Four years ago today—January 4, 2022—was the last day I saw their faces.
The faces of the three people who had been such an integral part of my life.
The faces that, in an instant, I was forced to say goodbye to forever.
It’s hard to put into words what that day felt like, but I will try.
After all this time, the rawness still lingers.
It had been a long day of driving.
The road stretched ahead of me, mile after mile, with only the sound of my mom’s voice filling the silence.
We talked about everything and nothing at all, anything to pass the time, to distract ourselves from the reality of what was happening.
It was an easy day to hide in—the world outside felt distant as we made our way home.
But inside, my heart was heavy, weighed down by the fact that it had been four years since three caskets closed on three massive parts of my heart.
I had been doing well, or so I told myself, up until this point.
Life had moved on in ways that seemed both cruel and necessary.
The days had blurred into months, and the months into years.
But there was something about today that made it impossible to ignore the fact that time had passed.
It was the kind of day where the pain had nowhere to hide.
I had to let it surface, even though it hurt more than anything I could remember.
But I couldn’t let the day pass without acknowledging it.
I couldn’t allow this moment, so deeply entwined with my heart, to slip away without sharing it.
I had to honor the memory, even if it meant stepping back into the sorrow, even if it meant confronting the pain I had long been trying to push aside.
So here I am, sharing it, because that’s how I process, how I heal.
My mom and I have been working with an incredible grief counselor.
She’s been guiding us through this journey, teaching us how to navigate the mess of emotions that come with losing loved ones.
She once told us that, despite the immense weight of our grief, we were actually further along than many others at this stage.
Not because it hurt any less, but because we had learned to process it.
To let the pain flow through us, rather than holding it back.
Grief doesn’t go away; it doesn’t disappear.
It comes out one way or another, whether we’re ready for it or not.
And so, we revisit these moments.
We revisit the heartbreak, the decisions we had to make that day, the choices no one should ever have to make.
We talk about it, because running from those memories only delays the inevitable.
The grief waits, quietly, and when we least expect it, it surges forward, demanding to be acknowledged.
I’ll never forget the moment we arrived.
My mom talks about it all the time—the moment she pulled up to see three hearses lined up, waiting.
I came from the other direction that day, so I didn’t see it.
But she did.
And it’s something that has stayed with her, something that’s permanently etched in her memory.
I think it always will be
.
I remember the day, but in pieces.
I remember the line that wrapped around the building, stretching far beyond what I had expected.
I remember my mom, frail and hurting, but still reaching out to others.
She was in a wheelchair, suffering from broken ribs and unimaginable pain, yet she insisted on giving hugs.
She couldn’t help herself.
She had to be there.
No matter what.
I wish I had more pictures from that day.
More photos to capture the faces, the crowd, the emotions that were so vivid, so raw.
But my memory of it feels blurry, fragmented, as if I haven’t fully accepted it or processed it yet.
The whole day feels like a haze, like something I am still trying to make sense of, still trying to understand.
I was running on fumes, trying to keep it together, trying to be strong for everyone around me, even when I was crumbling inside.
One decision I will never forget, one that still haunts me, is the moment I had to decide when the caskets would be closed.
As the person planning the service, that choice fell to me.
It wasn’t a responsibility I wanted, but it was mine to make.
A few days before, I had asked my mom when she wanted the caskets closed.
She immediately started crying and said, “Never.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
I knew in that moment that she wasn’t ready for that final goodbye.
In the end, we made the decision for her.
Between the end of the viewing and the beginning of the service, we gave her medication and allowed her a bathroom break.
It was then, when she wasn’t looking, that the caskets were closed.
She didn’t have to see it.
She didn’t have to witness that final moment of closure.
I don’t know if it was the right decision, but I made it out of fear—fear that her heart couldn’t take it.
Fear that it would be too much for her.
There were so many decisions that day.
So many things that no one should ever have to decide.
But that was the reality we faced.
It was a cruel, heart-wrenching reality that we had no choice but to face.
And through it all, I kept telling myself, “Just keep going.
Just get through this moment.”
But tonight, as I sit here, reflecting on it all, I realize that it’s not just about surviving the moments.
It’s about honoring them, about acknowledging the grief and the pain, and letting it be a part of me.
Because that’s how we heal.
After coming home from Austin today, I found myself spending the evening in a different way, honoring the kids in a small but meaningful way.
I opened packages that had arrived, packages filled with little “Kind Like Kam” moments, moments rooted in who Kamryn was and how she loved others.
It was a small gesture, but it felt right.
It felt like a connection, a way of remembering the kids and the love they brought into this world.
We crossed paths with someone today, a stranger who, through her kindness, left an impression on me.
The conversation, the hug, the words she shared afterward—they stayed with me.
It felt like a small wink from the kids, a reminder that they’re still with me, still watching over us.
Even four years later, they’re still a part of me.
Four years have passed since that day.
Four years since three caskets closed on three massive parts of my heart.
And yet, the pain is still here.
It hasn’t gone away, not completely.
But I’m learning to carry it with me.
I will never stop talking about them, never stop sharing their stories.
I will never stop remembering them.
Because one man’s decision to drive impaired changed every single piece of my family’s world.
It’s been four years, but it feels like yesterday.
The pain is still raw, still fresh, but with each passing day, I’m finding ways to cope, to heal, and to keep their memory alive.
Wings of Courage: A Father’s Dream Amid a Son’s Battle
In a quiet hospital corridor, far from the applause of a graduation stage, Lieutenant Olin Enzor pinned his Air Force wings to his chest. It was a milestone every servicemember dreams of — a symbol of years of hard work, dedication, and sacrifice. Yet, unlike most ceremonies, this one was held not in a grand auditorium but inside a children’s hospital, surrounded by monitors, IV poles, and the quiet hum of medical machines.
The reason was heartbreakingly clear: Lieutenant Enzor’s 4-year-old son, also named Olin, was fighting leukemia. The boy’s small body bore the weight of a life-threatening illness, and his father’s lifelong dream of earning his wings coincided with the most harrowing chapter of his family’s life. Instead of celebrating with classmates and friends, Lt. Enzor stood beside his son’s hospital bed, heart full of pride and pain, as his family helped him achieve a career milestone that symbolized courage, honor, and service.
“It was a moment of triumph and heartbreak at the same time,” Lt. Enzor recalls. “I was achieving something I had worked my whole life for, yet my heart was with my son, who was fighting the battle of his life.”
Since that day, Lt. Enzor has continued serving his country, stationed hundreds of miles away from his wife and children. Every night, he prays from afar — for his son’s healing, for his family’s strength, and for the day his little boy can ring the victory bell, a symbolic gesture for the milestones the child has fought so hard to reach.
“The hardest part isn’t just the distance,” he says. “It’s serving your country while your heart is in a hospital room miles away. People forget that cancer doesn’t just affect civilians. It affects service members, too — the 1% of the 1%. We still have to execute the mission. Life doesn’t stop. But faith keeps us going.”
Faith, for Lt. Enzor, is both a guiding light and a source of endurance. In the darkest hours of uncertainty, he finds strength in the belief that every challenge has a purpose. “Cancer is not the end,” he says. “Your diagnosis is not the end. There is a bigger purpose — and God isn’t done writing your story.” These words, simple yet powerful, resonate far beyond his own family. They are a message of hope for any parent, any patient, or anyone facing seemingly insurmountable odds.
The story of Lt. Enzor and his son is a reminder of the sacrifices that service members make beyond the battlefield. While they are trained to face danger and uncertainty abroad, few are prepared for the quiet, relentless battles that take place in hospital rooms at home. For this father, the mission extends beyond national service; it encompasses courage, love, and the relentless pursuit of hope for his child.
Every day, Lt. Enzor balances the dual roles of soldier and parent. He sends encouragement, checks in through calls and video messages, and supports his family in any way he can from miles away. Yet even with modern technology, the distance is felt sharply, a constant reminder that life’s most important missions are not always fought on foreign soil.
His son, Olin, is a warrior in his own right. Every infusion, every monitoring session, and every tiny step toward recovery is a testament to bravery that rivals his father’s. Together, they embody a rare and profound courage — one that spans generations and defies circumstance. Each of their battles, though different, echoes the same message: strength comes in many forms, and love is often the greatest force of all.
For those who hear their story, the lessons are profound. It is a reminder that even amid the most challenging moments, hope can persist. That even when life seems divided between duty and family, faith and determination can create resilience. And that sometimes, the most heroic acts are not performed on the battlefield, but in the quiet spaces where love, devotion, and courage intersect.
Lt. Enzor’s journey is far from over. His son’s fight continues, and the challenges of service persist. But what remains undeniable is the power of purpose, the strength of faith, and the bond between father and son that transcends distance and circumstance. Every night, when Lt. Enzor prays from afar, he reinforces a universal truth: even in the face of adversity, love, hope, and courage remain unbroken.
To families like the Enzors, the message is clear: you are not alone. Your battles, whether fought in hospital rooms or across continents, are seen, honored, and supported. And to every little warrior fighting for their life, your strength inspires far beyond the walls of your room — it touches hearts, fuels hope, and reminds the world that even in the hardest moments, faith, love, and resilience endure.
The ceremony of wings inside a hospital room may have been unconventional, but it perfectly captured the essence of this family’s journey. Triumph and heartbreak coexisted, yet so did hope, courage, and unshakable love. For Lieutenant Olin Enzor and his son, life’s most important victories are measured not just in milestones achieved, but in hearts strengthened, prayers offered, and the unyielding spirit to keep moving forward, together.
