When Time Tilts: Reflections on 26 Years, Love, and What Remains

There is a particular kind of grief that arrives quietly, carried in numbers.

This year, Lara would have turned twenty-six. With that number comes a realization that returns to me again and again: the years since her death continue to grow, and one day they will outnumber the years she lived. I feel that shift approaching like a slow tilt of the earth—not abrupt, but undeniable.

What surprises me most is how much this grief is about time, not just loss.

In the early years after Lara’s death, time felt sharp and unforgiving. Each year without her was heavy and loud. Memories were close, almost pressing in on me. Her presence felt immediate, even in her absence.

Over time, something else has happened. Life has continued—as it does. And sometimes, unexpectedly, she feels farther away. Not gone. Not forgotten. Just not as near to the surface of daily life.

This is where a quieter fear emerges: If time keeps moving forward, what happens to memory?

I notice this most around birthdays and anniversaries. It’s not that I am forgetting Lara—it’s that remembering now requires intention. And that can feel unsettling, as though the passage of years might soften what once felt so vivid and unshakable.

Alongside this is another layer of grief: watching my older daughter move forward into her own life. This is the natural rhythm of things, and still, it stirs something tender. There was a time when my identity was rooted in active mothering—two children, constant movement, constant need. Loving Lara required urgency: advocacy, vigilance, presence at every level. Meaning lived in every hour because care was non-negotiable.

Now, life is slower.

The quiet can feel peaceful, and at other times, disorienting. There is space where intensity once lived. Silence where there was once noise. And I find myself asking questions I didn’t have time to ask before: Who am I now? Where does meaning live when caregiving no longer defines my days?

Faith meets me here—not as an answer, but as a companion.

I don’t believe time diminishes love. I believe it changes the way love is held. I trust that Lara is held in a way that does not fade, known in a way that does not require effort, and at peace in a realm where time does not keep score.

Perhaps the invitation is not to fight the passing of years, but to trust that what was sacred does not disappear simply because life continues.

This, I have come to understand, is part of post-traumatic growth—not the absence of grief, but the widening of the heart around it. Loving Lara reshaped my capacity for compassion, patience, and reverence for life’s fragility. She continues to guide my work, my faith, and the way I sit with others in their suffering.

Grief evolves, just as love does. It deepens, quiets, and asks different questions over time. And faith—when I allow it—whispers that nothing entrusted to God is ever truly lost.

So today, as time tilts again, I hold both what was and what is.

May what was given be blessed.

May what remains be held.

And may love, in all its forms, continue to unfold.