My story… Our story… I’ve shared it in fragments, scribbled parts in dozens of notebooks, and lived it in a thousand ways. Words carry a weight—sometimes light and joyful, other times unbearably heavy. “Will you marry me?” “I do.” “Where do we sign?” “It’s a boy!” “It’s a girl!” These are the moments I hold close, the ones I revisit often with a smile.
And then, there are words that shatter the world.
I met Rosa in 2006, when she traveled from North Carolina to visit my home state of Washington. I was 19, she was nearly 18. We fell into each other’s worlds slowly at first, navigating long-distance, then being near. Rosa was my first love, my first kiss, my first of so many life-changing experiences. We married on March 12, 2011, and dove into a messy, joyful life together.
Over the next nine years, life tested us—and blessed us—in equal measure. A year after marrying, we bought a 90-year-old house, filled with dreams of restoring its old bones. A year later, our first child, Elliot, arrived, filling our home with laughter and chaos. Life felt full, rich, and real.
Then the hardships came. A year later, our garage burned down. As we rebuilt, I suffered a traumatic brain injury after falling twenty feet from a tree. Recovery was grueling, stretching over a year, but Rosa never left my side. Her presence was my anchor through every tear, every small victory, and every step back into my work as a hospital nurse.
A year after my accident, our daughter Juniper was born, and two years later, Iona completed our family of five. Life was far from perfect—hardly ever is—but we were strong, resilient, and deeply devoted to each other.
In 2019, with our growing family and the dream of finishing our home renovation, I began working in earnest, building and remodeling with my own hands. On March 6, 2020, we had just moved back into our construction-zone house after a week of inspections and electrical work. Rosa left to pick up Elliot (second grade) and Juniper (kindergarten), and I stayed behind working. Time slipped away until three unfamiliar vehicles appeared at the driveway. My heart froze as two men in dark uniforms approached: “Is there a place we can sit?”
The words I had feared—words that crush worlds—came next: “Your family has been in a car accident. Your wife and one of your daughters didn’t survive. Your other two children are in serious condition at the hospital.” An out-of-control driver had hit them head-on just over a mile from home.
In an instant, everything changed. The distance between me and my two surviving children felt unbearable. “I need to be with them!” I said, but first I showered, letting the water wash the tears from my face. “This can’t be real… It can’t be happening. It has to be true. This is not a joke!”
The following days blurred into an endless cycle of hugs and tears, hospital meetings with trauma doctors and surgeons, catching fleeting moments of sleep between alarms, and navigating ever-tightening Covid-19 restrictions. Six days later, I marked what should have been our ninth anniversary, surrounded by MRI machines and hospital chaos.
Elliot, then eight, had a broken femur, ruptured spleen, and multiple cuts. His resilience brought relief, yet I braced for the moment I had dreaded: telling him his mother and sister were gone. When that moment came, aided by a child-life specialist, Elliot closed his eyes, cried out, and clamped his hands over his ears, trying to shut out reality. Each push of the pain pump tore at my heart.
Iona, meanwhile, had suffered a skull fracture, traumatic brain injury, shattered lower leg, and facial fractures. Her journey through hospitalization and rehab stretched on until the end of March. When the moment was right, I had to share the same devastating news with her—a role I wore reluctantly but painfully.
In the midst of it all, I began journaling, almost instinctively speaking to Rosa:
“I see you in the morning sun, the warm glow lighting the world with your golden love. There is a flowering bush outside my window—pink blooms, and I see you.”
“Every sunrise and sunset reminds me of you, your golden hair, your golden love. My world is dimmer without you, but somehow also more alive because of the love you left behind.”
“I’ve been storing little memories of the kids, the things they do, to share with you, as I’ve done for a decade. I can’t text, snap, call… You feel so distant, and yet, right around the corner.”
“Elliot just won hospital bingo! I can imagine your overjoyed, bright face congratulating him. Brighter than a thousand suns.”
By day twelve, with Iona still in a brain-injury fog, we held a small, intimate funeral. Covid restrictions meant we couldn’t have the overflowing church service Rosa and Juniper deserved, but fifty hand-picked family and friends filled the pews, and thousands of yellow flowers honored those who couldn’t attend in person. The roadside was lined with hundreds paying silent respects—a fitting, Rosa-esque tribute to lives so deeply touched.
Rosa had a bubbly, encouraging personality, a love for knitting, baking, and her family. She dreamt of becoming a midwife, always balancing truth about parenting’s challenges with abundant love. Juniper, our middle child, mirrored her spirit: playful, clever, and endlessly loving. She brought joy to everyone, whether giving Iona a puppy-style walk or orchestrating games with cousins.
Once both children were home from the hospital, we settled at my parents’ house. Losing my partner, a daughter, my sense of home, and even my vocation (I resigned from nursing to become a full-time dad) nearly broke me—but hope kept me moving. That summer, we navigated a new family rhythm, taking road trips in a campervan I built, attending therapy, and enduring teary nights sparked by memories, pictures, or sunsets.
Just over a year later, we returned to our fully renovated home—a day before the anniversary of the accident. It is grounding, bittersweet, and hopeful. I homeschool Elliot, a new challenge that has given me profound respect for full-time parenting. Hope is my anchor now.
People ask how I’ve managed, and I can only say I keep breathing, trusting in God, and leaning into faith that has been tested yet strengthened. My counsel to anyone facing loss: feel everything, embrace grief, and give yourself grace. It is a marathon, not a sprint—and slowly, life moves forward.
