When I took my children back-to-school shopping this year, I only bought two backpacks instead of three. My oldest daughter, Lily, carefully picked a green backpack, plain and free of any childish characters—she’s 10, but already acts like she wants to be 16. My younger daughter, Reese, chose a bright purple backpack adorned with a “panda-corn,” because at six, she wants nothing more than to stay six forever.
My son, Levi, who should have been picking out his own little backpack in the same store, was absent. He was supposed to be in preK alongside his sisters, carrying a Paw Patrol bag proudly, following in their footsteps. But on June 10, 2018, while on vacation at a beach in Alabama, he slipped away from us for a brief moment during a non-swim time and drowned. He had worn a life jacket or puddle jumper all day, yet somehow, during the chaos of cleaning up after dinner, he wandered away, down a spiral staircase, and fell into the pool. I now know that a child under 30 pounds can drown in 30 seconds, and that nearly 70% of drownings happen during non-swim times.
So when we went school shopping, there was no little boy carrying his backpack with pride. And when I hang up their backpacks on the hooks by our garage door, one hook will always remain empty. Levi was supposed to start preK in the same school as his sisters—a school I also teach at. It had been part of the plan from the moment I became pregnant with him: all three kids in the same school, one drop-off, the same schedule, plenty of stolen hugs in the hallway, holding hands on the way to carline, and his big sisters desperately trying to rein in their wild little brother as he dashed through the hallways. We had dreamed of this for years. But now, the first day of school approaches, and it is nothing like the joy-filled vision we had imagined.
Fourteen months of grief may seem short, but when you’ve sat in the front row at your child’s funeral, every day afterward stretches into an eternity. I’ve discovered that the moments I brace for—anniversaries, first holidays, first birthdays—are not always the hardest. The hardest moments strike unexpectedly, when my guard is down, when grief hits without warning. Like when moving a dresser and finding one of his tiny Thomas the Train toys, or when Reese asks in the car, “Mom, how will we know what Levi wants from Santa this year? And how will we get those toys to him?” These are daggers that pierce the heart, sudden reminders that he is gone.
I thought I was prepared for back-to-school shopping this year, having faced it once before, tortuous as it was. I walked the aisles with my daughters, their excitement filling the store—the rustle of folders, the chatter, the sound of pencil boxes being tossed into carts. Reese’s small arms overflowed with crayons and Kleenex boxes, her grin bright and contagious. But for me, the world swirled around me. I stood there, forcing myself to be present for them, though the emptiness of Levi’s absence weighed heavily on my chest.
I’ve learned that grief must be handled one second at a time. My mind tried to borrow sadness from the future, already panicking over the first day of school—the empty cubby, the vacant PreK room, no little name-tag reading “Levi.” I had to stop myself, to focus only on the grief immediately in front of me, refusing to stack panic upon panic.
Last year, I thought my sadness would come solely from missing Levi, but the start of school brought a deeper ache. It marked the first season of life without him, a painful reminder that his absence is permanent. Each new season since has been colored by that same ache: Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries—they all pass without him, and yet we continue. We live in parallel lives, grieving our boy while striving to give our daughters the childhoods they deserve.
Most days appear normal. We do laundry, shuttle to dance class and softball games, referee sibling squabbles. Yet some moments are unbearable, when grief’s darkness pulls me close, testing my resolve. Grief is messy, and yet, I cling to the light that still exists. At Target, watching my daughters laugh and carry their supplies, I realized they are not merely surviving—they are thriving. Fourteen months ago, they stood at the edge of a world that had just shattered. And my husband and I have fought every day to ensure they didn’t lose us, too. Our friends, family, and their teachers have held us all up when we could not stand alone. There is so much goodness in the people around us, and it is helping our daughters live full, happy lives.
I cannot comprehend why I lost Levi, how the sudden death of a three-year-old could ever fit into a plan. Yet, every day, I choose to see the goodness in the world. I know what school mornings should look like: Levi walking into his classroom, glancing back at me, hanging his Paw Patrol backpack on his cubby, clinging to my leg until I leave. Lily would rescue him from tears, whispering promises of candy and slime, while Reese and he would pass each other in the hallway, giggling with delight. This is what should have been.
I wish I had known the true danger of drowning before June 10, 2018—that it takes seconds, often during ordinary, unguarded moments. I wish I could rewrite this chapter. But I cannot. I can only shape the chapters ahead. There will be sadness, anger, and milestones missed. But there will also be laughter, relationships, first-grade reading, fifth-grade fractions. Each day without Levi is unimaginable. Grief will never fully release its grip.
When I imagine the years ahead, still without him, it is paralyzing. Yet, I am acutely aware that my choices today will shape tomorrow. I choose to breathe, to advocate, to seek meaning in this loss. Grief is powerful, but I choose to believe that the beauty and love surrounding us—my daughters’ laughter, the goodness of others, our family’s resilience—are even stronger.
