I have received many gifts throughout my life. Some wrapped in shiny paper and ribbon, some simple and unassuming, and others hand-delivered with the unmistakable clumsiness of tiny fingers eager to impress. Some gifts have been tokens of apology—because what marriage hasn’t needed a well-timed offering of flowers or chocolates? Others have been crafted with love, messy and imperfect, but made with the purest intentions.
Gifts come in many forms. Some are tangible, while others are more elusive: the gift of time, love, and presence. The ones we can hold onto and the ones we feel deep in our bones.
But the most profound gifts I’ve received are the lessons I never realized I needed.
Each year, we return to Sun Peaks—not just because it is where Ryan disappeared, but because it has become a place where we still feel close to him. His memory lingers in the snow-covered trees, the crisp air and the sound of laughter echoing off the slopes. It is not a place of mourning, though grief is ever present. It is a place of connection. A place where the community has embraced us lifted us and held us through our darkest days.
It is where I receive Ryan’s gifts again and again.
He has given me the ability to stand when I thought I would crumble. He has shown me the power of advocacy—of using my voice not just for him but for others who are still searching, still waiting, still hoping. He has gifted me reflection, the quiet understanding that love does not end, even when life does.
He has shown me the strength of community—in friendships that have never wavered, in the kindness of strangers who became family, and in the hands that have reached out, unasked, to steady me when I stumble.
Through Ryan, I have learned that grace exists in the most unexpected places. That love does not disappear—it transforms, grows, and finds new ways to exist.
I have learned to love more deeply, to forgive more freely, and to recognize how fragile and fleeting life truly is.
I am grateful for these gifts. But I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t trade them all to have him back. To hear his laugh fill the house. To see him walk through the front door, kicking off his shoes in the hallway, dropping his bag in the same spot he always did, and flopping onto the couch like he never left. To have just one more moment.
And yet, even in his absence, he is still in the love surrounding us. In the lessons he continues to teach me. In the quiet moments, shared stories and unwavering presence of those who remember.
And that is a gift I will carry for the rest of my days.