Each year, around Memorial Weekend, I find myself reflecting deeply on the life and legacy of my cousin Kristi. I’ve written tributes, shared memories, and tried in my own small way to keep her spirit alive. As I scrolled through my past writings, I found this post from May 2024. I nearly forgot the milestone it captured.
My son, my firstborn, had just graduated. It was one of the most emotional moments of my life—a blend of deep pride and aching loss. I couldn’t help but imagine what Kristi might’ve felt had she watched her own child walk that stage. Instead, I watched mine, and I carried her memory with me.
This post honors them both. My son is stepping into his future. My cousin’s absence is still felt in every corner of mine. As I prepare to share my yearly tribute to Kristi, I wanted this post to go out first. This is what life is: joy and sorrow. It is grief and growth, all tangled together in the most beautiful, bittersweet dance.
Skelly ♥️
A Year Ago, | Then and Now
One year ago, my son graduated from high school—and I was swept up in emotions I hadn’t prepared for. It felt like a slow-motion movie. Part of me wanted to cry for my cousin Kristi, for the life she didn’t get to live out, for the milestones she didn’t get to witness. I was doing something she never could: watching my firstborn walk across a graduation stage.
But alongside that sorrow was joy. So much joy. I was so proud of this young man, stepping bravely into the unknown future.
That summer, we drove him to Wisconsin to start his next chapter, and it wrecked me. I had never felt such sadness and fear as I did when we left him there. To make it stranger, my daughter was away in Tennessee most of the summer, and for the first time, I experienced life without my kids under my roof. It was surreal.
Jason and I had time to reconnect, to breathe, and reflect. I thought often of Kristi, like I always do. Time moves fast, and the older I get, the more it seems to speed up. Now my daughter is preparing for high school, and my son has changed paths, following in his dad’s footsteps. They’re both back home for now, but even “home” is about to change again. That’s a story for another post.
Still, the ache remains. The memories, the milestones she missed, the weight of growing older while she never will. Kristi is still gone. And I’m still getting older, watching life rush forward.
My family understands the weight I carry during Memorial Weekend. They know I get anxious about traveling. They know I relive the good memories, and the one that changed everything. They respect my need to do things differently—because I never want to forget the person who shaped so much of who I am.
Kristi, this post is for you—my cousin, sister, and forever friend. Your humor, your fire, your joy for life—it’s all still with me. You made me braver. You pushed me to speak up, to rock the boat when necessary. So much of who I am is because of you. I miss you every day, and I’ll never stop honoring you.
Last year, it felt extra significant. My son, Tristan, chose to begin his senior trip over Memorial Weekend with a road trip to Wray, Colorado—Kristi’s hometown. It was a place filled with memories that shaped me. Knowing it meant something to him, too, was sweet to me.
I was a mess. I cried when he drove away. My nerves were shot, but I was still excited for the whole time. Above all, I was proud. I was proud of who he was. He loved his family deeply. He chose to honor this side of it.
Kristi would’ve been proud too.
SK-
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