There are some months that don’t simply arrive…they settle into your chest before the calendar even turns.
For me, June has always been that month.
The month where memories feel louder.
The month where my heart remembers before my mind even catches up.
The month where grief and gratitude somehow sit side by side like old friends who never fully leave.
This June carries two significant milestones for me as Garret’s mom.
On June 21st, he would have celebrated his 21st birthday — his golden birthday.
And on June 27th, it will mark 20 years since he went to Heaven.
Twenty years.
Sometimes that number feels impossible to say out loud because part of me still remembers him exactly as he was — his giggle, his personality, the way he crawled all around a room, the little things only a mother notices and never forgets.
People sometimes think grief fades because time passes.
But grief doesn’t disappear.
Love doesn’t disappear.
Instead, grief changes shape.
It softens in some places and deepens in others.
It teaches you how to carry someone differently.
Over the years, I’ve learned that honoring someone isn’t always about grand gestures.
Sometimes it’s in the small things.
It’s telling their stories.
It’s saying their name out loud.
It’s refusing to let the world move on as if they didn’t matter.
It’s creating businesses, books, conversations, cards, and communities rooted in the very love they left behind.
Honestly… Butterflies + Halos was born from grief.
Not just sadness.
Love.
The kind of love that still needed somewhere to go.
After losing Garret, and later my husband Jack, I realized how deeply people struggle with knowing what to say when life falls apart. I also realized how many grieving people feel unseen once the casseroles stop coming and the world moves forward.
So I started writing the words I wish more people had said.
The honest words.
The comforting words.
The awkward-but-real words.
The “I don’t know how to fix this, but I’m here” words.
That became my why.
And even now, 20 years later, Garret is still part of every piece of this business.
He is woven into the hope.
Into the empathy.
Into the softness.
Into the resilience.
People often ask me how I’ve survived all of this.
The truth?
Some days I survived because I had no other option.
Some days I survived because faith carried me.
Some days I survived because people showed up.
And some days I survived simply because I knew love this deep had to mean something.
Over time, I also learned something important:
Keeping someone’s memory alive doesn’t require perfection.
You don’t have to do elaborate memorials or force yourself to grieve a certain way.
You can honor someone quietly.
By cooking their favorite meal.
By sharing their stories.
By lighting a candle.
By supporting a cause they loved.
By laughing at memories instead of only crying over them.
By living a life that carries pieces of them forward.
That’s part of why I created things like Sips of Sunshine too.
Because grief can feel incredibly lonely in the quiet moments.
Sometimes people don’t need advice.
They just need someone to sit beside them in the dark for a few minutes and remind them they’re not losing their mind.
Sips of Sunshine became that for so many people.
Little moments of encouragement.
Honest conversations.
Tiny reminders that healing doesn’t always look inspirational.
Sometimes healing looks like surviving Tuesday.
And maybe that’s what I hope people feel when they land here too:
Not fixed.
Not rushed.
Not pressured to “move on.”
Just seen.
So if June is heavy for you too…
If you’re carrying anniversaries, birthdays, memories, or invisible grief…
I hope this reminds you that love does not end simply because someone is gone.
We carry them forward.
In stories.
In traditions.
In the way we love others.
In the way we survive.
In the way we keep saying their names.
Twenty years later…
I still say his name.
Garret.
And I always will.