There’s no handbook for raising children. No perfect map. No guaranteed rules. Parenting is instinct, learning, patience, and sometimes guessing and often wondering later if you did the right thing. I am the mother of two, a daughter now thirteen, wise beyond her years, and a son who will forever be eight. Losing him in 2023 changed everything. The grief reshapes you. It follows you into every moment. Yet the love is more present than ever. It is everything. It’s what gets me through this thing called life.
My husband and I have been together nearly twenty five years, fifteen of those married, and we’ve always been in sync when it comes to parenting. We share the same values, the same goals, the same fierce devotion to our children. I can’t fully explain the alignment because it’s not as if we wrote it all down and agreed upon all of it prior to having children. It was more of having a collaborative, cohesive relationship where open dialogue is encouraged and it is acceptable to agree to disagree on certain items. However, when it comes to our children, I can’t think of one single item where we’ve disagreed. We are simply lock and step in raising them. The unconditional love we pour into them isn’t a choice, it’s who we are. And that love remains constant, even in the darkest moments.
Since losing our son, the way I look at the world has changed. Everything feels sharper. Louder. More fragile. I’ve always been saddened and horrified by stories of violence, especially when a parent harms their child. But now, it strikes a deeper nerve. It enrages me in ways I can barely explain. I would do anything to have my son back, and yet there are people in this world choosing to take their children’s lives. Choosing to destroy what they should be protecting at all costs. How do we live in a world like that? How do we help our children understand this kind of cruelty? The hardcore truth is I truly don’t understand it and the wave of emotions; sadness, anger, and selfishly wondering why my only son was taken at the age of eight years old when other people have their children and don’t even want them.
Sometimes it feels like everywhere you look, someone is hurting someone else. The news is constant. The headlines don’t stop. Every day, there’s another tragedy. Another act of violence. And it makes me wonder, are things actually getting worse, or does it just feel like that because we see everything now. We hear about every incident, no matter how far away it is. A murder in a small town across the country becomes breaking news in our homes. We carry the weight of tragedies that aren’t even ours because the internet delivers them straight to our hearts.
The truth is complicated. Statistically, violent crime in the United States was already on a slow, steady decline for decades before the pandemic. Between the 1990s and the mid 2010s, both property and violent crimes dropped significantly nationwide. Many major cities experienced historic lows in homicides, assaults, and robberies in the years just before 2020. Then the pandemic came and with it, a spike in certain types of violent crime, especially homicides and domestic violence.
One possible explanation for this spike is that many people who were already in vulnerable, unstable, or abusive homes suddenly had nowhere else to go. Schools closed. Workplaces shut down. Daily routines that offered a break from stress, conflict, or even danger disappeared overnight. Children lost access to teachers and counselors who might have noticed something was wrong. Adults lost access to support systems that helped them cope. The isolation didn’t just create loneliness, it amplified everything that was already broken behind closed doors. And in that confinement, some homes became pressure cookers for violence and for tragedy.
Even now, as the world slowly reshapes itself, we’re still seeing the aftershocks. Some cities have seen improvements, with crime falling again in recent years. But even when the numbers look better on paper, the trauma lingers. And the exposure is constant. We see it, hear it, scroll past it, every day. It’s not just the local tragedies we feel anymore, it’s global. It’s personal. And it never really stops.
There’s also the dynamic of mental illness. I don’t claim to fully understand it, but I know enough to say that we, as a human race, are not doing enough to face it. We are not talking about it with the urgency and seriousness it deserves. If we do not learn how to recognize it, treat it, and support those who are struggling with it, these kinds of tragedies will continue to happen. I don’t know what percentage of violent incidents are fueled by untreated mental illness or deep emotional instability, versus those driven by hate or ideology. But I do know that when someone loses connection with their own value or with reality, or when pain festers in silence, it can grow into something dangerous, something fatal. And until we address that openly and compassionately, we’re all at risk of becoming numb to the very behaviors that should shock us the most.
I’ve tried to raise my children with the values that I believe matter most. Love one another. Be kind, especially when it’s hard. It’s okay to not be okay, but you have to tell someone. When the world around you is falling apart, focus on what you can control, your reactions, your words, your integrity. But even those lessons are being tested more and more lately. It’s hard to explain to your child why someone would walk into a school and take lives. It’s hard to answer their questions about why people choose hate. And it’s hard to pretend we have all the answers when we don’t.
But even in the face of all of this, I still believe in the power of hope. I believe in raising children who question injustice, who stand up for others, who lead with empathy. I believe in reminding them that they are not alone. That there is help when they need it. That their lives have value beyond measure. My daughter carries her brother’s memory in everything she does, and she is stronger than I ever imagined. She is growing up in a world that doesn’t always make sense, but she is learning to navigate it with wisdom and grace.
To anyone reading this who feels overwhelmed by the chaos, who feels broken by the pain, you are not alone. The weight of the world is heavy, and sometimes it feels like too much. But you are still here. You are still trying. And that matters more than you know. Please, if you are struggling, reach out. There is no shame in asking for help. There is only strength in deciding to stay.
We are forever changed. But we keep going. We keep showing up for others and for ourselves. We keep loving. And in doing so, we hold onto the hope that even in a broken world, we can still raise children who heal it.