In May 2026, the man who took my daughter’s life was sentenced, and for the first time in a long time, I could exhale.
For months, anxiety had been living in my chest like an unwelcome tenant. Every unanswered question, every delay, every possibility of what might happen next kept its bags packed by the door. Even on quiet days, my mind was listening for the next shoe to drop.
Sentencing finally cemented that door shut.
There was relief. Real relief. I could put down one piece of the weight I had been carrying without wondering when someone would hand it right back, but I still had to walk out of that courtroom and live without my daughter.
It is October 2026 now. The world has moved through summer and into fall. Leaves are changing, people are making plans, and life keeps turning the page. Some days, I feel like I am still standing in the same paragraph, reading a sentence I cannot make sense of.
Katarina is gone.
I know those words are true. I live inside the consequences of them every day, but knowing something and being able to accept it are two very different things.
He continued to lie about how much he drank, how fast he was going, and about looking at his phone while we were stopped at that red light. I used to think that maybe hearing the truth from his mouth would give me something I needed.
Now, those lies no longer take up the same space in me. I know what happened. I do not need his honesty to make my daughter’s life matter.
Even if he finally told the whole truth, I would still come home without her.
That is the part no courtroom could fix.
I will never get the closure I need. There is no explanation that could make this feel finished, no answer that could neatly fold this pain and put it away. I am learning that acceptance may mean carrying an unanswered question without spending the rest of my life waiting for someone else to answer it. I want to focus on what I can do. I want to honor Katarina. I want to change the world in her name, even if that change happens one person, one act of kindness, one difficult conversation at a time.
But wanting to build something meaningful does not make the grief easier to survive.
Almost every day, it is unbearable.
I stay busy because stillness can be frightening. I fill the hours with things to do, things to organize, things to create. From the outside, that might look like strength. Sometimes it is. Other times, it is me trying to keep enough noise in the room that I cannot hear what is happening inside my own head.
Since the crash, I have experienced thoughts of hurting myself and ending my life. Those thoughts are new to me, and they scare me. I had never dealt with anything like this before.
It is hard to admit that publicly. It is even harder to live with it privately.
People see the advocacy, the posts, the plans, and the determination. They do not always see what happens when the day is over, and there is nothing left to distract me. They do not hear the inner monologue I am trying so hard to quiet.
I have not found a reliable way to cope yet. I wish I could write that I have figured it out, that time has softened everything, that I have some beautiful wisdom to offer.
The honest answer is that I am still struggling.
I can feel relief about sentencing and still need help getting through the evening. I can love the work I do in Katarina’s name and still feel completely overwhelmed by the life I am living without her. Both are true, sometimes within the same hour.
I need to give myself room to say that.
I want to learn how to honor her without running myself into the ground. I want to make room for support that reaches beyond keeping busy. My pain deserves attention, even when I can get dressed, show up, and make people laugh. I do not know exactly what the next season will look like. Right now, hope is small. It looks like believing there may be ways to make the hardest hours more manageable, even though I have not found them yet.
Katarina’s name will continue to be spoken. Her life will continue to matter. I want the love I have for her to reach people she never had the chance to meet, and somewhere in that work, I want to learn how to care for the mother who misses her.
If you have experienced relief after a long, painful chapter ended, only to discover that the grief was still waiting for you, I would love to hear from you. What helped you face the quiet? What kind of support made it easier to be honest about how you were really doing?
You are welcome to share what you feel comfortable sharing in the comments. You do not have to wrap it in a happy ending.