The Room Stayed the Same: Grieving Angelina

It’s been over a year since I lost my foster daughter, Angelina.

She died by her own hands—suddenly, heartbreakingly, at the age of 20. April 20th. A date etched into my heart. A moment that shattered time.

Grief is strange. It doesn’t follow rules. It doesn’t respect time. It curls up in the corners of your house, in the quiet moments between laughter, and it lingers—in the clothes untouched, the books left behind, the memories that ambush you when you least expect them.

This summer, I felt a stirring. A small, sacred nudge to remodel the room she once stayed in. The room had become a sort of shrine—untouched, still, frozen. It used to be my boys’ room, but they offered it up without hesitation to accommodate my niece and Angelina during a particularly hard season. That room had become her sanctuary. And when she left, something in me hoped—longed—that she’d come back and fill it with her laughter again.

I had even imagined her knocking on the door one day saying, “I’m ready to stay.”

And I would have said yes—again. Just like I did the night she showed up in the rain, asking to come home. She left to tie up some things, promising to return. But she didn’t. Instead, I learned she had admitted herself to the hospital. She didn’t want to be a burden to our family.

I told her the door would always be open. But that day never came.

What came instead was a phone call that brought me to my knees.

And even now, as I write this, the ache is still fresh. The tears still come. Because I loved her. She was mine. And I still don’t understand.

Angelina mattered.She was beautiful.She was sincere.She was born into a storm but carried light in her laugh and strength in her story.

I have memories now—of her giggling at our dinner table, crafting side by side, and chasing after a soccer ball with my sons. She was woven into the fabric of our home. And in many ways, she still is.

As I sat in her room recently, that sacred space full of echoes, I realized something: it’s time. Time to move forward—not away from her, but with her. I carry her in my heart, into this next season. Because grief doesn’t end, it evolves. And healing isn’t about forgetting, it’s about finding new ways to remember.

Through Angelina, I learned that love and anger are sometimes intertwined.When you love someone deeply and you lose them senselessly—it’s okay to be angry.Anger is not the opposite of love. Sometimes it’s proof of it.

Grief is the language of love. It compels us to mourn, to lament, to cry out to God not because we lack faith, but because we trust Him enough to hold our broken hearts.

God understands grief. He was the first to grieve.

In Eden, He walked with humanity in perfect communion—and then He watched as sin and deception fractured everything. He knew betrayal. He knew loss. He wept, too. But He didn’t stop at heartbreak. He had a plan for redemption. A plan born from deep, furious, holy love.

I can’t yet see what the redemption story will be for Angelina’s life. But I trust there is one.

And in the meantime, I will carry her—with every step I take into the new.I will honor her laughter, her tenderness, her struggle, and her story. Because she was worth loving. She is worth remembering.

And our God? He is near to the brokenhearted.He collects every tear. He doesn’t waste our pain.

So as I paint these new walls and make space for what’s ahead, I’m not erasing her.I’m making room for healing,room for hope,room for the God who still writes beauty from ashes.

If you’re grieving someone today, know this: It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to not understand. It’s okay to feel frozen in time. But when the moment comes—and it will—let the light in. Even just a crack.

God will meet you there.