As some of you know, I’ve faced every mother’s worst nightmare.
I was driving that day, having just pulled away from a gas station. I double-checked every buckle on every car seat, then began the curvy, mountainous road toward my family’s house. My son—my wild, fearless little boy—was notorious for unbuckling himself the moment I wasn’t looking.
“The Flash doesn’t wear a seat belt, mama,” he’d say, grinning. “I’m The Flash.”
We’d tried everything: five-point harnesses, booster seats, even zip ties at one point (definitely not safe, in hindsight). But for him, it was always a challenge—a superhero mission—and he always succeeded. On any given trip, I would pull over three or four times, each time firmly buckling him in again.
We were only five minutes down the road when a large rock rolled into my lane. In that instant, I had three terrible choices: straddle the rock, swerve into the oncoming lane (a double-lined curve with a furious river just beyond), or hit the rock. I chose the rock. I chose wrong.
And in that split second, I didn’t realize both my sons—my four-year-old and eight-year-old—had unbuckled while switching seats.
The rock hit the axle and sent our van plummeting over the cliff’s edge. The 13-passenger van rolled violently, and my little boy, my pride and joy, was gone instantly. My life, our lives, were torn apart in seconds.
I remember being pinned between the console and the van itself, no airbag to protect me, blood everywhere. I fought to stay conscious, to save him, and then I blacked out.
When I came to, I found myself unbuckling my baby daughter from her car seat—upside down—while trying to rescue each of my five children. When I reached Titus, I lifted with all my strength, with my eight-year-old son trying to help, but it was no use. I could only see the lower half of his tiny body. I rubbed his stomach, tried gentle compressions. He was already gone.
It was instantaneous. That thought—knowing he felt no pain—has been my only small comfort. The paramedics arrived, but I refused treatment until I could hold him one last time. My other children were taken away to safety, and I was life-flighted, sedated, inconsolable, drowning in shock.
Two days later, I saw it on Facebook—news channels reporting my son’s death like a simple news item, strangers offering cruel commentary on my parenting. Some said I deserved it, that my children should be taken from me. I wanted to scream, to tell them how we had a special weekly McDonald’s date, how he built me Lego ships, how he always told me I was the best mama, how he napped holding my hand, dimpled fingers entwined in mine. But no one would have listened.
I write this now because I feel an urgent need to reach out to every mother: hold your babies tight.
I am not who I was before that day. Loss changes a person from the inside out. I’ve held my son’s lifeless body in the middle of a highway, screamed and begged God to bring him back. I’ve purchased a $200 superhero outfit for him to wear in his grave. I’ve kissed his corpse, traced his tiny features, held his still-dimpled hands, and even slept in a cemetery just to feel him close one more time. I talk to the earth where he rests, his blanket and Avengers outfit beside him.
If there’s one thing I want you to take from my story, it’s this: slow down. Watch the way your children eat, even their stubborn refusal to touch certain foods. Join them in their games, in their world of imagination. Let them be Captain America, Elsa, or The Flash. Take every hug, every kiss—even the twenty-fifth one that delays bedtime—and really hold them. Stop to notice the bugs, the rocks, the sunset.
Tell them you love them. Look them in the eyes. Tell them they can do anything they set their minds to. Sometimes grace matters more than perfection. Sometimes letting small things slide doesn’t ruin them—it nurtures them. And never judge another mother; we never know the battles she’s facing.
Go hug your babies right now. Smell their hair, feel the warmth of their hands, cherish the sloppy kisses. Set down your phone. Really see them. Nurse them, read with them, play with them, listen to their endless stories. Sleep can wait. Life can wait. These fleeting moments will never come back.
Mamas, hold your children tight. You are blessed beyond words to have these beautiful, unique little humans in your life.
From my heart to yours.
