The Other Side of the Sunset – A Letter to Mya

I didn’t lose you, Mya.

I used to say that all the time—I lost my daughter. But the truth is, I didn’t lose you.

I know exactly where you are.

You’re just on the other side of something I can’t yet cross.

On the other side of the sunsets, we used to watch together.

The ones that now bring both comfort and ache.

Every time the sun dips below the horizon, and the sky bursts into colors that feel too beautiful for this world, I imagine you seeing the same light; just from a different place. Maybe you’re even painting them for me. Maybe that’s your way of saying, “I’m still here, Mom. I didn’t go far.”

I cling to that.

Because this ache, this hollow space your absence left behind…it threatens to swallow me on some days.

And on others, it drives me forward. To fight. To speak. To love harder. To live louder. For you.

There’s a quiet promise I’ve made to myself over and over again:

That when I reach the end of my time here, when I finally cross that unseen line between now and forever, you’ll be there.

With open arms.

With that smile that could light up any room.

With that spirit….fierce, funny, and full of life.

You’ll be there waiting for me.

And in that moment, all the days I’ve spent here stumbling through grief, aching for just one more hug, one more laugh, one more “I love you,” none of that will matter anymore.

Because I’ll be whole again.

You’ll take my hand like you used to. You’ll probably tease me a little for crying so much.

And then we’ll sit down together, just beyond the sunset, where pain doesn’t follow and time doesn’t steal.

And I’ll tell you everything.

I’ll tell you how I tried to keep going, even when every part of me wanted to stop.

How I got up on the days when the weight of missing you felt unbearable.

How I learned to carry you with me instead of chasing the version of life I thought we were supposed to have.

I’ll tell you about Mya’s Mission—how your name became more than a memory.

It became a lifeline. A purpose. A movement.

It became hope for someone else’s child.

It became a mother’s prayer answered in the form of a treatment grant, or a life saved with Narcan, or a message from someone saying, “Your daughter’s story changed mine.”

You, Mya, did that.

Your story didn’t end on the day we said goodbye.

It only shifted into something bigger…something eternal.

Every time I speak your name to a classroom, a recovery center, a group of first responders… you are there.

You’re the heartbeat behind every word I say.

And sometimes I swear I feel you whispering, “Keep going, Mom. You’re doing it.”

I’ll tell you about the laughter I managed to find, even when tears stained my cheeks.

How your brother’s ridiculous jokes still catch me off guard. How Evalynn reminds me so much of you.

I’ll tell you how we celebrate your birthday with balloons and memories and tears and laughter…because you still deserve to be celebrated.

I’ll tell you about the way grief changes shape, how it doesn’t ever really leave…but it softens.

How some days, it feels like a wave crashing.

Other days, it’s just a quiet ripple.

And then I’ll tell you about the people we’ve met because of you.

The moms who held my hand and said, “Me too.”

The kids who walked into treatment because of a Facebook post with your face on it.

The strangers who donated to your mission because they believed in your light, even though they never got the chance to meet you.

You’ve built a legacy, Mya.

One more powerful than I ever thought possible.

You’ve saved lives.

You’ve softened hearts.

You’ve reminded people that addiction doesn’t take away someone’s worth.

And in doing all of this—you saved me, too.

Because through the darkness, through the nights I cried until I couldn’t breathe, there was a quiet truth that always anchored me:

You were never truly gone.

You were simply waiting.

Waiting for the day I’d join you, on the other side of that sunset.

Where the sky never dims, and love never hurts.

Where there’s no stigma. No sorrow. No goodbyes.

Just you and me, sitting side by side, catching up on all the words left unsaid. You’ll listen while I ramble…. like I always do.

And you’ll laugh, just like before. That laugh I’ve played over and over in my mind, trying to keep it alive in my memory.

We’ll talk about everything.

The things I wished I could’ve told you.

The memories I held sacred when the world kept moving forward without you in it. The things that healed me. The things that broke me. The things that changed me.

And when we’ve said it all,

we’ll sit in the glow of that never-ending sunset.

And I’ll feel whole for the first time in what feels like forever.

Because you’ll be there.

And I’ll realize then what I’ve always known deep down; that death didn’t win. Love did. You weren’t lost. You were just ahead of me.

Carving the path I’ll one day walk.

Until that day, I’ll keep living for you. I’ll keep loving in your name.

I’ll keep telling your story, until there’s not one more mother left wondering if her child is worth saving.

And every time the sky turns orange and purple and pink,

I’ll close my eyes and whisper, “I see it, baby. I see it. I’ll meet you there.”

On the other side of the sunset.