Reflections - 2
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The night of April 11, 2025 was so strange. My phone rang and vibrated nonstop, and though I’ve been in a season of choosing stillness—of prioritizing self-love, self-care, and guarding my peace—I knew this wasn’t just a random flood of notifications. I could truly feel a shift in the air as if something was wrong.
When I answered, I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing. I didn’t want to accept what I was reading. Because deep down, I had always imagined you’d outlive it all. That somehow, your strength, your resilience, your brilliance, and your unwavering loyalty would carry you beyond us all.
I’ve taken some time to process this—I had to. I had to let the reality sink in. My Rock. My Confident. My Mother-Figure. My Protector. You gained your wings and transitioned—and it’s still hard to say that out loud.
It’s strange how life mirrors itself. As I type the word transition, I’m reminded of my soon-to-be released memoir: The Blessing of Transition: Finding Strength in Change. Your presence is throughout most of those pages, Grandma. You were the blessing in so many of my hardest transitions. I had been looking forward to bringing you the audiobook, letting you hear what your love helped shape. You are one of the pillars of my story. People may think they understand what you meant to me, but only I know. Only I hold the full truth of what you carried me through.
In my own way, in my own rhythm of grieving, I had to write this. Because I need to say Thank You. Thank you for raising me. For mothering me during the most unstable times of my life. For being my safe place. The late-night calls. The early-morning check-ins. The rescues no one saw. The shelter you gave when I didn’t know how I would make it. You weren’t just my grandmother; you were also my father figure after my dad passed. You were my everything.
And now, the title of my memoir echoes louder: another transition. Another goodbye I didn’t want to say. I rarely go public with the most heartbreaking moments of my life. But I recently made a vow to myself that I would be transparent moving forward in my life—not just for me, but to help others. So here I am, writing.
Vernell Fulgham, you are the reason I am the man I am today. Everyone who knows me knows how highly I spoke of you. Your sacrifices were countless, your love limitless. And now that you’re gone, I pray that your mind may finally rest. Watching you battle dementia these past few years was deeply painful for me, thus my absence. But now, peace belongs to you.
When you get to Heaven, please find Sierra Watties and hug her for me. Tell her thank you for these last three years—she called me every day through my darkest moments, and she was there on three-way when I signed my book deal. I hadn’t planned to share that publicly yet, but with both of you now gone, I had to do this my way—through writing.
I dedicated my memoir to two people: to God, and to the ones who held me when the world could not. So I know this is a sign. A holy one. That my writing, our love, and this journey—it’s all connected.
I’m going to miss you, Grandma. But just like my father watches over me, I know you’ll be there too. Alongside Sierra. Alongside God.
Until We Meet Again,
Your Grandson
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My Last Thoughts:
Life is always transitioning—sometimes gently, sometimes without warning. We often think we’ll have more time, more words, more moments, but the truth is, change is always happening. Losing my grandmother reminded me that transition isn’t just something we go through—it’s something we grow through. It asks us to release, to remember, and to carry love forward in new ways. Whether it’s grief, growth, or grace, we’re always being called to move. And in that movement, may we always find meaning.
