alexander hawkins

Here we are, nearing the anniversary of Ranotas passing. This had been the single most difficult year of my life, and we are still fighting, I am at least to exist in a normal state. The many challenges, set backs, and small victories seem to bleed into each other, and at the end of the day, im trying to figure out the next day. Things are moving, but not quickly, my sons life's only remain undisturbed as long as I do what I can to make that so, and in that, I thank those who have helped from the bottom of my heart. But our struggle isn't over and we will need support moving forward to a stage where we do NOT need support. Thank you all. Truly...

Everything exists at once. Time isn't a river, I see and feel the past ad ibdonthe present, the same way the future isn't clear to me yet. Even in the midst of out struggles, I keep my boys happy, while i focus on what is next. I thank everyone who has contributed deeply, but we are not yet in the clear, but wr are moving towards it

Elijah hates pictures. But he let me take this one. This is the reason, ine of them, why I wake up everyday, searching for inspiration to keep moving. Everything i do, is for him, and his brother, Isaiah. I dont know if they understand why their mother is gone. All I know, is that i have to make their lives matter moving forward.

I think I'm finally learning that I have to talk about it. When everything gets quiet at night, when everyone is asleep, sometimes I just go outside and walk. It's the only time of day I have to collect my thoughts. To think about everything that has happened. Where I am now. Where I'm going. How I'm going to keep moving forward. My wife died suddenly on November 18th. And honestly, I've been lost ever since. I don't say that for sympathy. I'm saying it because it's the truth. There is a version of me that everyone sees. There is also a version that left when she did. I'm calm. I'm measured. I'm handling things. I'm taking care of my boys. I'm making decisions. I'm figuring out what needs to happen next. That's the version they need. My boys are autistic, and they respond to my emotions and the environment around them. So I have learned that I have to maintain a certain level of stability for them, even when inside I'm anything but stable. But when the house gets quiet, there is no performance. It's just me. And that's when everything comes rushing back. The past. The present. The future I thought I was going to have. The future I now have to build. Sometimes I feel nothing. Other times I feel everything at once. There doesn't seem to be much of a center anymore. No perfect balance. Just this strange space between trying to hold everything together and wondering who is holding me together. I'm still picking up the pieces. And I'm using those pieces to build something better for my boys. But somewhere along the way, I've realized that I have to think about myself too. Not because I want to. Because I have to. For a long time, I thought taking care of myself meant being functional enough to take care of everyone else. I'm starting to understand that maybe it has to mean something more than that. Maybe I have to figure out how to feel human again. I don't talk to many people about this. Instead, I read. I research. I learn. I dive into different subjects and ideas and anything that can keep my mind occupied. Sometimes that's curiosity. Sometimes it's simply survival. Because there is a darkness that has been inside me since November 18th, and pretending it isn't there doesn't make it disappear. And I think this is where something needs to change, not just for me, but in how we talk about men. Men are taught to perform. We're taught to say we're good when we're not. To keep moving. To provide. To protect. To hide the grief. To be the person everyone else can lean on while nobody asks what happens when that person needs somewhere to lean. I've never been a performer I'm not interested in pretending that grief has made me stronger every day. Some days it has just made me tired. Some days I'm angry. Some days I'm numb. Some days I can see clearly. And some nights I walk through the darkness trying to understand what my life is supposed to look like now. I'm sharing this because I think saying it out loud is part of healing. Maybe authenticity isn't always having the answers. Maybe sometimes it's simply having the courage to say: I'm struggling. I don't know exactly where I'm going. But I'm still going. For my boys.

The donation so far arw greatly appreciated, but we have a long way to go, please share this as much as you can

Its a feeling I cant describe. Our world changed forever on November 18th. But the world goes on, struggle goes on. My autistic sons still have everything in front of them. So I move forward. I do my best to face the adversities we have had in the shadow of Ranotas passing, abd it isn't easy. Every week or so Isaiah, my 21 year old Autistic son asks ,"dad, where's mom?" I tell him in a waybthat isn't going to upset him, and it replays, thats the nature of autisim, the thing they despise the most is change. This one i deal with daily, nightly. For those who have helped us so far inbthis journey, I thank you, but it isn't over. There is still more work to do..

Eight months ago, I lost my wife, and since then I have been doing everything I can to hold my family together for our three sons. I am now raising them on my own, and two of my boys are autistic and depend on stability, routine, and a safe home to feel secure in the world. I have been working, sacrificing sleep, and doing whatever it takes to keep us going, but grief and survival are expensive. The loss of my wife’s income, along with the cost of therapies, daily needs, and basic household expenses, has pushed us into a crisis. Our housing was in danger, and we were facing the very real threat of losing our home. That has passed but we are still digging out ofnthe mountain this tragedy created for us. I never imagined I would be in this position, and asking for help does not come easily to me. But right now, my only focus is protecting my sons and keeping them in a safe, stable place where they can continue to heal and grow. Funds from this fundraiser will go toward immediate housing costs to prevent eviction, utilities and basic living expenses while I work to stabilize our income, and continued support for my sons’ therapies, supplies, and daily needs. My boys have already lost their mother, and I am doing everything in my power to make sure they do not lose their home too. If you are able to give, even a small amount, or simply share this campaign, you will be helping a father keep his promise to his children. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading, for seeing us, and for any support you can offer.