I’m Terra Beilby. I’m a nurse, a mother, a writer (weird to say that), an educator, a florist — a woman who lived through some real shit and lived to talk about it. I was raised by two hippies, one of whom drank herself to death at 52. I cared for the other, my father, through the slow deterioration of ALS — bathing the man who once carried me on his shoulders as he disappeared piece by piece into that shit‑ass disease. I’ve known grief — that ugly bitch — in both her loudest and quietest forms. And I’ve come to believe that telling the truth about it is the only way through.

I’m not writing from a place of resolution — hell, I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still unpacking my baggage right here on these pages. Still healing. Still learning what forgiveness feels like in real life, not just in a polished Instagram caption. But I do know this: I never, ever wanted to be a mom who crushed her child’s spirit. I never wanted to become a bitter, drunken ghost of a mother — one who haunted people while still alive. My deepest, most desperate hope was to be anything but that.

And now, I’m living for something more. For Piper, Penelope, and Paxton — my three beautiful, wild, deeply loved children. They’re the reason I show up. They’re the reason I laugh out loud, seek joy, and hold space for healing even when it hurts like hell. I don’t get it right all the time. I lose my temper. I shut down. I grieve things I didn’t even know I was still carrying. But I keep going. And I’m hoping I teach them love, grace, humility — and how to keep loving even when it’s hard. How to show up when you want to run. And how there is absolutely beauty in the mundane, in the day‑to‑day grind of life and death and living — really living.

Because I’m trying — really trying — to break generational trauma, even if it breaks me open in the process.

Along the way, I found pieces of joy in floral design, in gardening, in creating beauty when life felt unbearable. Sometimes joy looked like blooming bouquets. Sometimes it looked like staying busy and avoiding the hard shit. Distraction was a survival tool — and honestly, it worked. Maybe it even helped me turn something painful into something meaningful.

And oh — my hunky husband, Kyle. Thank you for sticking around after you met my family, half of whom had mullets and were drunk beyond measure on day one. When my hippie dad handed you a shotgun shell with your name etched on it and said, “No shotgun wedding,” we were just babies. Maybe he didn’t realize who we were, because later we challenged that little threat — slapped a ring on, made it official courthouse‑style, and did it in the most shotgun way possible before your year‑long deployment. Challenge accepted, hillbilly Dad. You’ve taken the curveballs of my life and held me with grace and strength. You’ve been my rock — one I sometimes want to kick — but I love you deeply and madly. This life we’re building is one of reckoning and rebuilding, and I’m so glad I get to do it with you.

This book isn’t just about the people I lost. It’s about the life I’m building from the wreckage. The one where joy and pain sit next to each other at the table. Where healing doesn’t always look like peace — but it does look like honesty.