There are moments that divide your life into before and after.
Moments that tear through the rhythm of your days and force you to stand still, even when the world keeps moving. For me, that moment came on Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 2021 — the day my father took his final breath.

My father was an immigrant who worked with quiet determination, building a life from the ground up so his children could have more than he ever did. He dreamed of retiring on the land his father passed down to him, a piece of Haiti that held his roots and his hope. Our relationship wasn’t perfect — far from it. But love often exists in the spaces words never reach, and his love, though quiet and flawed, ran deep.

When pancreatic cancer came for him, it stole our time faster than my heart could comprehend. For two long years, he fought with the strength of a man who refused to surrender. And when he finally did, the silence that followed was deafening. It wasn’t just the loss of a parent; it was the loss of a piece of myself I didn’t know how to live without.

I buried my feelings under layers of responsibility, pretending to be strong. I went to work, I smiled, I functioned. But inside, I was unraveling. My body was moving, but my soul had stopped. Grief has a way of making everything else feel distant — laughter, color, even purpose. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was drowning quietly in my own unspoken pain.

Then one day, in the stillness of my grief, something inside whispered: “You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.” That whisper became my lifeline. I started to write. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Each word became a small act of surrender — to my pain, to my guilt, and eventually, to forgiveness.

Forgiving my father wasn’t easy. Neither was forgiving myself — for the words we didn’t say, the time we didn’t take, the love we struggled to express. But as I wrote, I began to see that my father’s story and mine were intertwined — not in perfection, but in purpose. His resilience, his faith, his relentless effort to provide — those became my inheritance.

Through the tears, the heartbreak, and the stillness that followed, Radiant: A Journey™ was born. It began as my way of surviving, but it became something far greater — a place for reflection, healing, and becoming. Writing became the vessel that carried me back to myself.

I realized that everyone is carrying something — grief, regret, heartbreak, exhaustion. The wife who feels unseen. The young woman trying to heal from a broken heart. The baby boomer searching for meaning in a changing world. We are all walking around with invisible weights, hoping someone will see us — not to fix us, but simply to understand.

Radiant: A Journey™ is that space. It’s not just a channel; it’s a community — a home for the weary, the becoming, the rediscovering. It’s the reminder that even in our brokenness, there is beauty. That your test can become your testimony. That healing doesn’t always look like strength — sometimes, it’s the quiet act of showing up for yourself again.

My father’s death was the moment that changed everything — not because it ended something, but because it began something new. In losing him, I found a deeper part of myself. I found my voice, my purpose, my light. I learned that love doesn’t end with death; it transforms, expands, and continues in the lives we touch afterward.

And so, to you — the one who feels heavy, the one holding it all together, the one who’s lost someone or something you loved — this space is for you. May you find comfort here. May you remember that you are not alone. And may you, too, learn to let the light back in.

With love and light.