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for Briana

The laughter.  That's what I remember most. Never in my life had I laughed like I did with Briana.  About everything.  We once spent hours recording ourselves on cassette tape talking about different topics in my bedroom. It was the funniest conversation.  For years, we looked for that cassette tape to listen to it. Never did find it.  Probably a good thing.  It was the first podcast if you ask me.  That's what everyone could do with Briana.  Talk. She listened. She responded.  She walked in the door of Cornerstone Church when she was 12. I immediately spoke to her and we were instant friends.  We spent hours talking about her parents getting re- married.  What a beautiful thing.  Celine Dion. We sang her songs and reached for the high notes.  We sat in her Dad's living room and watched the OJ trial.  The movie "Alive" was the first time I heard surround sound, also at her dad's house. We had an intense conversation a...
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Recent posts

Forty Minutes Past the Time

Yesterday marked four years since a significant moment split our lives into before and after. For the past few years, I’ve handled that hour the same way. When the clock crept toward the exact minute it happened, I would step into the shower. I’d let the water run hot and loud — loud enough to drown out the memories that insist on resurfacing. It became a ritual. Armor made of steam. Some grief doesn’t leave. It just waits for its time slot. But last night was different. My daughter came over with her new wife. We sat around the table. We talked. We laughed. We shared a couple of shots. It was warm and easy and ordinary in the best possible way. At one point she leaned forward, placed her hand on my knee, and said softly, “You made it past the time, Mom.” I looked at the clock. Forty minutes past what I needed to survive. And I hadn’t even noticed. What strikes me most isn’t just that I “made it past the time.” It’s that I didn’t survive it alone this year. For years, I’ve stepped into...
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awful and prophetic

I made lots of phone calls to moms. I sent messages and texts.  I contacted police. I spoke with officers. I made more calls. I told anyone and everyone that would listen.  Our close friend assaulted our daughter when she was 14. Two weeks after graduating high school, she told me. And I went as public as I could about him. This man had been our house MULTIPLE times since the assault.  Our daughter? Too afraid to tell. The friend? A lying conman with the morals of the shit I took this morning.  One mom told me she had "spoken to the friend and he said it's a lie." I reiterated my daughter was not lying and told her "if he would do this my daughter, he will do it to yours." That girl was 10 at the time.  She's exactly 14 now. The same as my daughter at the time. I've never spoken to that mom again.  Until today when she called me.  To apologize. Because guess what! It was stopped before harm was done, but it was also clear this man is a predator. He gro...
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So Goddamn Proud of Myself

  by April Davis Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of compliments. In every area of life - professional, personal, intimate.You name it. And for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to let them land. I didn’t always feel worthy of them. Not until I realized just how fucking hard I’ve worked to get here. Years of facing the ugliest parts of myself. Years of cutting off people who drained me, building boundaries from scratch, walking away from spaces that didn’t sit right - or letting them walk away from me. That kind of work doesn’t show up in highlight reels. But it’s the reason I’m standing here now. In this space. I used to shrink when people noticed. Literally. Like I didn’t know what to do with being praised, or celebrated, or acknowledged for the “something” they were drawn to. But I’m learning not to flinch anymore. Not to minimize what I’ve grown into. I’ve faced the version of me that stayed quiet. That played along. That never spoke up. I hated her for a long time - f...
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The Sound in My Bones

Sometimes I still hear it— that boisterous, throw-your-head-back laugh. The kind that made his curls bounce like they had something to say too. God, it was loud. Loud in the best way. The kind of loud that made you laugh even if you didn’t know why. He was joy. Big and uncontainable. But there were quieter things, too. Like the way he’d shake his head when he watched TV with the kitchen light on. His Tourette’s would slip out soft but sharp— like his body was protesting the chaos he didn’t say out loud. Flick. Twitch. Stillness. Flick again. Trying to stay. Trying to just be. I didn’t always talk about it. Didn’t always ask. I just sat nearby, pretending not to notice so he wouldn’t feel different. But I noticed. Of course I did. Every flick, every shift— I memorized them without meaning to. And now I leave the kitchen light off. Even when I need it. Even when I’m alone. Because some part of me still thinks he might walk in, toss his curls, laugh at...
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the years that come after

It's not true what they say.  "The first year is the hardest."  That's so far from the truth.  My beloved friend and hair stylist lost her 14 year old son in a tragic gun accident 12 years ago.  Today, as I sat down in her chair I asked her "How long did it take you to enjoy the holiday season again?" In the middle of my question, my breath caught and burst into tears. She shared with me some things that are deeply private, but she did say it.  "The first year is not the hardest." That was exactly what I needed. It was permission. It was my acknowledgement.  I'm not crazy. I'm not losing my mind.  The first year isn't the hardest.  While there IS joy in my life, this year, the third Christmas without Enzo, has been more difficult than the others.  What do I do with that?  No one can answer that. Not even me. Moscato didn't work. Quiet doesn't work. Loud doesn't work.  Smiling doesn't work.  The only thing that HAS helped...
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