One Year Later
The day my father was murdered and how I'm still standing
Today marks one year since my father was murdered. I recorded a voice memo this morning at 7:36 a.m.—the exact time the phone call came that changed everything. I’ve tried to write this story dozens of times over the past year and could never finish it. But today, I finally did.
This is long. It’s raw. It’s real. But if you’ve ever felt like you’re holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside, this is for you.
One Year Later
This morning, January 28, 2026, I sat down at 7:36 a.m. to let my thoughts spill out. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., wide awake, with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.
I can’t help but think about one year ago—at this exact time—when my life radically changed forever.
The night before, I went to bed like any other night. Fell asleep with Premonition playing in the background. My alarm was set for 7:13 the next morning.
When it went off, I hit snooze. Lay there. Let my mind wake up.
Then I felt my phone buzz.
Once. Then again.
I knew it was my mother—we exchange good-morning texts every morning. The second buzz, I figured she found an interesting recipe to share.
Then a third buzz came in.
I grabbed my phone. As I looked at the three messages, the phone rang.
7:36 a.m.
“Hello?”
“Rachel… Rachel…” My mother’s voice, wailing.
“Mom. Mom, what’s going on?”
The phone was passed. A man’s voice.
“Hey Rachel, this is Detective... Your father has been shot and killed.”
I will never forget those words.
That moment.
Yesterday—and a lifetime ago.
In the time between then and now, everything has changed.
I have changed. My life has changed.
As I sit here this morning, I realize how many times I’ve tried to write this. Started and stopped. Put it away for another time. Told myself to just sit with it.
Especially this week—knowing it would be heavy. Another first. Another marker.
And especially with my mother in the hospital right now, fighting for her life. Her sickness. Her disease.
Here I am, in our home—our shared home now—where tensions and emotions run high.
I can’t help but wonder:
How did I get here? How did this become my life? How did I become this version of me?
I am not the same.
Tragedy, trauma, grief, loss—they don’t just change you on the outside. They change you on the inside. Mentally. Emotionally. Physiologically. Psychologically. Physically.
You change.
I’ve been beaten. Broken. Battered. Bruised. And when horror, death, and grief hit you in the heaviest ways, they transform who you were into who you are—and who you’re becoming.
I’ve shared much of the journey the best way I knew how. And while it’s felt heavy, there is also light.
Whenever I share something raw and real, it’s not from a place of darkness for darkness’ sake. It’s to share the human experience.
So when people say, “It sounds like you’re depressed,” I think—no shit. What do you think tragedy does to you?
But I don’t live only in the darkness.
There is always a story. A lesson. A blessing. A silver lining.
You don’t get to the light without walking through the dark.
This year has been hard to grieve and heal because I was never given time or space.
From the moment it happened, I was by my mother’s side—a terminally ill, grieving widow. I put her needs above my own. Above everything. Selflessly. Maybe selfishly.
I neglected myself. Because I needed healing too. I needed to be loved. And my mother was the closest thing I had left to my father—the man who loved me deeply.
At night, the horrors replay like a nightmare on repeat.
My father didn’t just die. He was brutally murdered.
Beaten. Pistol-whipped. Shot twice—six minutes apart. His identity denied. His humanity stripped away.
He was not “just some guy.”
My father was the most incredible man you’d ever meet. My parents were together nearly 60 years. His life was taken one day before their 53rd wedding anniversary.
My mother has never known life without him.
Scripture tells us to care for widows. But I ask—at what cost? At whose expense?
This kind of loss breaks you into pieces you didn’t know were possible. Each piece divided—my mother, myself, my marriage, my friends.
And I’ve kept people at bay because I don’t know how to show up anymore. I don’t want to burden anyone.
And I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole. Or loved again.
My father was the first man to ever love me.
This year has taken a toll—mentally, emotionally, physically, financially.
And like grief, I stopped. I stopped trying. I stopped producing. I stopped caring. I watched my world collapse from the outside in.
And I wondered—does it even matter anymore?
But even now, a year later, I see light.
The darkness still shows up. The heaviness remains. But there are moments—small, sacred moments—of laughter. Of life. Of hope.
And I’m learning to hold both.
The trial may still be another year. Maybe more. I pray my mother lives long enough to see justice on this side of heaven.
My father’s last conversation with me, on January 26, was full of hope. For the first time in months after two hurricanes destroyed their home, I could hear the smile in his voice. He was optimistic. He believed things were getting better.
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The next day, January 27, at 6:04 pm, he brought steaks and wine to a friend’s house.
He never came home.
At 11:45 p.m., my father was shot. At 11:51 p.m., he was shot again.
Somewhere in between… the unspeakable.
And I can’t help but think about betrayal. About Jesus. About faith.
As a young girl, my father introduced me to Jesus. And I got to witness and see Him through my father—he lived his faith out loud—imperfect, flawed, faithful.
And I miss him.
Oh, how I miss my dad... so much.
As I sit here this morning, curled up on the couch, coffee in my lap, Lilly Grace at my feet, I hold gratitude and grief at the same time.
I choose hope—even in limbo.
I don’t know who I will be when all of this passes. But I know God is shaping something in me. And I’m learning that you don’t heal by avoiding the darkness. You heal by walking through it—knowing God is in it with you.
Some days I can hold the walls up. Some days they crumble. And I surrender again.
Life is still worth living—even when death consumes so much of it.
The day my father died, a part of me died too.
But I’m still here.
Still grieving. Still healing. Still becoming.
And that’s not nothing.
Where I Am Now
A year later, I’m not the same woman who answered that phone call. But I’m also not stuck in that moment.
I’ve rebuilt. Slowly. Imperfectly.
I’m running my business again—not the way I used to, but in a way that’s more authentic, more grounded, more purposeful.
I’m launching new offerings. Taking care of my mother. Showing up for my clients. Pursuing new opportunities.
Some days I feel alive and whole. Other days, grief knocks me flat.
But here’s what I know now that I didn’t know a year ago:
You can grieve AND build. You can be broken AND becoming. You can carry loss AND live fully.
I’m not “over it.” I never will be.
But I’m through it in ways I couldn’t have imagined on January 28, 2025.
And even though I keep showing up—on Zooms, for my clients, for my commitments, for my community, for others—I give it my all. But behind it all is a woman, a real person, a human going through life the best she knows how with what she’s got.
So the next time you see someone, know this: everyone is suffering a silent battle you may never know about. A deep, dark depression that on the outside looks “fine” but on the inside, they’re barely holding it together.
I share all of this not to draw attention or to dwell in the depths of the lows, but to share the realness—this side of life you don’t see much of on social media because it’s not sexy, it doesn’t sell, and it’s not curated or perfected. But it sure is real, raw, and messy—just like your life, and the lives of others around you.
So if you’re suffering in silence, know this: you are not alone. Even though it may feel like it, someone just like you (and me) is hurting. But we’re also healing—in our own time, place, and space.
The truth is, we live in a broken world, filled with broken, imperfect, flawed human beings. And while we’ve all been at the mercy of each other’s pain, we have to take ownership of the pain and hurt we’ve inflicted upon others through our own sufferings.
Hurt people hurt people. If you don’t heal what hurt you, you’ll continue to bleed onto others.
So yes, healing takes time. But it also takes courage and admission that you can’t be or do it alone. We need others. We need to let others in, to sit, to hold space, to see you and hold you just as you are—fragile, delicate beings with so much to offer the world when we are renewed and transformed from within.
One year later, here’s what I know:
Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. But it also doesn’t have to stop you from living.
I’m building again. Launching new products. Caring for my mother. Pursuing new career opportunities. Showing up for my clients and my community.
Not because I’m “healed.” But because I’m becoming.
And becoming doesn’t require you to be whole first. It just requires you to keep moving.
So if you’re reading this from the rubble of your own collapse—whether it’s loss, betrayal, illness, financial ruin, or just life pressing down on you—here’s what I want you to hear:
You don’t have to be fixed to move forward. You don’t have to be whole to start building. You don’t have to have it all together to show up.
You just have to take the next step. And then the next one.
One year later, I’m still grieving.
But I’m also still building. Still creating. Still showing up. Still becoming.
And so can you.
Don’t give up. Don’t lose hope.
You’ve got this. And He’s got you.
In memory of my father—a man who loved deeply, lived fully, and lived his faith out loud—he left a legacy that death could never steal. I miss you, Dad. Every single day.