I’ve been trying to write something—maybe a thank you, maybe a reply to the messages filling my inboxes. But I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know how to react. I don’t know how to mourn. I don’t know how to walk back home, look into the eyes of my newborn daughter Bambe, and mourn.

All my life, I feared this exact loss.

On the morning of May 2nd, I had a strange dream. I was flying a plane. It malfunctioned. My co-pilot lost control too. We crash-landed in the middle of nowhere. There was a hidden sinkhole—like a secret vault. A stranger appeared and told me they had lost someone there. Then I ran.

At 9 AM, after a night of my daughter crying, I washed her while singing an Alex Dusabe song. It was about goodbyes—a message to those who left us, telling them that we who remain are still fighting for faith. My mother believed deeply. I have no doubt she’s in heaven now.

Just after that song, I got a message to go to the hospital. On the way, I told myself, “It’s finally happening. Death is coming.” I had tried not to think about it. But as I arrived, her oxygen dropped to zero.

We were all there—my dad, my six siblings, her pastor and me. 

We laid her to rest on Wednesday, May 7.

The days since have been a blur. As I write this, I feel numb. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to write her eulogy. I couldn’t bring myself to record a video tribute either.

One thing I know: I need time. I feel it will all hit me later—maybe when I’m touring the world on the deal she prayed for but never got to witness. Still, my family needs love. How do we mourn and love at the same time? How do we mourn without breaking each other?

Now, the calendar says It’s Mother’s Day.

It’s my wife’s first. Watching her become a mother to our daughter, Bambe, has been the quiet kind of miracle that reshapes everything.

But it’s also my first Mother’s Day without my own mother.

I don’t know how to carry both truths.

I look at Bambe and see beginnings.

I think of my mom and feel the weight of endings.

I want to celebrate. I also want to disappear.

Mama, I hope you see her.

I hope you see us.

And I hope I make you proud in how I love them.

To Bambe and her mama—thank you for being my light.

To my own—thank you for being the reason I knew how to love.

There’s a lot I could say about being her son. But for now, let me end this message by thanking everyone who’s stood by us. I’ll find time to reply—maybe today, maybe in a year—but know this: I love you guys for being here.