My journey took a significant turn in 2022, when I moved in with my son’s father to rebuild after a chapter of full-time caregiving for my grandmother. My two daughters and I joined my 20-year-old son and his dad—someone I’ve known and loved since I was 14—who welcomed us in with a generous heart and an open door.

Just six months later, everything changed. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and what followed was a two-year journey through treatment, uncertainty, and deep emotional terrain. To honor his kindness and help carry the weight, I stepped into the role of caretaker once again—managing trips to Salt Lake City for treatments, offering emotional support to our son, holding space for grief, and anchoring the household through it all. I put my work on hold, knowing that showing up fully for those I love was the most important job I could do.

Eventually, things seemed to stabilize enough for me to return to work. I slowly began rebuilding my life and, with grit and careful planning, secured a place of our own in November 2024. I was proud—it had been a long four years of caretaking, sacrifice, and transition. I finally felt grounded again—empowered, capable, and back in rhythm.

But that chapter was short-lived. In March, His father’s health took a sudden turn, and we lost him. Shortly after, I was let go from my job—just days after taking on the responsibility of planning his funeral. I tried to stay strong and pivot, returning to work while continuing to build my small business. But holding together a grieving household, managing daily survival, and rebuilding from scratch with two daughters in tow… it’s been too much to carry alone.

Before he passed, one of his final wishes was that my daughters and I move back in to be close to our son and help the family stay connected during such a heartbreaking time. We honored that wish, returning to the home we once shared. But grief affects everyone differently.

As we tried to navigate the emotional aftermath and daily life together, tensions grew—particularly around shared responsibilities. I had been gently encouraging my son to consider finding work or contributing in some way so we could all stabilize, especially as I was still working to rebuild my own income. But when I got firmer in my boundaries and expectations, he made the decision to separate our paths, stating he was “done supporting me”—even though I had been the one holding most of the weight. That decision ultimately left my daughters and me without a place to stay.

When my car broke down, things came to a head. The tension around boundaries, communication, and emotional processing—something grief tends to magnify—resulted in my son asking us to leave. It was heartbreaking for all of us.

Now, my daughters and I are without stable housing and facing urgent need.

I’m turning to community for support—something that’s not easy for me to do. But I know I can’t carry this alone. If you’re able to contribute or share this campaign, it would mean the world. Your support will go directly toward securing safe housing and giving my girls and me a foundation to land on while I continue to work, heal, and rebuild.

I’ve spent most of my life being the strong one—the caregiver, the emotional translator, the one who holds space for everyone else. But right now, I’m learning that real strength sometimes looks like asking for help. Vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s real life in motion. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we don’t heal alone. Sharing this story is hard. It’s raw. But I know there are people out there who’ve been through their own storms—and who understand what it means to show up for each other when life unravels. So this is me, opening the door. Asking for a hand while I continue walking myself and my girls back home—to stability, to peace, and to the life we’ve worked so hard to rebuild.

With deep gratitude,

Jamie L.