that destigmatize mental illness through nationwide awareness campaigns. Mental illness need not always end in suicide. But without timely support, it can. Conversely, a person who appears mentally healthy may be silently suffering — smiling on the outside, yet dying inside. We must understand that anyone can be vulnerable, and the risk doesn’t always announce itself.

On a personal note, I’ve found unexpected solace in the work of Dan Reynolds, lead singer of Imagine Dragons. He has been open about his struggles with depression and is a passionate advocate for mental health awareness. His honesty has helped reduce stigma and encouraged others, including myself and my daughter, to speak more openly about these issues. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that even those in the limelight, those we admire, face similar battles and choose to keep going.

Dhar’s death broke us. But in time, it also opened our hearts to the importance of mental health awareness. It made us more compassionate, more observant, and more determined to speak out. My daughter is still healing — healing is never linear — but she is here, and that is everything. Every conversation we have, every laugh we share, every tear we wipe away is a reminder that life is worth fighting for.

If you're reading this and you’re struggling, please know that you are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And if you're a parent, check in with your kids — even the ones who seem fine. If you're a friend, ask the tough questions and be brave enough to sit with someone in their pain. We don’t always have to fix things. Sometimes, just being there can be enough.

Suicide is preventable. Mental health is manageable. But only if we care enough to act, to listen, and to love each other fiercely — especially when the world gets dark.

Marked with Grace: A Reflection on International Birthmarks Awareness Day

 

Today marks International Birthmark Awareness Day, and for the first time in a long while, I feel inspired to write—truly write—about something that has always been a part of me: my birthmark.

For as long as I can remember, this mark on my face has been more than just a patch of pigmentation. It has been a quiet witness to every chapter of my life. Though it’s always been there, only recently have I felt compelled to truly reflect on what it has meant to me. This past week, in particular, brought about a series of moments that nudged my heart to share my journey.

My birthmark has undeniably shaped the woman I am today. Has it influenced me? Absolutely. But contrary to what some might assume, it hasn’t done so in a negative way. On the contrary, it's gifted me with lessons that I cherish deeply—lessons about self-worth, empathy, and the kind of beauty that transcends appearances.

Over the years, I’ve developed an instinctive connection with people who are perceived as “different.” I’m not easily shocked by appearances, behaviors, or stories that veer from the norm. In fact, I often feel drawn to those who carry their own unique battles. And while I can’t always walk in their shoes, I understand what it feels like to be seen through a lens of curiosity or misunderstanding. That understanding has formed the foundation of my compassion.

If I could offer anything to the people I meet, I hope it’s a sense of acceptance and love—the kind that reminds you that your worth has never been tied to what’s on the surface.

Among family and friends, there’s been a long-standing, lighthearted theory that my birthmark might be the wellspring of my creativity. And I must admit, there’s a lovely poetry to that idea. I’ve always had a desire to do things differently, to create, to imagine, to build something meaningful out of ordinary moments. Perhaps there’s something mystical about a mark that nourishes not just skin, but also soul and imagination.

What surprises people is that I never really struggled with feelings of ugliness. I was never made to feel repulsive, never bullied. I’ve been blessed with good friends—genuine people—through every phase of life. That’s not to say I haven’t encountered ignorance or stares, but I’ve never let them fester into pain. And I believe that strength came from the way I was raised.

My parents never made a fuss about my birthmark. There were no hushed conversations about how to "handle" it, no attempts to shield me from the world. I was simply me. They let me grow and shine in my own time, allowed me to develop confidence naturally, and stood by my side without overprotecting. Looking back, I know their calm acceptance was a gift. Because of them, I walked into the world believing there was nothing wrong with me—and that made all the difference.

Would I still be kind and empathetic without my birthmark? I’d like to think so. But this mark has amplified those traits. It’s taught me the kind of humility that isn’t loud or performative, but grounded. It’s shown me how important it is to embrace others for who they are. It’s reinforced the truth that self-love isn’t vanity—it’s survival. It’s made me more “me.”

Now, at 45 (soon to be 46), I feel like I can truly say I know myself. I’ve lived, loved, lost, struggled, succeeded. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve danced with life enough to understand its rhythm. And here’s what this journey—with my birthmark as a quiet companion—has taught me:

1. Beauty is everywhere. I’ve learned to find beauty in people, in moments, in imperfections. Not everyone may earn that title, of course—some people test our grace—but I’ve grown to appreciate that beauty often comes wrapped in the unexpected.

2. Compassion isn’t weakness. It's strength. I understand what it means to feel out of place, to be seen as different. That awareness has made me more attuned to the silent struggles of others. I don’t pity; I empathize.

3. Confidence changes everything. Once I truly accepted myself, everything else shifted. It gave me the courage to dream, to lead, to connect, to heal. It allowed me to stand tall—not because I’m flawless, but because I’m whole.

4. Humility keeps you grounded. I don’t walk around thinking I’m better than anyone. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, and I carry that understanding into every conversation and connection.

5. Authentic relationships matter. I never concealed my birthmark growing up. As a result, the people in my life—friends, partners, colleagues—have always loved the real me. And that’s priceless. Even now, when I occasionally wear makeup for work or events, it’s never to hide. I wear it like I wear clothes—an accessory, not a disguise.

This mark has helped me filter the world. It has been my personal truth detector, my measure for sincerity. If you can see me for who I am—beyond skin—you’re welcome in my world. If not, keep walking.

Earlier this week, something beautiful happened. I was washing my face before bed when I noticed that, as I’ve lost some weight, my birthmark appeared darker and more vivid. Instead of feeling bothered, I paused, smiled, and went to bed with a full heart.

For those unfamiliar, birthmarks are skin markings that appear at birth or shortly after. They come in many colors and forms—flat, raised, faint, prominent. There are two main types: vascular birthmarks (linked to blood vessels) and pigmented birthmarks (caused by extra pigment in the skin). Mine is a pigmented type known as a Mongolian spot, which usually appears as a bluish patch. They’re more common in darker-skinned individuals, and typically found on the lower back or buttocks—not often on the face, and especially not on someone fair-skinned like me. But I suppose my birthmark likes being different too.

One thing to know is that Mongolian spots are sometimes mistaken for bruises, which can lead to misconceptions. I’ve had my fair share of curious glances and awkward questions: “What happened to your face?” “Is it permanent?” And while I’ve never been bullied, I know many others with visible differences have faced worse.

Some people with birthmarks choose to cover them up. Others wear them like medals. And both choices are valid. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to loving your appearance. What matters is that, underneath it all, you love yourself.

It’s okay if you’re not there yet. It’s okay if you struggle. It’s okay if your relationship with your birthmark—or any visible difference—is complicated. What’s not okay is letting the world convince you that you’re less because of it.

To anyone reading this who has a birthmark, or any visible difference: know that you’re not alone. You are seen, you are worthy, and you are beautiful in your own right. Your happiness is your choice. Don’t let fear write your story. Don’t let society’s obsession with sameness dull your shine.

And if you’re a parent to a child with a birthmark—don’t panic. Love them, support them, and remind them often that they are enough, just as they are. Your calm, confident love will shape their world more than you know.

I’ve always said that everyone has flaws—mine just happens to be visible. But honestly? I wouldn’t call it a flaw. I’d call it a gift. A gentle reminder that I was made with intention, with uniqueness, and with grace.

You don’t have to love your birthmark immediately. That love can take time. But never forget: your mark doesn’t define you—your heart, your spirit, and how you treat others, that’s what matters most.

So on this International Birthmarks Awareness Day, I stand proudly. Marked by pigment, yes—but more so, marked by compassion, wisdom, and an unshakeable sense of self.

Love yourself first. The rest will follow.

Called to Serve: Preparing for My Mission Trip to Vietnam

 Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 filled my heart in ways I never expected. As I sat in that room, surrounded by familiar and new faces, I realized just how powerfully God was already moving among us. Our Vietnam team, though the smallest group with just fifteen members, felt larger than life. There was a palpable energy in the air — an overflow of love, laughter, ideas, and giving hearts that left me deeply grateful. Choosing Vietnam as my mission destination was not only the right decision; it was a divine appointment. Even before setting foot on a plane, beautiful friendships are already beginning to blossom, and the blessing of being part of something much greater than myself is unmistakable.

Reflecting on that Sunday, I am struck by how God uses ordinary moments to weave extraordinary beginnings. None of us knew exactly what to expect when we first signed up for this mission trip. Some of us are seasoned travelers, others are embarking on their first overseas mission, but we all share a singular purpose: to serve with open hearts and willing spirits. Despite our different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, we have been knit together in the common hope of making a difference. Formation Session #2 was a vivid reminder that it is not the size of the group that matters, but the depth of its love and commitment.

From the very start, laughter has been the soundtrack of our preparations. It breaks the ice, eases the nerves, and creates a sense of family. The room is always filled with chatter and excitement, and yet underneath all the energy lies a deep reverence for the task ahead. We are eager, yes, but we are also prayerful, recognizing that what we are about to do is sacred work. Serving others in a foreign country requires humility, flexibility, and a heart ready to be broken and remade. I am under no illusion that this trip will be easy. Language barriers, cultural differences, unfamiliar surroundings — all of these will stretch us. But it is precisely in the stretching that growth happens. It is in the unknown that faith is tested and strengthened.

I have often heard it said that mission work is as much about being changed as it is about changing others. As I prepare for Vietnam, I find that sentiment ringing truer than ever. God is already changing me. Through every planning meeting, every prayer shared, every story told by past missionaries, I feel my heart expanding. I am learning to let go of control, to embrace the beauty of stepping into someone else's world, and to see Christ in every face I encounter. I am learning that mission is not about bringing my ideas of how things should be, but about listening, learning, and loving with no agenda other than to be present.

The friendships forming within our team are a testament to the spirit of this mission. Already, we are more than just fellow travelers; we are companions on a spiritual journey. Trust and camaraderie are building rapidly, rooted in shared purpose and mutual encouragement. In these new friends, I see reflections of God’s kindness and creativity. Each person brings unique gifts — some have a knack for organization, others for storytelling or music, some for comforting and encouraging — and together, we form a beautiful mosaic. It amazes me how quickly bonds can form when hearts are aligned in service. I have no doubt that the experiences we are about to share will forge lifelong friendships, tested and strengthened by the challenges and joys of mission work.

Choosing Vietnam was not a random decision. It was something I prayed about deeply. I wanted to go where I felt called, even if that meant stepping far outside my comfort zone. Vietnam, with its rich culture, complex history, and vibrant people, beckoned to me in a way that was hard to explain. I knew very little about the country beyond what history books taught, but I felt a tug on my heart — a divine invitation to learn, to love, and to serve. Now, as the trip draws closer, that tug has become a steady pull, reassuring me that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Our team has spent countless hours preparing — spiritually, mentally, and practically. We have prayed over our mission, studied Vietnamese culture, learned basic phrases, and brainstormed ways to connect with the communities we will serve. We have packed and repacked supply lists, coordinated logistics, and fundraised tirelessly. Yet, amidst all the planning, we are keenly aware that the most important preparation is internal. We are preparing our hearts to be vessels of Christ’s love, ready to pour ourselves out fully without expectation of return.

One of the themes that has emerged throughout our formation sessions is the idea of being present. True mission work is not about rushing in to "fix" things or imposing our own ways. It is about meeting people where they are, walking alongside them, and sharing life together, even if just for a short time. It is about seeing the image of God in every person we encounter and allowing ourselves to be taught and blessed by them. I am humbled by this perspective, knowing that while I may go to serve, I will also be served — by the hospitality, wisdom, and resilience of those we meet.

I find myself thinking often about the faces we will see in Vietnam: the children we will play with, the families we will support, the elders whose stories we may hear. I wonder about their hopes, their struggles, their dreams. I wonder what lessons they will teach me about faith, perseverance, and community. I wonder how God will show up in unexpected moments, in the quiet conversations, the shared meals, the laughter, and even in the tears. I am both nervous and excited, knowing that mission trips rarely go according to plan, but always go according to God’s plan.

Already, I am grateful for the many ways this trip is shaping my faith. Preparing for Vietnam has deepened my reliance on prayer, strengthened my commitment to service, and widened my perspective on the global Church. It has reminded me that faith is not meant to be a comfortable, private affair, but a dynamic, outward expression of God’s love for the world. It has reminded me that the Body of Christ is beautifully diverse, spanning languages, cultures, and continents, and that every act of love, no matter how small, echoes into eternity.

As the departure date approaches, my prayers grow more fervent. I pray for the people of Vietnam, that they may feel the love of Christ through our presence. I pray for my team, that we may serve with humility, joy, and perseverance. I pray for safety, health, and open doors. Most of all, I pray that we remain attentive to the Holy Spirit, willing to be led wherever and however God chooses.

In many ways, this mission trip feels like a beginning rather than a culmination. I sense that Vietnam is just the first chapter in a larger story that God is writing in my life — a story of surrender, of stepping out in faith, of embracing the unknown with trust. I am excited to see how this journey will unfold, not only during the days we spend abroad but in the months and years that follow. I hope to return not only with memories and photos but with a renewed heart, a deeper faith, and a greater commitment to living a life of mission wherever I am planted.

Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 was a beautiful glimpse of what is to come. It reminded me that the greatest adventures often start with simple yeses — yes to God’s call, yes to stepping outside of comfort zones, yes to being part of something bigger than ourselves. I am filled with anticipation, gratitude, and hope as I look forward to Vietnam. I know there will be challenges. I know there will be moments of exhaustion and maybe even doubt. But I also know that God is faithful. I know that He has called each of us by name and that He will equip us for every good work.

As I continue to prepare, I hold tightly to the promise that when we offer our small loaves and fishes, God multiplies them beyond what we can imagine. I am bringing what I have — my time, my heart, my willingness — and trusting that it is enough. I cannot wait to see what God has in store, not only for the people we will serve but for each one of us who has said yes to this incredible journey.

25 Years of Love: Our Silver Anniversary Story

 

Looking back on the past 25 years, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed with emotion. What a long way we have come. From the uncertain early days of young love to the solid, enduring bond we now share, our story has been nothing short of a fairy tale—complete with magical beginnings, trials and triumphs, and most importantly, a love that has stood the test of time.

Ours isn’t the kind of story you often hear, but it’s the one that shaped our lives forever. We met online, in a time when that wasn’t quite the norm. There were no dating apps or swipe-rights—just simple messages exchanged between two curious hearts, oceans apart. I was only 18 then, just a girl really, but something about Ed’s presence—even from behind a screen—felt safe, genuine, and exciting.

When you’re young and in love, logic tends to take a backseat, and I’m so grateful it did. Because I made a decision that would change my life—I traveled thousands of miles to meet him. My heart still remembers the nervous excitement of that first flight, the anticipation, the uncertainty, and the hope. And when I saw him waiting for me, everything just clicked. It was as if the universe had been guiding me to this moment all along.

It didn’t take long for Ed to know what he wanted. On that very visit to the USA, he proposed. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was real, honest, and beautiful. I said yes without hesitation. From that moment on, we chose each other. We chose to build a life together, even though we had no idea how tough the road ahead would be.

We started with so little. We were young, in love, and broke. We lived paycheck to paycheck, stretching every dollar and doing what we could to survive. I remember our pasta and chicken days so clearly—not because of how hard they were, but because they showed me what love and partnership really mean. We made those cheap meals into feasts, not because of the food, but because we had each other. We shared dreams and hopes over simple dinners, and somehow, it was always enough.

There were moments when things felt overwhelming—bills piling up, responsibilities growing, and no guarantee of how we’d get through the week. But we always managed to find a way. We didn’t have riches in the beginning, but we were rich in love, resilience, and a commitment that never wavered. And slowly, with grit and grace, things began to change. We worked hard, supported one another, and little by little, we built a life. We climbed from rags to a version of riches—not just in material terms, but in the richness of experience, growth, and joy.

In time, our love story expanded with the arrival of our children—two of the greatest gifts we’ve ever received. Watching them grow has been the most beautiful journey within our journey. From their first steps to their first words, school days to teenage years, and now, watching them evolve into incredible young adults—it has been a privilege. They are kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and so full of promise. I see pieces of both of us in them, and I also see the unique individuals they are becoming. Knowing we’ve raised them with love, stability, and intention is one of our proudest accomplishments.

Through the years, our love has evolved too. It’s grown deeper, wiser, and more comfortable—like a well-worn sweater that fits just right. We’ve faced ups and downs—some days filled with laughter, others with tears. But never once did we stop choosing each other. That, I think, is the secret. We never walked away. We never gave up. We made the decision every day to stand by each other, even when it was hard.

For our 25th anniversary, we always imagined a grand celebration—something lavish and memorable. After all, not many couples make it to 25 years with the kind of story we have. We pictured a big party, surrounded by family and friends, music, dancing, the works. But as the date drew closer, we found ourselves leaning toward something quieter, something more intimate and meaningful.

In the end, we celebrated just the two of us. And honestly, it was perfect. We went on a romantic sunset dinner in a cable car, suspended in the sky with breathtaking views below us and the golden sun melting into the horizon. There we were, toasting with champagne, reminiscing, laughing, and simply soaking in the moment. It was elegant, peaceful, and filled with the kind of magic that only comes from truly shared memories. That evening was a beautiful reminder of who we are—a team, a love story that doesn’t need an audience to shine.

Sitting in that cable car, with the world stretching out beneath us, I thought about everything we’ve been through. The late-night talks, the tears, the tight hugs during hard times, the belly laughs, the parenting wins and fails, the shared dreams and quiet mornings over coffee. I thought about how far we’ve come—not just in distance, but in growth. The girl who flew halfway across the world at 18 could never have imagined this life, but she would be proud. So proud.

There’s something extraordinary about making it to 25 years. It’s not just a number—it’s a reflection of every choice, every effort, every moment of grace. It’s about surviving the hard seasons, celebrating the good ones, and holding each other through it all. And we did that. We are still doing that.

To Ed—thank you for loving me all these years. Thank you for being patient when I was not, for being strong when I felt weak, and for never letting go of my hand, even when the road got rough. You’ve been my best friend, my greatest supporter, my partner in everything. I am who I am because I had you beside me, believing in me, building a life with me.

As we step into this new chapter beyond 25, I carry with me all the memories we’ve created, and all the love we’ve nurtured. I also carry excitement—because I know our story isn’t over. There’s still so much more to see, do, learn, and enjoy together. We’ll travel more, dream bigger, and continue growing—both individually and as a couple.

Marriage isn’t perfect. It’s not always easy. But when it’s rooted in real love, trust, friendship, and mutual respect—it’s the most powerful bond there is. And that’s what we have. A connection that was forged not just by fate, but by every choice we made to stay, to love, to grow.

Twenty-five years ago, we began a journey not knowing where it would take us. Today, I can confidently say it has taken us to the most beautiful places—both literally and figuratively. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Here’s to our 25 years—silver on the calendar, but golden in memories. And here’s to many more. Because no matter how many years pass, you will always be my person, my home, my heart.