Most of my weekday mornings follow the same script. I pull into the drop-off line outside of my twins’ elementary school, double-check their backpacks and take a sip of my coffee from my bright pink Yeti cup before it cools. But on a rainy November morning, sitting in the slow-moving line of cars, I found myself deep in thought.
Before the doors opened, my twins, 6, reached for my hand, so we could do our quick handshake, a ritual we created to help them walk into kindergarten with confidence and a way to let them know I will be back to get them. My daughter jumped out of the car, quiet and observant, while my son lingered long enough to look back and say, “Have a great day, Mommy!”
As the teachers waved them toward the entrance, I watched their confidence. And in that moment, it hit me. My children had come a long way in the past two-and-a-half years. I had, too.
Losing my fiancé reshaped me
I became a single mother on April 15, 2023, the day my fiancé, the father of my twins, died unexpectedly from complications related to diabetes. He was only 31.
Our twins were just 3 when they stood in front of their daddy’s light blue casket. My memories from that period feel fragmented; grief has a way of blurring the days, weeks, and sometimes whole months.
However, I learned very quickly that grief doesn’t stop life from moving forward.
In the year that followed, I underwent a significant transformation. Loss clarified my priorities. It forced me to look directly at the future I needed to build. Not later, but now.
Courtesy of Darlene A. White
As my business grew, so did my commitment to the work
My freelance writing business — something I had nurtured for over 10 years — began to grow. I wrote late into the night after my twins fell asleep, telling stories about Detroit’s resilience, the complexity of motherhood, and the intimate corners of grief for a variety of outlets.
Those nights of “burning the midnight oil,” became reminders that forward motion was still possible.
That clarity carried me into March 2024, where I began a new career on public relations team at a university, a team I had collaborated with a couple years prior for freelance assignments. It was an alignment. I was stepping into PR with the storytelling foundation I’d been building in journalism behind the scenes for years.
Two months later, while settling into that new role, I received a Society of Professional Journalists award for a feature I wrote while planning my fiancé’s funeral. That recognition wasn’t about timing. It was validation for me. Proof that my voice still held power, even during some of the hardest days of my life.
Creating a scholarship in my fiancé’s honor helped me rebuild with purpose
In the spring of 2024, a year after his passing, I established a scholarship in my fiancé’s honor at our alma mater, awarded annually to a graduating senior heading to college.
The scholarship wasn’t about memoralizing grief, it was about ensuring his name stood for something bigger than loss. Creating it gave me a purpose at a time when everything else felt unsteady, allowing me to turn our pain to a path forward for someone else.
A new beginning — for all of us — came about
Then came another milestone, one that made his absence feel sharper than before.
This fall, on my twins’ first day of kindergarten, I stood among parents taking photos as my children explored their classroom, checking cubbies and searching for new friends outside of each other. While they were beginning school, I was beginning something new, too. I had my first day of graduate school.
People often ask me, “How do you balance everything — single motherhood, graduate school, a new career, freelancing, grief?”
But balance isn’t what carried us. Ambition did. Rebuilding did. And many nights of silent prayers.
Courtesy of Darlene A. White
Today, as I prepare for my final exams and wrap up my assignments for 2025, my twins are settling deeper into their school year — bringing home art projects, forming friendships, and rediscovering joy. They are healing. And so am I.
Grief rewired by ambition. My children shaped it. And the life we are building now is not built on balance, but on steady, intentional work of becoming.
