Going the Distance: What Grace Left Behind

Lauren Nixon-Matney • January 13, 2026
Going the Distance: What Grace Left Behind

Cake: The Distance

A black and white, pixelated reproduction of a historical photograph of William Wayne Brown, known as Cockeye Brown, smiling from inside his race car. Stars appear in the background incorporating it into the Searching for Stars universe: emphasizing legacy, endurance and remembrance.

I. The Light That Lingers


Before I knew her name, I knew her story.


They called her Aunt Grace. She wasn’t my aunt not by blood, anyway. But in the way that matters, she was something deeper. A woman who chose my family. A woman who lit the path for us long before I ever took my first breath.


She left behind a house in Hilltop Lakes, Texas. Fancy furniture. Antiques. Jewelry. A car. Stories. Maybe even secrets. She left behind a stockpile of wealth literal and legendary, but what I remember most about her legacy is the light she left behind.


Her name was Grace Brown. She was once married to a man named William Wayne “Cockeyed” Brown, a real deal American racecar driver who once hurled a Buick up Pike’s Peak like he had something to prove to the sky. He drove in the 1919 Indianapolis 500 and later opened a machine shop in Kansas City. There are still people out there-mechanics, historians, auto buffs who know his name and search for scraps of his legacy. This one’s for them, too.


They weren’t married long. But long enough to fall in deep. When William died, Grace didn’t just grieve she carried his name like a crown. And then she went on living. Boldly. Loudly. Generously. With dogs and furs and fast cars and good stories and light.


I never met her. But I’ve spent a lifetime walking the trail she left glowing behind her. 


History echoes. Especially when you’re listening.


Grace didn’t have children, but during the war she took in kids and teenagers and looked after them like Jo March from Jo’s Boys. That’s who she reminds me of, really. Fierce. Independent. Nurturing. She had poodles, not professors. Pearls, not pens. But she was a March girl in spirit. My daughter Maggie Jo’s middle name is Josephine, partly because of that.


When I was a child, Aunt Grace was a mythical figure. A glamorous, generous woman who helped my grandparents when they needed it most. She helped raise my mom, in a way. She gave us Hilltop Lakes. She gave us a second chance.


And then, years later when I was grown, folding laundry in an Arkansas living room with my mom… she gave me a mystery.



II. The Man at Full Speed


William Wayne Brown wasn’t just a racecar driver... he was the kind of man who treated the wheel like a compass and the open road like scripture.


Born in Dodge City, Kansas in 1886, William lived at a time when cars were still a curiosity. But he saw more than metal and rubber he saw possibility. He built, he raced, he invented. People called him “Cockeyed” because of the way he held his head while driving; tilted, unbothered, as if he was looking anywhere but straight ahead. But make no mistake: the man never took his eyes off the line.


In 1912, he won the Buick Trophy at Elm Ridge, driving a scorched up Model 10 he claimed to have bought for $150 after it had survived a garage fire. By the end of the race, he’d lapped the defending champion. That’s the kind of driver he was: raw, inventive, and just a little wild. The kind that made people sit forward in their seats.


Then came 1913. Pikes Peak. No roads. No rules. Just William, a 1910 “Bear Cat” Buick, and a mountain daring him to try. It took him five hours and twenty eight minutes to summit no GPS, no pit crew, no safety net. At the top, he drove his car right up the stairs of the Summit House, parked it at the highest point, and looked out like he owned the sky.


In 1919, he entered the Indianapolis 500, driving the No. 5 Richards Special. He qualified 17th with a Hudson Brett 6-cylinder engine, clocking just under 100 mph. He made it 14 laps before a mechanical failure took him out but by then, he’d already cemented himself in the ranks of American motor legends.


Later in life, William ran the W.W. Brown Machine Works in Kansas City—a hub of metal, motion, and mind. A place where he turned blueprints into power. He served on AAA’s racing technical committee and remained a fixture in the world of speed and innovation. Quietly, he stayed ahead of the curve until the very end.


He died in 1958. Buried in Mount Moriah Cemetery, Kansas City. But for those who know the roar of an engine or the smell of old oil and glory he never really stopped running.


William Wayne Brown didn’t just go the distance… he was the distance.



III. The Oil Stock That Went Missing


It started like so many family stories do, quietly.


I was in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Grown, folding laundry, living a regular Tuesday with my mom when she let it slip.


“You know,” she said, like she was mentioning the weather, “your uncle might’ve stolen Grace’s oil stock.”


I stopped folding. “What do you mean might’ve?”


And just like that, the legend cracked open.


The story, as it spilled out, went something like this:

After Grace passed in 1977, she left behind a lot. Not just money or stocks—though there were those. She left a house in Hilltop Lakes. Expensive jewelry. Antique furniture. Stories that could outshine diamonds. She left it all to my grandparents Robert and Helen in a Legacy Will. She chose them. She chose us.


At first, everything seemed in place. But then came the shift.


One of my uncles, who was an accountant, stepped in. Took on the role of executor. Said he could “handle it.” Things got quiet. Then odd. Then quiet again.


The oil stock supposedly a physical paper certificate was never filed with the rest of her assets. It was just… gone.


“Misplaced,” they said.


Which is one of those words that sounds innocent until you repeat it a few times.

Misplaced. Misplaced? Like how do you misplace oil stock…Really?


And somehow, not long after that supposedly, my aunt and uncle’s life took a turn toward the glossy. New job. Big house in Sugar Land, Texas. A pool. Business trips. Rome. The Vatican. A rumor that his boss paid for him to go see the Pope. The kind of perks not often handed out to just any accountant or controller for an oil and gas company. Or maybe they were, I have no clue!


My mom said my grandfather had written a letter she and my Nanny found once while snooping. It said he knew something wasn’t right. That he had plans to take legal action. Said the money was missing. One day, he went to the bank to pick up a prescription or something and the account was empty or drastically low on funds. That letter was supposedly found tucked away in a drawer at my aunt’s house. Apparently, it wasn’t meant to be seen again. 


I never saw it. But the story found me. And it never let go.


It stuck to me like dust on an old road. One of those family mysteries that never quite gets resolved. Like someone turned the page too early and the rest of the chapter blew away.


I don’t know if the oil stock was stolen or if it really existed. I don’t know what actually happened in those months after Grace passed. I don’t know if anyone truly does anymore.


But I know this:


My grandfather was a kind, honorable man. A World War II veteran. A helper. A light. Well loved and respected by all who knew him. And, while I didn’t have the honor of getting to know him myself he remains one of my greatest heroes. He loved my dad like the son he never had, and my dad loved him right back. My Dad said my grandfather never trusted my uncle thought he was a crook, and I can’t help but trust my Dad.


When someone hurts people like that, even quietly, you remember. You carry it.


Not as a grudge. But as a warning. A note-to-self.


Don’t let the truth go missing.

Don’t let light slip through the cracks.

And don’t let “misplaced” be the last word on anything that mattered.



IV. The Battle for Grace


Before there was a missing oil stock, there was a courtroom.

And before there was a courtroom, there was a decision.


At one point in her life, Grace was affiliated with Christian Science. It’s not something many people in my family talked about, but it’s part of her story. That chapter of her life shows up in the early paperwork tied to her estate, in receipts, filings, quiet traces of where her loyalties once were.


But by the time she met my grandparents, Robert and Helen, something shifted.


She chose them. With her time, her love, her light and eventually, with her will.


And somewhere along the way, that choice became contested.


What followed was not just paperwork or quiet processing behind a desk. It moved into something more formal. A legal dispute. Depositions. Attorneys. Questions asked and answered under oath.


I’ve seen the documents. We paid for copies of the public court records years ago. I’ve held the deposition of my grandfather in my hands. This part isn’t rumor or secondhand memory. This part is real.


They questioned him. Pressed him. Looked for cracks in the story. Tried to understand how a woman with no biological children could choose to leave so much to people who were not, by blood, her own.


And he answered.


Robert Kowalewski, a veteran, a husband, a father and a quiet man of faith, stood in that space and spoke plainly. He didn’t posture. He didn’t perform. He didn’t try to outmaneuver anyone in the room.


He told the truth.


He said she changed her mind.

He said she changed her heart.

He said she chose us.


And in the end, that choice held.


Her final wishes stood. Her belongings, her home, her legacy passed into the hands she trusted to carry them forward. Not because of pressure. Not because of influence. But because that is what she wanted.


That courtroom battle is rarely talked about now. But to me, it’s one of the most sacred parts of the story.


Because it wasn’t just about wealth or ownership. It was about something quieter. Something harder to prove and easier to overlook.


It was about choice. About loyalty. About a voice that could have been rewritten but wasn’t.


Grace had no biological children, but she knew how to leave a mark on the world.


She left it in stories and rooms filled with presence.

She left it in my mother’s childhood.

She left it in the way she changed the course of our lives.


And my grandfather made sure that what she chose did not disappear in the noise.


If there’s a quieter kind of heroism, I don’t know it.



V. What Grace Really Left Behind


The oil stock may have vanished, but Grace left behind something you couldn’t lose even if you tried.


She left behind light.


Not the kind you can measure in wattage or worth. The kind that spills into a family quietly, in stories, in laughter, in the places she made possible. She left it in the rooms she filled with joy, in the friendships she formed with people who weren’t hers by blood but became hers by heart.


And that’s what Grace really left us. Not oil. Not bank accounts. Not property, though there was plenty of that. What she gave us was the kind of wealth you don’t measure in dollars. She gave us the freedom to grow into our own version of family. To rise out of hardship with our dignity intact. She gave us proof that chosen family is real. That light doesn’t ask for a blood test. That generosity, once given, never really dies.


She chose us. And we’ve spent every generation since trying to live up to that.



VI. Going the Distance 


Maybe the stock is still out there somewhere.

Tucked into a drawer. Folded inside a file.

Forgotten or hidden by hands that never quite knew what they were holding.


Or maybe they knew exactly what they were holding.

Maybe that stock didn’t vanish.

Maybe it became a company. A salary. A job title.

A new future someone always wanted but never earned.

A quiet fortune built on someone else’s legacy.

Maybe the oil wasn’t just underground—it was underhanded. Or maybe it wasn’t?


But maybe, just maybe it was never really about the stock.


Maybe it was always about the light.


Maybe Grace knew.

Maybe William did too.

Maybe they left just enough of a trail for the rest of us to find them.


Not with court records or receipts.

But with stories. Legends. Mysteries.


Somewhere, William’s still racing.

Somewhere, Grace is laughing in fur and pearls.

Somewhere, my grandfather’s standing in a courtroom, speaking softly but with the weight of something true behind him.


And somewhere in that same light, we’re still going the distance.

Not for glory. Not for gold.

But because they went first.

Because they left a map.

Because love, once chosen, doesn’t disappear.


It just keeps running….



VII. Legacy in Motion: A Soundtrack for Cockeyed Brown


There’s a song that plays in my head every time I think about William Wayne Brown. It’s not old. It’s not vintage. It’s not something from his era at all. It’s from mine.


CAKE.

The 90s.

“Going the Distance.”


It hits with that deep, grinding bassline like rubber chewing pavement and never lets up. You hear it once, and you feel like you’re behind the wheel of something that might fall apart at 120 mph but will look damn good doing it.


He’s going the distance.

He’s going for speed.


It’s the kind of song that doesn’t just describe a race it is one. Breathless, relentless, filled with a kind of dry, smart, understated swagger that only a band like CAKE could pull off. Monotone vocals over adrenaline. Desperation under cool. It’s the kind of track that played in the background of a hundred chaotic afternoons in my teenage years—on burned CDs, late-night drives, folding laundry with angst and purpose.


And somehow, even now, all these years later, it still makes me think of Cockeyed Brown.


Not because he knew the song. But because the song knows him.


It’s in the rhythm. The power. The single-minded obsession of it all. The way the song never slows down. The way it pushes forward, track after track, refusing to pull over even when the engine’s smoking.


That was William Wayne “Cockeyed” Brown.

The original. The blueprint. The driver before drivers knew what was possible.

When I hear CAKE, I don’t just hear music. I hear legacy in motion.


And I can’t help but think:

He was going the distance.


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Searching For Stars

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.

You Taught Me Beauty Even When We Were Drowning in Disaster: A Letter of Light for My Mom

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
You taught me beauty even when we were drowning in disaster: A Letter of Light for My Mom Mother and daughter relationships … it’s not always simple. Ours hasn’t been. We’ve lived through seasons that were heavy. Times when we didn’t understand each other. Moments that felt bigger than either of us knew how to handle. Days that felt like they might break us! You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was young. Less than a year after you divorced my dad, and the same year your mom died while she was the only lifeline to our sanity. It was part of our life whether I understood it or not at the time. Looking back now, I can see that you were carrying more than I ever could have understood. Pain, loss, and things that don’t just disappear because life keeps moving forward. And still, you kept going. Imperfectly in motion… most days. I always seem to travel back in my mind to this one beautiful memory. It was Halloween, and the carnival had set up in our small town like it did every year. It had always been my favorite part of the season, that and the homecoming dance. But that year was different. We had no money. You were in bed, recovering from surgery, hurting, exhausted, heartbroken and carrying more than most should ever have to. I remember coming into your room and telling you it was okay. That we didn’t have to go. You were lying there nibbling saltine crackers, barely able to move. But you got up. You started digging through the house. Lifting chair cushions. Emptying old purses. Checking pockets. Looking anywhere you thought there might be something left behind. We found fourteen dollars and some change. And we went. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. And somehow, it became one of the best fall memories I have. You chose to get up. You chose to push through pain, through exhaustion, through everything you were carrying, just to give me those moments. You showed up for me when it would have been easier not to. And that matters more than I think you knew then. You also told me I was beautiful. I remember that too. Mornings before school, standing there in whatever version of myself I had put together, and you would look at me and tell me I was pretty. That I looked good. That you were proud of me. You grew up in a time where beauty had rules. Where thin meant pretty. Where anything outside of that felt like something to fix or hide. And even with that, you still tried to give me something softer. You tried to build me up. You taught me beauty even when we were drowning in disaster. I didn’t understand that then. But I do now. The other day, I was sitting in the bath and noticed the veins on my legs. The kind that come with time. With life. With three pregnancies. With everything the body carries. And I didn’t hate them. I actually thought they were kind of beautiful. And instead of seeing something to hide, I thought of you. I remembered being little and noticing the same thing on you. The way they looked like constellations to me. Like little lines of light. Something interesting. Something beautiful. That never changed. Somewhere along the way, the world tried to teach different definitions. But that part of me stayed the same. And I think you had something to do with that. We haven’t always agreed. We still don’t. We see things differently sometimes. We come from different generations, different experiences, different ways of understanding the world. But I can see that you were trying, even when it felt impossible, even on days when you had mostly given up otherwise. Trying to love me. Trying to build me up. Trying to give me something steady, even when it felt like we were running on quick sand! And whether you meant to or not, mostly it worked. Now I’m a Mom. And that changes everything. Not in a perfect, tied up way. Just in a way that makes things clearer. I understand things from a different perspective than I did before. I understand how much we carry. How easy it is to fall short. How complicated love can be when you are still learning to love yourself… while also trying to raise someone else! I see now how much we carry without meaning to. How things pass through us. How easily they repeat if we don’t stop and look at them. Time keeps moving. Everything shifts, even when we don’t notice it happening. It always does. One season into the next. One version of us into another. You don’t always notice it while you’re in it. All we are is dust in the wind. And still… somehow, what we give each other is eternal. What we choose to carry forward still matters. What we soften, what we heal, what we change, even a little, still matters. It ripples. I know I won’t get everything right either. I already don’t. I know there will be things my daughters will one day have to come to terms with in their own time. Things I wish I could do better. Things I am still learning. There will be things my girls will have to understand about me one day, just like I had to understand you. Hope isn’t something that just breaks and disappears. It doesn’t work like that. It comes back. It repeats. It finds its way in again and again, even when you think it’s gone. Everything moves. Everything spirals. Things come and go. But somehow, hope restores. So I hope they always know They are safe with me. They are loved. May they always have the courage within themselves to be themselves. I hope they feel understood, even when I don’t say it perfectly. I hope they grow up strong, knowing they are allowed to take up space. Not for being perfect. Not for fitting into some mold. Just for being exactly who they are. And they are allowed to grow. To make mistakes. To change. To become something new over and over again without thinking they missed their chance. Because that’s what we do. We carry what we were given. And then, little by little, we decide what to do with it. And through all of it… through everything that changed, and everything that didn’t… I hope they feel seen. And I hope they know that being human means getting things wrong sometimes. That mistakes are not the end of the story. That they’re part of how we learn, grow, and keep evolving. Just like we did. Just like we’re still doing! And through all of it, through everything we have been and everything we are still growing into… I truly am grateful that you are my mother.

With a Little Love and Some Tenderness: A Letter of Light for Becky Greer

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
With a Little Love and Some Tenderness: A Letter of Light for Becky Greer With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what it takes, isn’t it? Not just to raise children, but to shape them. To steady them. To leave something behind that lasts longer than the moment itself. We talk a lot about our mothers when we talk about who we become. And rightfully so. But there are other women, too. The ones who stand beside them. The ones who show up in the background, in the in-between, in the everyday moments that don’t seem big at the time. The ones who fill in the gaps, step into ordinary days, and leave fingerprints all over a childhood without ever needing credit for it. You were one of those women for me. I remember you as light. Summer. Baseball somewhere in the distance. Music playing with the windows down. That kind of 90s joy that felt easy and full and alive. You had the most beautiful smile, the kind that made everything feel a little more fun, a little more possible. You were creative in ways that stuck. I still think about the way you wrapped birthday presents in newspaper comics, like even the outside of the gift deserved to be part of the magic. But what stays with me most is the way you cared. I had long, thick hair, and brushing it was always a battle. Tears, frustration, the whole thing. And I can still see you sitting down with my mom, calm and sure, saying, “Liz, you’re doing it wrong,” then showing her how to start at the bottom and work her way up. Taking something overwhelming and turning it into something gentle. I think about you almost every time I brush my daughter’s hair. That small moment didn’t stay small. It kept going. From you, to my mom, to me, and now to her. That’s how you helped shape me. Not in some loud, obvious way. But in the quiet kind of way that actually lasts. I have this vivid memory I can almost still see so clearly. Like a safe place in my mind I often wander… My mom was in the hospital. It was a hard season. My brother and I stayed with different families, trying to keep some sense of normal. But I remember begging to stay at your house. I just wanted to be there. With you. With my brother. In that space that felt safe and fun and full of life. And they let me! I remember Mickey Mouse pancakes in the morning. I remember you brushing my hair, gentle and patient. I remember sitting in the living room watching the Ewok movie, just feeling… okay. Taken care of. Like everything was going to be alright, safe and steady in a way that settled deep emotionally and stayed with me. That kind of tenderness doesn’t fade. It follows you. It shows up later when you’re making pancakes for your own kids, when you’re brushing their hair, when you’re trying to create that same feeling of comfort and steadiness for them. You gave that kind of care without making it a big thing. You just lived it. Every Christmas, like clockwork. That peanut butter fudge that didn’t stand a chance in our house. My dad and I would practically race to it, hover over it like it was gold, knowing it wouldn’t last more than a day or two. It was that good. And now, not every year but close to it, I make it too. Somewhere along the way, it became part of my rhythm. Something I carry forward without even thinking about why. Something that reminds me of you and that time and that feeling. The same way I make Mickey Mouse pancakes for my kids from time to time. The same way I brush my daughter’s hair. The feeling of pure joy and nostalgia I get when I wrap my kids birthday presents. The way… because of you our family ended up with weenie dogs. Our very first one traced back to your house! It’s funny how something like that can become a such a huge part of your life, like a thread that keeps weaving through the years. How often even the smallest things are the ones that last the longest. And somewhere in the middle of all that, you took us to our first real concert. Dishwalla, The Refreshments, and Chalk Farm. I didn’t know it then, but that night unlocked something in me. A love for music that would go on to shape who I was becoming. A rhythm I’ve been following ever since. You were an incredible boy mom. Strong, fun, creative, full of life. But you were also something more than that. You were part of the village that helped raise us. Part of the constellation of women who shaped the way I see the world, the way I care for my own children, the way I move through memory and meaning now. I don’t know if people always realize the impact they have when they’re just being themselves. But I do. And I carry it with me. You left behind patterns. Ways of loving. Ways of showing up. Ways of making a child feel seen, safe, and at home. I don’t think those things ever really disappear. They just keep moving forward, showing up in new places, in new hands, in new generations. So thank you. For the love you gave so easily. For the tenderness you carried into ordinary moments and made them matter. For the joy, the creativity, the steadiness, and the care. With a little love and some tenderness. That’s what you gave. It never left. It’s still moving. It just keeps spiraling outward, finding its way into the lives it touches next.
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