The Texas Floods: Why We Must Not Look Away

Dear Avianna,

They say the photos are too much.

They say the images of drowned streets, submerged cars, and the empty/waterlogged campground where children died (your peers) are disrespectful. They say sharing them is an act of harm. They say the parents of those children should be spared the cruelty of seeing their pain on display.

I hear them.

But I also know what it feels like to be on the other side—where no one is looking. Where the tragedy is silent, invisible, unseen. Where people whisper your child’s name and flinch at your sadness. Where the world rushes to the next story before you’ve even begun to bury your old life.

And so, baby girl, this letter is part love note to you, and part reckoning with the world we live in (a world that grieves selectively and uncomfortably, and often only when a camera forces it to).

Because as uncomfortable as it is to say out loud: sometimes the only thing more painful than being watched in your grief... is being ignored entirely.

When I first saw the aerial footage of the Texas flood zone, I froze.

Not because I hadn’t seen devastation before. I live in the aftermath of devastation. Every day since losing you, I’ve known the gut punch of absence, of displacement, of waterlines that rise overnight and leave no part of your life untouched.

But I froze because the photos made me feel. Not just for me but for them. For the parents whose children won’t be coming home. For the siblings left behind. For the first responders. For the community now haunted by silence where laughter once lived.

And I know the internet doesn’t like that. I know people are saying:

“Don’t show that.”
“Take the pictures down.”
“Let the families grieve.”

But here’s what I want to say: those photos aren’t just documentation.

They’re a witness.

In a world that rushes past suffering, images demand attention. They halt us. They humanize numbers. They crack open the collective numbness we’ve built just to survive.

They say:

This happened.
These lives mattered.
Look.

The world seems to only want silent grief.

I’ve seen both sides of this.

I’ve been the person who lost a child and begged for space. I've been the parent who couldn’t bear another word, another post, another headline that even remotely resembled loss. And I’ve been the person who felt invisible. Who wondered if anyone still remembered. Who scrolled through social media and saw baby bump photos and back-to-school pictures while my arms were still empty.

Grief is a contradiction.
Some days you want the world to stop spinning.
Some days you want it to spin faster just so you don’t have to think.

But what I know now, after months and years of walking through this, is that asking the world to make room for your grief while simultaneously censoring all grief is an impossible expectation.

It’s a setup for disappointment.

And it comes from a false promise we’re sold in this culture: that grief can be clean, private, and politely kept behind closed doors. That if we just don’t post the picture or don’t share the story, the pain will be easier to carry.

But my dear Avi, pain ignored is not pain erased.
It just becomes pain unseen.

Let me be very clear: I am not advocating for careless coverage.
Grief should never be exploited for clicks.

But respectful visibility is not exploitation.
Witnessing someone’s tragedy is not inherently an act of violence. Sometimes, it’s the only dignity left.

There’s a difference between a voyeur and a witness.
A voyeur watches to consume.
A witness watches to honor.

And I’d argue that the best photojournalism, the kind that lingers in our collective heart, comes from witnessing. It says, “You shouldn’t have had to go through this alone. We see you. We carry this, too.”

If that’s disrespectful, then we need to redefine the word.

What Grievers Know That the World Doesn’t

After you died, something strange happened: I started seeing the cracks in everyone else’s stories. People would talk about loss like it was something you move through.
Like you’re walking through a tunnel and eventually come out clean on the other side.

They didn’t understand that grief rewires everything. Your thoughts. Your body. Your ability to process information. Your trust in the world.

And even when they tried to help, they’d say things like,
“Time heals.”
“Don’t look at those pictures—it’ll only hurt more.”
“Just stay off the internet.”

But you don’t need to protect a grieving person from truth. They are already living it.

What we need protection from is erasure.

From a world that looks away too fast. From people who say things like “triggering” without understanding that everything is triggering when your world has ended.

There’s something sacred about seeing the full weight of reality.

As horrible as it is to look at scattered belongings, toys floating in water—it’s honest. And in grief, honesty is oxygen. We crave it.

Because so much of grief is smoke and mirrors:
“Stay strong.”
“They’re in a better place.”
“Don’t let it define you.”

But these images do define something. They define the truth of what happened.
And they give the rest of the world a rare opportunity to bear witness.

That’s what I want people to understand:

Sometimes, bearing witness is the only way empathy survives.

I’ve learned something brutal but useful in my grief journey:
The world will not always know how to hold you.

There will be people who turn away because your pain is too loud.
There will be people who exploit it.
And there will be people who genuinely want to help, but don’t know how.

Watching the public response to tragedies like the Texas flood gives loss parents an unfiltered look at what the world is really like.

Not ideal.
Not pretty.
But real.

And once we see the reality, we can start deciding how to live in it.

We can choose our people more intentionally.
We can speak louder for those still silenced.
We can learn how to regulate, to cope, to fight for meaning in spite of a culture that wants us to "move on."

What I Want the Families in Texas to Know

If any parent in Texas is reading this (or someone who loves them) please know:

I am not trying to speak for you.
But I am holding you, quietly, fiercely.

If the photos hurt you, you are allowed to feel that.
If the silence hurts more, you are allowed to feel that, too.
If you feel seen in all the wrong ways or none of the right ones—I get it.

There is no rulebook for navigating public grief.
But I hope you’ll give yourself permission to feel all of it.
And to know that for every person who scrolls past your pain, there is another who is now more awake, and more human, because of it.

And To You, Avianna

You taught me the art of presence.

You taught me that real love doesn’t flinch.
That people deserve to be seen in their hardest moments, not just their highlight reels.

And when I see these photos from Texas, I don’t just see devastation. I see love left behind. I see lives interrupted. I see stories that mattered.

I see you in every headline the world wants to scroll past.
And I will never stop speaking, writing, or witnessing in your name.

Because when you were born, I swore I’d never let you be invisible.
And when you died, I swore I’d never let grief become invisible, either.

Final Thoughts for the Reader

To those still reading:

You don’t have to agree with me.
You don’t have to share every photo.
But I’m asking you to pause before condemning those who do.

Ask yourself:

1. Why does this image make me uncomfortable? Is it because it’s exploitative? Or is it because it’s real?

2. What kind of world do I want to live in—one that hides pain or one that holds it?

Grief doesn’t need your approval to exist.
But it does need your humanity.

So if you’re wondering what to do—start there.

Start by not looking away.

As always baby girl, I carry your heart with me!

Love, Mommy

 

Dear Avianna,

They say the photos are too much.

They say the images of drowned streets, submerged cars, and the empty/waterlogged campground where children died (your peers) are disrespectful. They say sharing them is an act of harm. They say the parents of those children should be spared the cruelty of seeing their pain on display.

I hear them.

But I also know what it feels like to be on the other side—where no one is looking. Where the tragedy is silent, invisible, unseen. Where people whisper your child’s name and flinch at your sadness. Where the world rushes to the next story before you’ve even begun to bury your old life.

And so, baby girl, this letter is part love note to you, and part reckoning with the world we live in (a world that grieves selectively and uncomfortably, and often only when a camera forces it to).

Because as uncomfortable as it is to say out loud: sometimes the only thing more painful than being watched in your grief... is being ignored entirely.

When I first saw the aerial footage of the Texas flood zone, I froze.

Not because I hadn’t seen devastation before. I live in the aftermath of devastation. Every day since losing you, I’ve known the gut punch of absence, of displacement, of waterlines that rise overnight and leave no part of your life untouched.

But I froze because the photos made me feel. Not just for me but for them. For the parents whose children won’t be coming home. For the siblings left behind. For the first responders. For the community now haunted by silence where laughter once lived.

And I know the internet doesn’t like that. I know people are saying:

“Don’t show that.”
“Take the pictures down.”
“Let the families grieve.”

But here’s what I want to say: those photos aren’t just documentation.

They’re a witness.

In a world that rushes past suffering, images demand attention. They halt us. They humanize numbers. They crack open the collective numbness we’ve built just to survive.

They say:

This happened.
These lives mattered.
Look.

The world seems to only want silent grief.

I’ve seen both sides of this.

I’ve been the person who lost a child and begged for space. I've been the parent who couldn’t bear another word, another post, another headline that even remotely resembled loss. And I’ve been the person who felt invisible. Who wondered if anyone still remembered. Who scrolled through social media and saw baby bump photos and back-to-school pictures while my arms were still empty.

Grief is a contradiction.
Some days you want the world to stop spinning.
Some days you want it to spin faster just so you don’t have to think.

But what I know now, after months and years of walking through this, is that asking the world to make room for your grief while simultaneously censoring all grief is an impossible expectation.

It’s a setup for disappointment.

And it comes from a false promise we’re sold in this culture: that grief can be clean, private, and politely kept behind closed doors. That if we just don’t post the picture or don’t share the story, the pain will be easier to carry.

But my dear Avi, pain ignored is not pain erased.
It just becomes pain unseen.

Let me be very clear: I am not advocating for careless coverage.
Grief should never be exploited for clicks.

But respectful visibility is not exploitation.
Witnessing someone’s tragedy is not inherently an act of violence. Sometimes, it’s the only dignity left.

There’s a difference between a voyeur and a witness.
A voyeur watches to consume.
A witness watches to honor.

And I’d argue that the best photojournalism, the kind that lingers in our collective heart, comes from witnessing. It says, “You shouldn’t have had to go through this alone. We see you. We carry this, too.”

If that’s disrespectful, then we need to redefine the word.

What Grievers Know That the World Doesn’t

After you died, something strange happened: I started seeing the cracks in everyone else’s stories. People would talk about loss like it was something you move through.
Like you’re walking through a tunnel and eventually come out clean on the other side.

They didn’t understand that grief rewires everything. Your thoughts. Your body. Your ability to process information. Your trust in the world.

And even when they tried to help, they’d say things like,
“Time heals.”
“Don’t look at those pictures—it’ll only hurt more.”
“Just stay off the internet.”

But you don’t need to protect a grieving person from truth. They are already living it.

What we need protection from is erasure.

From a world that looks away too fast. From people who say things like “triggering” without understanding that everything is triggering when your world has ended.

There’s something sacred about seeing the full weight of reality.

As horrible as it is to look at scattered belongings, toys floating in water—it’s honest. And in grief, honesty is oxygen. We crave it.

Because so much of grief is smoke and mirrors:
“Stay strong.”
“They’re in a better place.”
“Don’t let it define you.”

But these images do define something. They define the truth of what happened.
And they give the rest of the world a rare opportunity to bear witness.

That’s what I want people to understand:

Sometimes, bearing witness is the only way empathy survives.

I’ve learned something brutal but useful in my grief journey:
The world will not always know how to hold you.

There will be people who turn away because your pain is too loud.
There will be people who exploit it.
And there will be people who genuinely want to help, but don’t know how.

Watching the public response to tragedies like the Texas flood gives loss parents an unfiltered look at what the world is really like.

Not ideal.
Not pretty.
But real.

And once we see the reality, we can start deciding how to live in it.

We can choose our people more intentionally.
We can speak louder for those still silenced.
We can learn how to regulate, to cope, to fight for meaning in spite of a culture that wants us to "move on."

What I Want the Families in Texas to Know

If any parent in Texas is reading this (or someone who loves them) please know:

I am not trying to speak for you.
But I am holding you, quietly, fiercely.

If the photos hurt you, you are allowed to feel that.
If the silence hurts more, you are allowed to feel that, too.
If you feel seen in all the wrong ways or none of the right ones—I get it.

There is no rulebook for navigating public grief.
But I hope you’ll give yourself permission to feel all of it.
And to know that for every person who scrolls past your pain, there is another who is now more awake, and more human, because of it.

And To You, Avianna

You taught me the art of presence.

You taught me that real love doesn’t flinch.
That people deserve to be seen in their hardest moments, not just their highlight reels.

And when I see these photos from Texas, I don’t just see devastation. I see love left behind. I see lives interrupted. I see stories that mattered.

I see you in every headline the world wants to scroll past.
And I will never stop speaking, writing, or witnessing in your name.

Because when you were born, I swore I’d never let you be invisible.
And when you died, I swore I’d never let grief become invisible, either.

Final Thoughts for the Reader

To those still reading:

You don’t have to agree with me.
You don’t have to share every photo.
But I’m asking you to pause before condemning those who do.

Ask yourself:

1. Why does this image make me uncomfortable? Is it because it’s exploitative? Or is it because it’s real?

2. What kind of world do I want to live in—one that hides pain or one that holds it?

Grief doesn’t need your approval to exist.
But it does need your humanity.

So if you’re wondering what to do—start there.

Start by not looking away.

As always baby girl, I carry your heart with me!

Love, Mommy