This morning I am struggling. I struggle most days with grief. I just stopped talking about it as much. It has been 2 1/2 years since I lost my sisters, Azure and Valerie, to a drunk driver. I can’t even find the words to express the void, the pain, the darkness that has been left in my heart.
I am the big sister. Both of my sisters were in their 40s and were living at a good point in their lives. Sure, they had ups and downs as well, but they were dealing with them just as we all do. But because of Jada Kelly—who decided to take her keys and barrel down a side road, totally inebriated—my sisters lost the most precious gift of all: LIFE
In the tragic event that instantly transitioned them, we, the family, are left with pain, anguish, and confusion. You see, Jada Kelly is still walking free. She gets to live her life, celebrate holidays and events with her family, create memories, and be present in this world. No justice, just delay after delay after delay. With every court date pushed off for “whatever” reason her legal team sees fit, I die a little inside.
I am a believer. I was raised in the church. I started my singing life in church. I volunteer for church events. I read my Bible. I pray, and I try to walk an honest life out loud. But one thing that throws me down the rabbit hole of pain is how other believers want you to stop grief.
I am very vocal about losing Azure and Valerie. I have created content around them. I have written blogs, created videos, called Senators, local officials, and much more. However, as time marches on, it seems others want me to march on to other things too.
They say,
“God will handle it,”
“Just let go and let God,”
“She’s going to have to face God,”
“She will have to face Judgment Day.”
"Now you just trust in that and move on in your life."
But what if I don’t want to move on?
What if I’m not done grieving? What if I can’t just hand it over to God and keep skipping along as if my world didn’t crack open that day?
Because here’s the truth that’s hard for some to digest: grief doesn’t follow your timeline. There is no expiration date on heartbreak. And while faith gives me strength, it doesn't erase the anger. It doesn’t hush the scream inside me that says, “This isn’t fair. This isn’t justice. This isn’t over.”
So when you tell me to “just trust God,” what you’re really saying is, your grief makes me uncomfortable now. Your pain is no longer convenient for me to sit with. And to that, I say—I’m not here to make anyone comfortable.
I don’t want vengeance (ok, maybe). I want accountability. I want justice. I want to be able to look my nieces and nephews in the eyes and say: Your mother mattered. Your aunt mattered. Their lives were precious, and someone was held responsible for destroying them.
But we’re still waiting.
Waiting for court dates that don’t happen. Waiting for lawyers to stop playing games. Waiting for the justice system to decide my sisters’ lives are worth acting on. And while we wait, Jada Kelly walks around with the luxury of delay. Delay that costs us peace. Delay that reopens wounds. Delay that whispers that maybe this system wasn’t built to protect families like mine.
So no, I won’t stop talking about it. I won’t wrap up my grief in pretty Sunday-school platitudes and tuck it neatly away for your comfort.
Yes, I believe in God. But I also believe in consequences. I believe in grieving out loud. I believe in crying out like David in the Psalms—angry, heartbroken, but still holding onto faith like a torn flag in a storm.
If that makes others uncomfortable… good. Maybe it should.
Because drunk driving isn’t just a mistake. It’s a choice. And that choice shattered my family.
So if you really care about my healing, then stop telling me how to heal.
Sit with me in the hard. Say my sisters’ names. Acknowledge the injustice. And if you pray, pray not just for my peace—but for truth, for justice, for accountability.
Because that’s what believers do too.
