Why I Chose September 21st to Release My Book
Some days live inside of us forever.
They are not just dates on a calendar. They are turning points, wounds, and at the same time, markers of strength. They shape us in ways we cannot escape.
For me, that day is September 21st.
On September 21, 1997, my mother left this earth. I was just a girl, and the world as I knew it cracked wide open. Every year since, that date has returned like a shadow — heavy, haunting, inescapable. This year, September 21, 2025, will mark 28 years since my mother has been gone.
And it is also the date I chose to release my book, Reflection of Her.
It is not coincidence. It is not marketing. It is not chance.
It is sacred.
It is intentional.
It is love stitched into legacy.

Twenty-Eight Years Without Her
Twenty-eight years.
How do you measure that kind of time?
It is longer than I had her with me. Longer than I got to hear her laugh, longer than I felt her arms wrap around me in comfort. It is nearly three decades of holidays without her presence, birthdays without her voice, milestones without her blessing.
And yet, in those 28 years, I have lived a lifetime.
I grew from the broken teenager who couldn’t find her footing into the woman I am now: a wife, a mother, an author, a daughter still reaching toward heaven.
Grief has been my teacher, but it has not been my prison.
Loss has been my wound, but it has also been my shaping fire.
This book is the ember I’ve carried all these years — now finally glowing bright enough to share with the world.

Why September 21st
People sometimes ask me, “Why would you release something so personal on the day your mother died?”
The answer is simple: because this day already belongs to her. It always has.
Every year on September 21st, I pause. I remember. I cry. I ache. But this year, I want to do more than ache. I want to honor her. I want to take the day that has symbolized death and transform it into a day of creation.
September 21st is the day she left, yes. But now, it will also be the day I share my words with the world. A day not just of endings, but of beginnings. A day where grief and growth walk hand in hand.
I chose this date because I wanted to give back to her what she gave me: life, love, and the courage to create.

The Teenager Who Was Lost
I was not prepared to lose her. Whoever is?
As a teenager, the grief was too big for me to hold. It felt like drowning. I was angry, rebellious, messy, and broken. I was searching for my mom in all the wrong places, chasing after anything that felt like comfort, even when it wasn’t.
I didn’t understand myself. I didn’t know how to move forward. I thought maybe I never would.
But here’s what I now see, looking back: that girl survived. She held on, even when she thought she couldn’t. She stumbled, but she never stopped moving. She cried, but she never stopped hoping. She lost, but she never stopped becoming.
That girl was me. And without her, I wouldn’t be standing here today, ready to release a book born out of both her pain and her resilience.

Becoming a Wife and Mother
Years passed. And slowly, life began to reshape me.
I became a wife. I learned partnership, compromise, and the quiet power of building a life alongside someone else. Love wasn’t just about filling the hole in my heart — it was about planting roots and learning to grow.
Then I became a mother. And everything shifted again.
Motherhood opened my eyes to my mom in a way I had never known. Suddenly, I understood her sacrifices, her exhaustion, her love that went beyond words. Suddenly, I felt closer to her, even in her absence.
My children became my anchor. They gave me a reason to fight through the grief, to push forward, to live. They became living reminders that life continues, that love multiplies, that legacy never dies.
My marriage and my children are my world, but writing has been my soul’s survival.

Writing as Survival
When the pain was too heavy to speak aloud, I wrote.
When the memories felt like they would drown me, I wrote.
When I wanted to reach for my mom and couldn’t, I wrote.
Writing became my therapy, my prayer, my lifeline. It was the place where grief and hope could sit side by side.
Every poem I wrote was a conversation with her.
Every page was a love letter.
Every word was both my wound and my healing.
Reflection of Her is the collection of those words. It is my journey in poetry: from the girl who lost her mom to the woman who built a life in the shadow of loss. It is memory, grief, love, and healing woven together into something I hope will touch others who have walked through the valley of loss.

Why This Battle Was Worth It
Looking back, I can see the long, hard battle for what it was: necessary.
Grief taught me compassion.
Loss taught me strength.
Survival taught me faith.
The battle wasn’t just about getting through. It was about becoming.
Without my mom’s absence, I would not be this woman. Without the fire, I would not know the strength of my own survival. Without the pain, I would not have these words to offer.
And so, though I would give anything to have her back, I cannot ignore the truth: her absence shaped me. Her absence gave me this voice. Her absence gave me this book.
The battle was worth it, because the beauty that grew from it is worth sharing.

The Legacy of Love
The 21st is no longer just a day of loss.
By choosing it as my book’s release date, I am turning it into a day of legacy. My mother’s legacy. My legacy. A legacy of love that continues even after death.
She may be gone for 28 years, but she is everywhere in my words, in my children, in the woman I have become.
This book is not just mine. It is hers, too.
She is the reflection I write of.
She is the echo in every line.

To Those Who Grieve
I know I’m not the only one who carries a date like this. Many of us have anniversaries we dread, days that reopen wounds, reminders of who we’ve lost.
To you, I say: you are not alone.
Grief is not a weakness. It is love with nowhere to go. And yet, even in grief, we can create. We can transform. We can honor.
If you carry a date that feels unbearable, know that it can one day become a date of meaning, a day of legacy. It does not erase the pain, but it can transform it into something that breathes life again.

Closing Thoughts
On September 21, 1997, I lost my mom.
On September 21, 2025, I will release Reflection of Her.
Twenty-eight years apart.
One date, two meanings.
Loss and love.
Death and creation.
Grief and healing.
This is not just a book release. It is a full-circle moment. It is me standing in the very place that once broke me and saying: I survived. I healed. I created. I honor her.
The 21st will always be sacred.
Now it is no longer only the day I lost my mom.
It is also the day I give something back to the world in her name.
And that, to me, is the truest reflection of her.