Some Days Legacy Feels Heavy

Some Days Legacy Feels Heavy

Most days, I talk about Samson with strength. I talk about legacy, about impact, about the charity, about all the good that continues in his name. And all of that is true.

But today isn’t a strong day. Today is a tender one.

I’ve had a lot of doctor appointments lately, and every time I walk into a clinic, my body remembers walking into the hospital with Samson. I remember the smell, the sounds, the waiting rooms, the way the nurses gently tried to prepare me for the worst. I remember holding on to hope with everything I had because he was in surgery and I believed — truly believed — he would make it through. He was my boy. My shining star. How could he not?

Grief doesn’t always knock politely. Sometimes it rushes back in through memories you didn’t expect to open.

Even driving has been hard this week. My car broke down, and I was given a newer loaner with all the safety features. It slowed down on its own. It braked for me. It paused before I even reacted. And my heart…my heart went straight to that place every grieving parent knows too well — the “what if” place.

What if we had gotten him a newer car?
What if something had been different?
What if I could have saved him?

I know in my head that love doesn’t come with the power to rewrite the past. But grief doesn’t live in the head. It lives in the heart. And sometimes the heart just aches for another chance to protect the one it couldn’t keep.

I sit in my office surrounded by signs from the hospital — reminders of the fight, the prayers, the love that filled those days. They are proof of how deeply he was cared for. But they are also reminders of how deeply he is missed.

Two thousand people came to his funeral. Two thousand lives touched by one boy’s light. That tells me he will never be forgotten. And yet, as a mom, I still feel this quiet panic sometimes — if I slow down, if the charity isn’t growing fast enough, if I don’t do enough… will the world move on without him?

The truth is, I’m tired. Grief is heavy. Running a charity in your child’s name is meaningful and beautiful, but it is also emotional work layered on top of loss. Some days I feel strong and purposeful. Some days I feel spread thin and afraid I’m failing him.

But here is the truth I’m learning to hold gently:
Legacy isn’t measured in meetings, posts, or growth charts. Legacy is measured in love. And Samson was loved loudly, deeply, and by so many.

He was my music buddy, my dancing partner, my confidante, my joy. His laugh could fill a room and pull laughter out of anyone nearby. That kind of light doesn’t disappear. It echoes. It lives on in the people who knew him, in the love we share, and in the ways we keep choosing kindness because of him.

Some days legacy looks like strength.
Some days legacy looks like tears in an office chair.

Both are love. Both are remembering. Both are part of carrying him forward.

If today is a heavy day for you too, you’re not alone. Missing someone this deeply is proof of how deeply you loved.

And I will always be proud to be his mom.