When I’m lost and overwhelmed, when the chaos in my heart feels like too much to bear, I write. It’s the only way I know to make sense of the pain that courses through me. What you’re about to read is not polished or refined. It’s raw, unfiltered, and straight from the depths of my soul—my journal from the days after I lost my precious daughter, Zoe.
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JANUARY 29, 2010 - Today, I laid my daughter to rest. My heart trembles, and I feel like a hollow shell, disconnected from the world that once made sense. There’s an unbearable emptiness inside me, as if a part of my soul was buried with her. I’m too numb to cry, too afraid to confront the anger building within.
FEBRUARY 23, 2010 - Someone asked how I’m holding up today. How am I doing? That question feels like a cruel joke. I’m surviving, I guess—navigating through each day as if I’m piecing together the remnants of a shattered life. The thought that I might never feel whole again terrifies me. The void in my heart keeps growing; I’m shattered. Some days, the weight of grief is so suffocating, I struggle to breathe. I miss my daughter with such intensity that it feels like moving forward is impossible.
MARCH 4, 2010 - I haven’t slept in three days. Exhaustion consumes me, but my mind refuses to rest. Sleep is the only escape I crave, yet even that remains elusive. I’m utterly drained—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
MAY 31, 2010 - Chloe woke up at 2 a.m. today, standing in the doorway before breaking down, crying, “My sister is dead, my sister is dead. Mommy, when is she coming back to me?” Every time she hears a delivery truck, she rushes to the window, hoping it’s her sister coming home. But it never is. The last thing she remembers is a truck taking Zoe away, but it wasn’t a delivery truck—it was an ambulance. My heart aches for her, too.
JULY 11, 2010 - Today is my birthday, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s been nearly six months, and I still haven’t allowed myself to grieve fully. I’m terrified of what might happen if I do. People say I’ve changed, and it enrages me. How could I not change? What was once funny no longer amuses me. What I used to enjoy now feels meaningless. I have a daughter who needs me to be strong and a husband who needs my support. I barely have the energy to do more than that. Sometimes, I take long showers just to cry without anyone hearing. Even when surrounded by people, I feel utterly alone. I’m dying inside, and I can’t tell anyone.
HOSPITAL
We stayed in the hospital room with Zoe for four days, leaving only to shower and grab an outfit to bring her home in. I lay beside her, singing softly in her ear, adorning her hair with pretty barrettes, praying desperately that the little movements I saw were responses to our voices, not just the machines she was hooked up to. The doctors told us she would likely succumb to brain death, that the machines were the only thing keeping her alive. They whispered as we prayed, but we clung to our faith.
In Washington, D.C., doctors have the authority to decide when to turn off life support. On the last Sunday in January, they informed us the tests confirmed she was brain-dead and that they would be disconnecting the machines. Even until the last moment, I believed God would grant us a miracle. That Sunday night, they removed all the wires and machines and placed her in my husband’s arms. She took her final breath there, cradled by her daddy. A part of me died that day too, though I didn’t realize it at the time. But in that moment, I now understand, my Father was holding me too.
We went home that night, and I remember crawling into bed, praying I would wake up from this nightmare. I longed to hear her count to twenty again, to see her deliberate over pancakes or waffles. I wanted to watch her play and run with her sister, to hear her sweet voice say, “Thank you, Mommy,” or “Mommy, you’re so silly.” But this nightmare was our reality. Our precious daughter, Zoe Alexandria, was gone. She was only two, but in that short time, she made an unforgettable impact.
By now, you might think this is a story about death, but it’s not. It’s a story about life. Zoe is a Greek name that means life. Stay with me, and I’ll share how the death of Zoe ultimately gave me life.
FUNERAL
I remember looking through the glass doors of the church, seeing her tiny, pale pink casket at the front. She looked so perfect, so much like herself. I had chosen a pink dress for her, with white tights, white lace gloves, and pink ribbons in her hair—just as I always did. She and Chloe were dressed alike, as always.
I couldn’t bring myself to visit her casket. I couldn’t. I looked at her from my seat. I didn’t want this to be my last memory of her. I wanted to hold on to the memories of when she was alive. I watched as Sister Nannie stood at her casket, crying as she looked at her. Zoe had been attending Sister Nannie’s daycare since she was six months old. Sister Nannie was a stern woman, a Sunday School teacher. Zoe loved her, and she loved Zoe.
I decided I couldn’t wear black. I wore lilac because purple was Zoe’s favorite color.
Earlier that morning, I prayed in the bathroom, asking the Lord to hold me during the funeral, to hold my tears, my pain, my screams, and my heart. I knew my daughter Chloe needed her mommy, and my husband, who had the unimaginable task of eulogizing his own daughter, needed his wife.
I have listened to countless sermons delivered by my ex-husband, but this one will always stay with me. As he paid tribute to our daughter, I remained composed, absorbing the divine message he shared. His sermon was extraordinary, and I felt immense pride in his courage and resilience. I knew he was hurting. The previous night, when I returned home, I found him in his office, in the dark, tears streaming down his face, his hand on the gun placed on his desk. No words could console him. I gently moved the gun away and held him tightly.
THE BREAKDOWN
I stopped smiling, stopped laughing, stopped talking. In the weeks that followed, my husband went back to work, Chloe went to Sister Nannie, and I stayed in bed—not eating, not speaking, just staring at the ceiling. I had no fight left in me. I stopped living; I was merely surviving. No one knew the depth of my despair. I was slowly dying inside, consumed by rage and pain.
I was so angry with God. I wanted to know why He didn’t perform a miracle for Zoe like He had done for others. As I sat there, screaming at God in my mind, I heard Him say, “Can’t you see? You are the miracle.”
Before I lost my daughter, I was already dying inside, living in constant fear—fear of the next bout of depression, fear of rejection, fear that the pain behind my mask would be exposed. Fear that I really was all the things I had been told: worthless, good for nothing, stupid, dumb. I had lost the fight long before I lost Zoe. I wasn’t living; I was merely surviving, clinging to life by a thread. And the death of my daughter ripped that thread apart. It was then that I realized I had never been holding on by myself—God had been carrying me all along.
When you’ve endured hardship, you learn to be resilient. You learn to take the hits and keep going. You unconsciously learn to pick yourself up, shake yourself off, and move forward.
I picked myself up after multiple rapes and abuse.
I picked myself up after incest.
I picked myself up after losing my sister to HIV.
I picked myself up after losing our son and enduring several miscarriages.
I had learned to pick myself up, but I was dying inside—a slow, silent death that no one knew about, not even my husband. But this—the death of my daughter—was the one thing I couldn’t pick myself up from. For the first time in my life, I was completely dependent on Jesus. It was through the death of my daughter that I realized I hadn’t picked myself up from anything—God had been carrying me in His arms all along.
ZOE
What is your Zoe? We all have one, and if you don’t yet, you will. Zoe means life. It’s that thing you thought would destroy you but ultimately gave you life again. Zoe is the thing that made you crucify your flesh, that made you realize beyond a doubt that you cannot make it without Jesus. Zoe will drive you to your knees in prayer; it will make you dive into the Word and hide it in your heart. Your Zoe is what gives you a song to sing, even in the face of unimaginable pain. It’s what makes you press into His presence, crawl toward the cross, and cling to your Savior with all your strength. It was the death of my Zoe that made me die to self and live again. I lost my Zoe, but in losing her, I found Zoe—
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