The Journey
Katie Wiggins • February 24, 2025
What a journey this loss is. If I had to share one skill we develop as homicide survivors, it would be the ability to move forward and stand still simultaneously. This past Friday I had the opportunity to speak briefly on ambiguous loss. What a term! Loss with no conclusion. Simply put, we don't have answers to move forward with letting go of the case, but we have to move on and grieve the loss. It feels completely counterintuitive to the human mind.
To move forward, what does this journey look like? We do not need to know the how or why but we can strive toward the what now. Let's cover a couple of ways to cope without knowing....
Truthful surprises on this journey:
We will experience joy or relief
Our pain may get worse at times
We will experience ambushes of grief
Surviving these surprises:
Do not numb your pain
Do not chase justice or answers as the final healing
TAKE YOUR TIME
Coping with Ambiguous Loss
Acknowledge the Pain – It’s okay to grieve even without answers. Recognizing the loss—without needing closure—can help us move forward.
Find Meaning in the Uncertainty – Instead of focusing on what we don’t know, we can cherish the love and memories that remain.
Stay Connected – Seeking support from others who understand, whether through family, support groups, or counseling, helps ease the burden.
Hold Space for Hope & Healing – It’s possible to carry both hope and acceptance at the same time. We can honor our missing loved ones while also continuing to live fully.
Share:
Birds. I always enjoy birds. I see them and sometimes I just watch them. They don't ask anything of me, they just exist, moving through the sky like they know where they're going; they are free. Sometime in 2013, I was sitting in my backyard, and I heard a bird chirping. I remember hearing it as if it were the first time. It wasn’t just background noise, it was music. It felt refreshing, new, and peaceful. I hadn't experienced that kind of stillness, that moment of presence, since my dad died in 2008. Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t just hit you once. It lingers, reshapes you, hides in your bones. I numbed so much of myself with anger. Anger became my armor. It felt easier than pain. Justice became my hope. I thought if I could just know; know who, know why, know how, then maybe I could heal. I gave so much power to the idea of justice, to the person who took my father’s life. But in doing so, I delayed my own ability to find internal peace. Who has the power to heal us? Is it the courts? The truth? Time? Or do we quietly reclaim it ourselves , moment by moment—maybe in a backyard, with a bird singing a song that reminds us we're still alive?
Tomorrow your niece presents her scientific research as a collaboration with her professors. Next week she will perform on the Lyra and trapeze. Tomorrow your nephew competes in Powerlifting America’s High School National championship. You would’ve been their biggest fan. You would’ve wanted to be included in every aspect of training and research, travel and strategy, ‘pre-game’ focus and ‘post-game’ celebrations. Competing was your thing. You were a stealthy, witty, stoic, skilled, and strategic competitor. You were fearless and so very friendly. You encouraged everyone and anyone to join in the ‘game’. My kids have your focus, wit, athleticism, and competitiveness. They are smart, rational and strategic just like you. I can hear your voice encouraging and chanting them forward. I close my eyes and imagine your contorted body language as you anxiously and nervously watch the kids compete. You would’ve had children of your own. The joy I would’ve had cheering for my niece(s) and nephew(s). I would’ve been ‘that’ Taunte Claire who made glittery posters and whose voice trilled with whooping howls of encouragement. My niece(s) and nephew(s) would’ve known their Taunte Claire was in the venue. Toby, I see you in my children. My heart is swollen with pride and gratitude. Your niece and nephew are your legacy. Oh, how I wish we could’ve shared these precious moments together, but we can’t. So, I’ll continue to bring your memory with me. I love you. -Claire Cunningham
My dad was shot and killed in a quaint neighborhood. It is the type of place that kids run around and the neighbors know each other. That is how I imagined it 16 years ago anyways. There is something I do sometimes. I take a drive. Sometimes I go to that area and drive the route I think my dad drove the night he was killed. I drive slow and just wonder to myself what went wrong? Who did he see? Who saw him? What happened? Was he scared? What were his last thoughts? All of these questions flood me in these moments. Then I get to the road he lived on. The road he never made it to again. I consider where he would be now. Would he still be renting this little place? Or would he be in a independent living home? Probably not. That thought makes me laugh. My dad was way too independent to live in a place like that. All of these thoughts remind me of who my dad was but also who I never got to see him become. An old man. He was taken at age 56; Which seems very young now more than ever. I am often told about people's loved one's deaths when they lived lives before their tragic deaths. Some final thoughts are the beauty of making meaning. We must find meaning in their life to live with their death. Making meaning from traumatic loss involves the process of reconstructing one’s understanding of the world, self, and relationships in the aftermath of profound grief. Their death, our pain, and the way we choose to move forward can be a beautiful integration. By holding both love and loss, we find strength and carry them with us.
I think about you often, more often than I’d like to. Time wasted wondering where on this planet you are. Mind numbing scenarios of you fleeing to another country or residing near the scene of the murder. I wonder if you had friends in the truck. Did they implore you to stop, or did they urge you to run? I think that you had to be local because those one way streets are tricky for tourists to navigate, or were you a college student with a family name to protect? Did you circle the block of the hospital? Were you in the crowd at the press conference? Has your mind been plagued by the image of Toby burned into your brain? Do you have night terrors? How do you explain your anxiety and anger to loved ones? Who have you told? Has the guilt ripped holes in your gut? I pray for you. I pray that your heart is softened so that you will do the right thing. I pray that if you have a family, that you are kind and loving. I pray that you forever see Toby’s face. I pray that anyone who knows what you did February 25, 2006 finds courage and bravery to tell the police. I pray that I get to meet you, say nothing, but just look into your eyes. I will always wonder where you are. I will always think that you are hiding amongst crowds somewhere in the city thinking that your secret is safe. It doesn’t have to be that way. I pray that you have a relationship with Jesus. I hope that you have confessed murder to Him. I hope that He stirs your heart and soul to confess. I do not wish you well, instead I wish you Jesus. I will continue to pray for you. What did you do with the truck? Did you sink it? Burn it? Hide it under a tarp for nearly 2 decades? -Claire Cunningham
Life goes on. Quickly, I would add. Grief can cause us to feel like it’s easy to exist and hard to live. I remember when my life was normal. I got up, I went to work, I went to college, and I was a normal 23 year old figuring out life. Then one morning at work I was told my dad was shot and killed. In one moment, whatever normalcy I knew was no longer. The first few days, people are there and concerned. Soon after, life moves on. I did not. Not at first. I began living my life again. I remember not having a place to land with grief. I never talked about my dad very much. I never shared much about his case or his murder. It was as if that part of my life never really existed. I did not realize this until I began to open up and help others. I listened to others and it became a sudden need for me. Grief, the notion of it. Grief became the most relatable feeling for me. I’m sharing this because grief is a walk, a run, and a journey. Murder loss is a layered, complicated road. One minute, it feels like being thrashed by hard waves; the next, like soaring in the wind. If we blink, we miss it all—the joys, the painful moments, and grief’s need to be grieved. Injustice in murder loss creates a dual loss. Cases may find closure, but grief does not. Our grief is here to stay. Will you befriend yours? "The only cure for grief is to grieve." -Earl Grollman
Live music and soccer are where I feel closest to Toby. Music was a constant in our home, either on the radio, Dad singing and playing the guitar, me practicing on the piano, Cajun music at festivals, or live music at Tipitina’s. Toby and I would always talk about latest bands, and he would fill me in on his latest favorites. Music was the background melody of our lives. Sports also bound us together. Hours on the tennis court, or backyard games volleying, passing and shooting, or pitching and catching filled many an afternoon as children and as adults. Spring is live music and soccer season. It’s filled with outdoor concerts and marks the start of Charlotte Football Club’s soccer season. Toby and I would’ve had an amazing time singing along with the band and cheering with reckless abandon when the ball hit the back of the net, but someone selfishly and cruelly stole those opportunities. Toby would’ve absolutely dominated in pickleball, and we would've had fierce battles on the court, but someone stole that opportunity, too. Someone out there in the world took my future with my brother blotting out opportunities of any future. Time continues moving forward, and I will move forward too by bringing Toby with me to concerts and matches, talking about him and saying his name. I refuse to empower the opportunities stolen, instead I will create new opportunities with him in my heart. Charlotte FC won last night and sits at #3 in the table. Air guitar was played and voices were lifted during BJ Barham’s concert Tuesday. Toby was there. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham
It returned. That deep yearning in our hearts for our loved ones to be here just one more moment. I remember a time that the pain was so intense, I could not fathom it ever getting better. Everyone would say time heals all wounds but thats a lie I learned not to believe. I learned what does heal is gratitude, time, coping, and support. Most of all, honesty in my pain heals. Leaving pickleball the other night, I had so much joy that I wanted to share it. For the first time in 12 or more years at least, I picked up the phone to call my dad to tell him all of the great things in my life. The impossibility of that hit me hard. What a lonely feeling that was. Finally, my heart caught up with my brain and the obvious truth struck me, he's dead. in reality I have no father to call because someone took that opportunity for the rest of my life. I coped with years and songs that remind me of him. I am aware this upcoming milestone will be the third graduation my dad has been gone for. He has not witnessed me moving on and what makes me who I am. His death alone did that. These are moments out of our control. When the longing returns or lingers, when grief strikes like lightning on a stormy night, what do we have? We have memories. I leaned into his memory. Though that is fading slowly as years pass, I am fully aware of who he was for and to me. I lean into his life and the life we had with him. He will always be a part of me in the most beautiful ways because I embrace the pain AND the joy of this process. If not, we suffer. Lean into it all... it matters.
One of my absolute favorite family traditions is celebrating the night before a holiday, anniversary or birthday. We share a meal and reminisce about the year gone by. The reminiscing culminates by lighting and blowing out a candle that sits atop a cupcake, ice cream waffle cone, or cake. We celebrate the year that has passed and look forward in gratitude to the year before us. The eve of Toby’s death hits differently. I get quiet. My earbuds work overtime blasting praise and worship music on repeat. I recall memories resulting in tears streaming down my cheeks and sometimes the opposite, side splitting laughter. Simultaneously, time slows, yet time speeds up. I close my eyes and hold precious memories of Toby close. I intentionally bring forth the memory of his hands; I feel the intentionality of his engulfing hugs. I feel the radiance of his smile, and I hear his unique chuckle accompanied with his side-eyed grin. I hear the annoying way he cleared his sinuses, threw a baseball, called Meg (our dog), his walk, his awful (tennis) serve and backhand, and his amazing penalty kicks (soccer). So, this year, I am sitting outside under a Carolina blue sky on the eve of Toby meeting Jesus thanking the Lord for the time he gave me with my brother. I close my eyes and ask God to preserve these memories in my heart and to continue giving me signs that Toby is near. -Claire Cunningham
The woods behind our childhood home were a majestic, mythical playground for Toby and I. We imagined gigantic white wolves watching us. We played endless games of hide and seek amongst the trees, and we would pretend to be spies stationed in some foreign, wild outpost. We were careless, free and so very happy. We were a duo, a team, a bonded pair. Those memories were so very long ago, and when I bring them to mind waves of powerful emotions overwhelm me. Gratitude is now the main emotion. Emotions of gratitude weren’t always the main emotion . Instead, I would spiral and rage reaching for anything to numb the pain and anguish. Time, that horrible shrew, has been grueling, but time, that wise teacher, has brought humility, peace, wisdom, grace, and gratitude. I miss Toby on a cellular level. He is in my bones and blood, my thoughts and my sight. I am grateful for the memories we made and the time we had together. All I know to do is to continue walking directly into the memories so that gratitude and peace will flow, and he will always be remembered. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham
Life. Life always gets in the way. I remember at age 23 when my dad was killed, I was just simply living my life. I was working a lot, going to college, and having fun with friends often. I was a normal 23 year old kid. Then one Tuesday morning, I was told my dad had been shot multiple times the previous night. Just like that, life stopped. Life paused. And so did I. I was reading a devotional the other day and it discussed recoiling during pain. How can we not? I don't know anyone personally that walks right into painful circumstances and says, "ah this is good." That Tuesday morning, a pain came that never quite went away. When we lose someone to murder, we can recall that painful moment as if it were happening again. That is trauma. This explicit memory is important. While pain is a part of this journey, we tend to recoil when we feel it. We cannot recoil when we feel the sting from the pain. We cannot avoid the pain because leaning in is what leads us to hope, healing, and the ability to live with it all. Our sorrow is not just about our current loss, but the entirety of the loss. I will never forget the moment I learned my dad was taken. But I also will never forget the times that brought me joy after. God turned this sorrow into something to reach others and my pain is no longer only about me. Recoiling keeps us inward, advancing forward through the process allows us to see beyond ourselves. Three reminders: -It is important to be with our emotions and also have breaks from them. We need space for this reality. -Sadness is multidimensional, and recognizing how sadness and pain ebbs and flows builds trust in our ability to endure as well as gain assurance that this wont be this hard forever. -Perspective and attitude help us. Encouraging verse: Trust in Christ despite struggles and pain makes the experience easier to bear. The spirit of a man will endure sickness, but who can bear a crushed spirit. Proverbs 18:14
