Crowned in Purpose

Picture this…

There was once a woman whose perfume could drift through a room and instantly make me feel safe. The kind of perfume that didn’t just smell good, it smelled like home. Her hugs were warm enough to melt away your worries, and her laugh? Whew. Her laugh deserved its own radio station.

It was loud.

It was contagious.

It was impossible to ignore.

You know how certain songs automatically put you in a good mood? That’s what her laugh was like. One little chuckle from her and suddenly everybody else was laughing too, whether they knew what was funny or not.

She was tough and protective like a lion, but sweet as fresh honey. Strong enough to stand between you and danger, yet gentle enough to wipe your tears without making you feel weak.

She was my Aunt Sharonda.

Now, this is a blog about grief, but before we get into the heartbreaking parts, allow me to introduce you to the woman who made losing her so hard.

My Aunt Sharonda loved to dance.

And when I say loved to dance, I mean if there was a line dance, she knew it. If there was music playing, she was already halfway to the dance floor before the rest of us realized a song had come on.

I can see her now.

That big, beautiful smile.

Those hips swaying.

Those feet moving.

That laugh echoing through the room.

Watching her dance made you want to dance. Watching her smile made you smile. Being around her made life feel lighter.

She had that gift.

Let’s talk about those long, hot, miserable Saturdays at the Do Right track meets.

My cousin Bookie (Tony Jr.), my Aunt Sharonda’s son, ran track. Every weekend I spent the night at their house, I knew exactly what was waiting for me the next morning.

Pain.

Suffering.

Heat exhaustion.

Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic… but only a little.

Listen, I was a kid. My idea of a perfect Saturday was cartoons, snacks, and absolutely NOT sitting outside in Arizona heat for twelve hundred hours watching people run in circles.

I was convinced my aunt was violating my childhood rights.

Meanwhile, Aunt Sharonda was having the time of her life.

There she was, standing in the blazing sun with sweat rolling down her face, cheering louder than anybody else at the entire track meet.

“COME ON BOOKIE!”

I know my cousin had to be low-key embarrassed.

There is no way he wasn’t.

But that was her.

She loved loudly.

She supported loudly.

She celebrated loudly.

And somehow everybody loved her for it.

People knew her everywhere we went. Not because she demanded attention, but because her spirit naturally drew people in.

She had a way of making people feel seen.

One of the memories I hold closest to my heart is that my Aunt Sharonda never missed the birth of any of my children.

Every single time I had a baby, she was there.

She came to the hospital to see me after the births of my first four boys.

Ethan was the only one she missed.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she was already gone.

Now here’s where my aunt used to completely weird me out.

She loved the smell of baby breath.

I know.

Weird.

Every time she came to the hospital, she’d hold one of my babies and say,

“Mmmmmm… smell their breath.”

And I’d be looking at her like she had completely lost her mind.

Who smells baby breath?

Apparently, my Aunt Sharonda.

She’d always tell me, “It smells so pure. So sweet. You can smell the milk.”

I thought she was crazy.

Until Ethan was born.

She wasn’t there.

And suddenly all I wanted was one more chance to hear her say something weird.

One more chance to roll my eyes.

One more chance to laugh at her.

So, I picked Ethan up and said, “You know what, Aunt Sharonda? In honor of you, I’m going to smell his breath.”

And let me tell you something.

She was right.

It was the sweetest, purest smell.

And at that moment, I felt close to her again.

My Aunt Sharonda wasn’t just my aunt.

She was like a second mother to me.

The day I got the phone call that she passed away, a piece of me broke.

At first, I didn’t believe it.

I couldn’t believe it.

I wouldn’t believe it.

I kept thinking somebody had made a mistake.

Surely this wasn’t real.

Surely not her.

I remember sitting on the floor of my bathroom listening to music, trying to process what I had just heard. One of the songs playing was “If This World Were Mine” by Luther Vandross.

I’ve always loved that song.

But after that day, I couldn’t listen to it for months.

Every time it came on, I was right back on that bathroom floor.

Right back in that moment.

Right back in that pain.

Even now, years later, when I hear it, I still feel a little ache in my chest.

Not the devastating pain I felt back then.

Just a quiet emptiness.

A reminder that grief never fully leaves.

It simply changes shape.

But let’s go back to the funeral.

I kept telling myself that none of this was real.

That somehow she’d walk through the door and tell everybody they got the wrong person.

I didn’t fully accept it until I walked up to that casket.

And when I saw her lying there…

I lost it.

I don’t remember who was holding my hand.

I don’t remember who walked beside me.

I don’t remember much of anything.

I just remember screaming.

Crying.

Begging.

Saying, “No.”

Because sometimes grief is so big that words stop working.

My Aunt Sharonda was a police officer, and the Eloy Police Department came to honor her life. A flag rested across her casket. They performed her final call.

The ceremony was beautiful.

Beautiful in the way that funerals sometimes are.

Beautiful and devastating all at once.

As they lowered her into the ground, it felt like a piece of my heart went with her.

For years after her death, I struggled.

Not days.

Not weeks.

Years.

Grief is funny like that.

People expect it to leave after the funeral.

They expect it to disappear after enough time has passed.

But grief doesn’t work on a schedule.

It doesn’t care that life keeps moving.

Sometimes it sneaks up on you in the middle of a song.

Sometimes it shows up in a smell.

Sometimes it’s hiding in a memory of somebody dancing at a track meet.

And sometimes it lives in the breath of a newborn baby.

If you’ve lost someone you love, I want you to know something.

There is no right way to grieve.

There is no finish line.

There is no magical day when you wake up and suddenly don’t miss them anymore.

Give yourself permission to feel it.

Cry when you need to cry.

Laugh when a funny memory pops into your head.

Talk about them.

Tell their stories.

Keep their name alive.

Because the people we love may leave this earth, but they never truly leave us.

They live in our memories.

They live in our habits.

They live in the stories we tell.

And sometimes, if we’re lucky, they live in something as simple as the smell of baby breath.

I still miss you, Aunt Sharonda.

I always will.

But every time I laugh a little too loud, love a little too hard, or tell one of your stories, a part of you is still here.

And for that, I am grateful.