April 10th – Choosing to Remember Her Life

Today marks six years since my daughter, Cassie, took her final breath.

She passed away on Good Friday—April 10th, 2020.
And while both dates carry weight, April 10th is the one that settles deepest into my chest.

It is the day I relive.

Every hour.
Every minute.

I find myself walking back through that day as if it is happening all over again. I remember what 7:00 a.m. felt like. I remember the shift change, when new nurses came in. I remember the moments leading up to 1:16 p.m.—the moment she left this earth.

My body remembers.
My heart remembers.
There are parts of me that never left that room.

Her death was traumatic, long, painful, devastating, heartbreaking… and, at times, infuriating.
All of it. All at once.

And this morning, just like every April 10th, I woke up feeling the weight of it.

Heavy.
Paralyzed.
Like something was pressing down on my entire body.

Even getting out of bed felt like more than I could handle—but I did it anyway. And today, I’m calling that what it is: a victory.

I got dressed.
I sat in my closet, looking at the pictures taped to the back of the door—photos of my baby girl in the best moments of her life. The real moments. The joyful ones. The ones that tell the fuller story of who she was.

I talked to her.
I prayed.
I cried.

And then I did something simple, but necessary—I took the dogs for a walk.

As I walked, I tried to breathe in the day instead of resist it. I looked for God’s presence in the quiet things—the air, the movement, the stillness. I asked Him for the strength I didn’t feel like I had.

And somewhere along that walk, I wrestled with a question I face every year:

Do I share today… or do I hide?

Because if I’m honest, I don’t want attention.
I don’t want sympathy.
I don’t want to explain this pain to anyone.

What I really want… is to disappear from the world for the day.

But then another thought came.

What if sharing isn’t about me?

What if it helps someone else who is walking through their own unbearable grief?
What if it reminds another grieving parent that they are not alone in reliving the hardest day of their life?
What if it gives someone permission to feel what they feel… without apology?

So today, I made a choice.

Instead of staying in the trauma of how Cassie died…
Instead of focusing on the gaping hole her absence has left…

I am choosing to remember how she lived.

I am choosing to remember her laughter.
Her personality.
Her beauty.
Her presence in our family.

Because there were far more good moments than hard ones.

Far more laughter than tears.
Far more life than loss.

And that is the story I want to tell today.

Not because the pain isn’t real—it is. It always will be.
But because her life deserves to be remembered just as much as her death.

So today, I’m sharing pictures of my girl.
Moments of joy.
Moments of love.
Moments that reflect who she truly was.

My daughter.
My Cassie.
Forever loved. Forever missed. Forever part of me.

And if you’re reading this while carrying your own grief—especially the kind that replays itself in minutes and moments—I want you to know this:

You are not alone in that.