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Some losses cut deeper than words can express. Losing my sister, Cari, has been one of those losses. Nearly a year has passed since she had one foot on Earth and one in Heaven, yet the ache of what could have been lingers just as much as the pain of what was.

Cari was the cutest little girl—smart, sassy, full of life. In so many ways, she reminds me of AJ, which I think is part of why I feel such a deep bond with her. Cari and I were robbed of a childhood together as sisters. I wish, more than anything, that she had been able to escape the chaos that surrounded her. I wish she had been given a chance at normalcy, at peace, at a life free from constant strife and bitterness.

As an adult, I longed for her to be part of our family, to feel the warmth of unconditional love—the kind of love that doesn’t waver or bend, that simply holds you at its center. But for Cari, that kind of love always seemed just out of reach. Whether by fear, by circumstance, or by choices made, she remained on the outside looking in.

Grief is a tangled thing. It’s raw, unpredictable, and often intertwined with regret, love, and unanswered questions. Could we have tried harder? Pushed more? Found a way to break through the walls she built? I don’t have those answers. I only know that we did what we could, and at some point, self-preservation became necessary. To protect my own heart, my own sanity, my own ability to love those who would let me in.

I wonder if she ever truly knew how deeply she was loved. I hope she did. I pray that in those last still moments, when the world was quiet, she felt it. That God wrapped her in it, even if she had spent so long keeping it at bay.

Grief doesn’t just live in the loss itself—it exists in the years stolen before the final goodbye. It lingers in the missed moments, the what-ifs, and the longing for a different story. But through it all, I am grateful for my village, the people who have surrounded me with love and understanding.

If there’s anything loss has taught me, it’s that we each need to be a little more gentle with ourselves through the pain. The weight of grief is heavy enough—we don’t need to add blame to it. We do the best we can with the circumstances we are given, and sometimes, despite all the love in the world, we cannot pull someone into the light if they are not ready—or able—to step into it. That doesn’t mean our love wasn’t real, or strong, or enough.

Cari’s story is hers, but her memory will always be ours to hold. And as much as it hurts, I choose to believe that somewhere, somehow, she finally knows the depth of the love that was always hers.

XOXO, Jani

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