“The day that I died was the first day of the rest of my life.”
I used to think I understood what those words meant when I wrote them down in 2008, but I didn’t truly grasp their weight until May 24, 2023. That was the day my eldest son, Brandon, was murdered.
You think you know what you’ll do in situations like this. But I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
My Baby
The first thing I remember about that day is how bad my chest hurt. All day long, I kept saying, I don’t feel good. My chest hurts. I even thought about going to the ER. It wasn’t unusual for me to get chest pains —it was usually something like heartburn or indigestion— but this time felt different.
I decided I’d go after work. I stood up, and with one leg in my pants, my phone rang. It was my sister, Rita. I figured I’d call her back after I got home from the hospital. Before I could button my pants, my phone rang again. This time, it was my younger sister, Nicole.
Something shifted in me then. It’s hard to describe, but I knew. I didn’t understand it in that moment, but I knew something was deeply wrong.
When I answered, she asked, Have you talked to Brandon? I told her, No, but I have his location. Let me check.
I opened the app, but for the first time ever, it said, No location found.
I always had Brandon’s location. Always.
It felt like the second shoe dropping. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it wasn’t good. My sister said she’d call me back. I don’t remember how long it was before my phone rang again— it felt like time wasn’t moving the way it should.
The next call confirmed my worst fear. Someone told me Brandon had been shot and was at the hospital, but we didn’t know which one. There are two main hospitals in my town, and I knew which one it was. But we decided my sister would go to that one, and I would check the other.
Before I even arrived anywhere, my phone rang again. It was Brandon’s best friend’s mother. She was screaming, You have to get here! You have to get here! Her hysteria was contagious. I don’t know how I made it to the hospital, but I did.
When I finally arrived, I felt like I was moving through a dream— like everyone was staring at me and knew something I didn’t. A staff member pulled me aside and led me to a family room.
I walked in and saw Brandon’s best friend curled in the fetal position on the floor. I looked at his mother, and she shook her head. I dropped to the floor with him.
And that was it. My baby was gone.
A Flicker of Hope
In that moment, my world stopped. There was no way forward, no sense of how to move, or even if I wanted to. I felt hollow. But even in the emptiness, something within me stirred— a whisper, a flicker of hope I didn’t fully understand yet.
That whisper became my lifeline. Step by step, it guided me through the unbearable weight of grief and into something I couldn’t have imagined: healing, peace, and alignment.
At first, I didn’t feel like healing. I didn’t feel like surviving. Getting out of bed, eating, breathing— everything felt impossible. But as the days turned into weeks, I started to notice moments of stillness in the chaos. Tiny cracks where the light would permeate the darkness.
Those cracks came in many forms. A memory of Brandon that brought a smile through the tears. A message from my spirit guides reminding me to breathe. A quiet moment where I felt his energy so strongly, it was as though he was right there with me.
It was through those moments that I began to see healing as something active. It wasn’t just about waiting for the pain to fade— it was about learning to hold space for both the grief and the love. The pain of losing Brandon and the joy of still feeling his presence weren’t separate; they were two sides of the same coin.
And so, piece by piece, I started to rebuild. At first, it was just for survival. But survival turned into something more. I realized I wasn’t just piecing myself back together— I was creating someone new. Someone stronger. Someone doper. Someone who could hold both the heartbreak and the hope.
This wasn’t a straight path. There were moments I fell apart, moments I wanted to give up. But each time, I came back to the flicker of hope. And with every step, I came closer to discovering the deeper truth waiting for me.
Cracked Open
That truth became the foundation of The Reignbow Code. But I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew was that I had to keep going, even when I didn’t know where the path would lead.
Sometimes, the moments that break us open are the very moments that lead us to who we are meant to become.
In the next article, I’ll share the first steps I took to piece my life back together and the surprising lessons I learned along the way.