I’ve always believed that some of the strongest bonds are forged through tragedy, but I never truly understood how true that could be until it happened to me. Five years ago, my husband Justin was taken from me, and not a single day goes by that I don’t relive the circumstances of his death. A stray bullet—so improbable it felt impossible—struck him just three days after I had given birth to our son. In that instant, I not only lost my high school sweetheart and husband of ten years, but I was forced to bear witness to his death firsthand.
The bullet came from our backyard neighbor’s 9-millimeter semi-automatic handgun. It traveled more than 200 yards, smashing through our back window, cutting across our living room, and finally hitting Justin in the head. My postpartum body, weak and raw, found the strength to drag me to his side. I fought the urge to touch his blood-covered hair, terrified of what I might see. Family had to pry me away, and I rushed to my infant son, Jax, whispering, “I need to nurse him. It’s been too long.” Justin had died instantly, and overnight, I became a grief-stricken widow, hollowed out and closed off from the world, a shell of the woman I once was.
At the moment of that horrifying impact, five people were present: me, Jax, Tammy (Justin’s stepmom), Lori (Justin’s aunt), and Shelby (Justin’s 22-year-old cousin). Jax thankfully has no memory of the tragedy, but for the rest of us, that day left invisible scars that will stay with us forever. Shelby was holding my baby moments before Justin was shot, a picture frozen in time—a reminder of the fragility of life.
After Justin’s funeral, Shelby returned to her hometown of Lakeland to attend the funeral of one of her closest friends. Though she and I had never been close—she was nine years my junior and lived five hours away—we began communicating months after Justin’s death. Both of us were navigating the aftermath of trauma, and despite our differences, we understood each other in a way no one else could. Shelby felt trapped in her own post-trauma body while adjusting back to college life, and I was learning how to exist in a world without Justin. Somehow, our shared pain became the bridge between us.
Months later, Shelby came to stay with me and Jax. When I opened the door, tears streamed down my face as I embraced her—it felt like finding a sister I never knew I had. That sense of comfort, that rare peace, continued throughout our time together. She took me to lunch, and it was the first time since Justin’s death that I had ventured out alone. When the waiter came to take our order, we glanced at each other and said, “Margarita?”—and I laughed for the first time in over two months.
Shelby stayed with us on and off over the next year, often sharing the room with Jax and me. Jax was the first baby she had ever held, and caring for him helped her quiet the haunting images and sounds from that day. My PTSD hit in waves, but Shelby’s presence eased the weight. She would hand me burp cloths, diapers, a bottle of water, coffee, or even a glass of wine in the evenings. My mother had always been my right-hand with Jax, but Shelby allowed her to take a break. Unlike most help, which is temporary, Shelby and I were bound together by trauma; our brains were frozen in time, and the only way to breathe was to rely on each other.
Over the next three years, our lives evolved in remarkable ways. Shelby changed her undergraduate major, entered graduate school in a new field, moved multiple times, and transformed from a fragile, trauma-stricken young woman into a confident, resilient adult. I bought a house, returned to college, began singing professionally again, and fell in love with Don, my now-husband. Shelby first met Don at Jax’s second birthday party. Even though our relationship with Don was new, she could see the depth of our connection. That weekend, I had to surrender my “sleeping buddy” to make room for my new love, just as Shelby would later make room for her future partner, Nick.
Last year, I married Don in a beautiful beachside ceremony. When it came time to choose my maid of honor, there was only one choice—Shelby. Her speech captured the heart of our journey: the tragedy that brought us together had also shown us that good things could emerge from unbearable pain. She reminded everyone that our bond was born from grief, but it blossomed into hope, love, and resilience. Not a single eye remained dry that day.
To my soul sister, Shelby: Thank you for needing me when I needed you most. Our shared healing, born from heartbreak, will always be one of the most precious chapters of my life. Even in the midst of trauma, we found each other—and in that connection, we found light.
