Imagining the moments my late daughter would now be experiencing

There is one month of school left. For many families, that means countdowns, celebrations, and the final stretch of a busy school year. For me, it is a quiet reminder of all the moments my late daughter, Cammy, should be experiencing right now. Some of these milestones are exciting, others are stressful, but all are meaningful. And all of them are missed.

Cammy would be finishing her junior year of high school.

If she hadn’t had Rett syndrome, this year would’ve been filled with the familiar rites of passage that define adolescence. She would’ve been preparing for standardized testing for college admissions — and likely dreading every minute of it, as most teenagers do. She would’ve gone on college visits, walking campuses and imagining her future. I often wonder if she would’ve felt drawn to the University of Illinois, like her parents and eight of her aunts and uncles.

And, of course, there would’ve been prom.

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Of all the milestones this year holds, prom is the one I believe she would’ve loved the most. I can picture it clearly: Cammy taking her younger sister, Ryan, with her to shop for a dress. I imagine her gravitating toward something pink, reflecting both her joy and her spirit. I can see the excitement in those small, ordinary moments: trying on dresses, laughing in fitting rooms, sharing opinions that only sisters can give.

I always envisioned her going to prom with her best friend, a boy she had known since preschool. Their bond was special, an unspoken connection that felt rare and genuine. It was the kind of connection that makes you believe in soulmates, even at a young age.

In my mind, the night unfolds beautifully. Photos, corsages, smiles, music, and memories that would’ve been revisited for years. These are the moments that feel especially heavy this time of year — not because life has stopped, but because it has not.

Time continues to move forward, marking each milestone as it comes and goes. And with each one, there is an awareness of what is happening — and what is not. Like time, my grief continues, too.

Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t live only in the past. It shows up in the present, in the milestones that never arrive, in the experiences that are imagined but never lived. It lives in the quiet “what-ifs” that accompany seasons like this.

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