April 11, 2026

I woke up this morning slightly warm and unable to stay asleep. In a stroke of sleepy genius, I adjusted the covers and stuck one foot out to cool my body temperature. Funny how so many of us do the same quirky little things, isn’t it? I drifted back to sleep, exhausted from the busy week behind me, not yet remembering what today is.

Thirteen years ago, on this very night, I woke up in a very cold bedroom. I used to remember the exact thermostat reading, but I’ve since tried to forget the harrowing details of the night we found our son’s little soul had escaped his body and gone home to be with Jesus.

There are things I could never forget—and trust me, I’ve tried. Zach’s face when, breathless, I told him to call 911. The dispatcher asking whether Leo’s chest rose with each rescue breath I gave. Kneeling over my tiny son’s body, desperately trying to exchange my breath for his—praying that this was some nightmare, that paramedics would materialize instantly, that everything would somehow be okay.

The detectives from CVPD collected evidence for a possible homicide we knew nobody committed. Six evidence bags, to be exact—two theories. We answered so many questions—some of them about a teacher who had worked with Zach, a man now serving a 430+ year sentence for atrocities against children. I had already been to therapy for how his presence around me and our daughters was a stark reminder that monsters walk among us in plain sight. Extra therapy because I had daughters who were unaffected by him, and yet the knowledge that he would have preferred to target the son I carried in my womb haunted me. What kind of world had I brought children into? Why were they asking us about him? I only cared to know whether my son was okay and to be allowed to go to the hospital to be with him.

Eventually, we were allowed to go—but not upstairs, where our two little girls were sleeping in their bedroom. An entire nightmare was reverberating through my house while my baby girls slept like angels. Thank God they didn’t wake up and crawl into our bed, because they would have been met by the officer posted outside their door. This is all so painful to write, and yet it lives in my mind every single moment of every single day.

The only detail I was ever able to forget was that the thermostat read 61°F.

Yet between these moments of shock, terror, and heartbreak, something miraculous happened. And in the minutes, days, weeks, months, and years that followed, that miracle kept growing—inside my soul, outside of my body, inside my heart and head—soothing the reverb from the early morning when Leo took his last breath. I heard that beautiful sigh and saw him relax into the unknown. I hadn’t yet known he was gone. My brain could not accept it, for it knew my heart would stop too. It’s incredible how our bodies protect us.

I don’t share this intimate story easily, but I do share it confidently. I was there. It happened to me. I’ve tried to explain it, but I truly cannot.

When we called 911, we got a female dispatcher who coached me through administering CPR as I had been trained to do—hoping I’d never use it, but figuring that if I did, it would be on a stranger, not my own child, and certainly not an infant. As I attempted to breathe life into my son, Zach stood over me with his hand on my left shoulder. He told me, “You’re such a good mom, Angela. You’ve got this. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Leo loves you so much, and he is so lucky you’re his mom. Keep going. Keep trying. You’ve got this. I love you so much. I love you both, so much.” I’ll never forget it. His warm hand guided my subconscious into a space of peace—far from the cold, prickly, electric panic bouncing wildly off the walls of my home.

You might think it’s no miracle for a good husband—a stand-up human being, my best friend—to offer encouragement. I wouldn’t think so either.

But a few days later, as Zach and I reenacted what happened that night to make sense of it, I thanked him for what he had done while I was on the phone with the dispatcher. He looked puzzled, and he walked me through what he experienced. He hadn’t seen any of it because he had run outside to bring the paramedics—who arrived in two minutes—to the correct home among the identical condos. He ran to them to save our son, not knowing what nightmare was unfolding inside.

And yet, I had felt the presence of my best friend—my ultimate love—guiding me through the last moments of our son’s life. I heard his voice, clear as a bell. I felt the strength of his hand on my shoulder—warm in the ice-cold room where I knelt in my pajamas, trying to wake my child, trying to give him air, trying to make his heart beat, his toes still pink but his lips turning blue, his thin eyelids darkening.

I now know it was Christ Jesus who held me and encouraged me.

Finding our son unresponsive and laying his tiny body to rest days later would change anyone—and it certainly changed us. But the way God scooped me up before I even knew I needed it, and long after, changed me in other ways too. I could clearly see how God had been pursuing me my whole life—how the right people crossed our path as if preparing us to survive the worst. How, even though I denied Him, God never stopped working for my good. I saw how my suffering had been shaping strength and resilience. There is an art to using suffering for good—but it’s a hard road, and it’s ill-advised to walk it alone.

God showed me every song, every interaction, every near miss that led me to that moment. I walked hand in hand with Jesus in the minutes, days, weeks, months, and then years following Leo’s death. My faith bloomed into trust that no matter what I did, I had no control over outcomes—I never did, nor will I ever. That freedom cast me into the unknown. Without control, I could either give up and let life bulldoze me, or I could ask God to guide me through the dark. I chose the latter.

It wasn’t without struggle. It wasn’t without anger or envy. It wasn’t without feeling like a shell of myself. But God guided my hand as we put my broken heart back together—with unconditional love and acceptance as the glue. Those were new feelings for me. I prayed every day that I would hear God, because I couldn’t get through this alone. And in the times His voice became soft or quiet, or I received symbols instead of words and had to quiet myself to understand, I prayed harder. “Your kingdom come, Your will be done.” I learned that God’s timing is perfect—but not according to my flawed human standards. I needed to surrender control. I needed to release ego and human self-centeredness. And I did.

I still get lost. I still struggle to hear God. I still carry memories of my life’s collection of struggles. I no longer ask where God was in those moments, because He showed me. He was there. He didn’t make these things happen—we all have free will. These were just awful things that happened. And God still showed up for me, a constant, steady source of strength and peace, waiting for me to be ready.

I am at peace because that is the only way to get through life. God’s endless, unconditional love is for all of us. I look back at the day God miraculously touched my shoulder and encouraged me during the worst moment of my life, and I smile—not because it was a miracle, but because God has always been there. I just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it. Jesus walked beside me every day; I just thought I was strong.

I am forever changed not because God revealed Himself to me, but because I finally opened my heart—sealed shut from trauma and struggle—to Him. We put it all back together and made me whole—together. I’ve learned so many lessons along the way, and while I’d trade it all in the blink of an eye to have my son back, I don’t have that choice. So I take the lessons, and I share the light with others.

⸻

To my beautiful Leo,

Not a day goes by that I haven’t missed kissing your sweet little cheeks and growing you into the incredible man I know you would’ve been. My heart aches that this was never our reality. But every time I get a sign from you—every morning I wake up, every moment I get to say “I love you” to my mother, every day your sisters and your dad open their eyes and live another day on this earth—I know you’re still with us.

I love you forever.

I’ll like you for always.

As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Xoxo,

Mom