Libby was light. Pure, beautiful light.
I remember her laughter, the way it filled every room, as if happiness itself had taken the shape of a little girl.
She had the kind of smile that could change your entire day—bright, infectious, and so full of love that you couldn't help but smile back
That's what I miss the most, her laughter and her joy, the way she cared about everyone around her, always thinking of others before herself.
She was only ten years old, but her heart was bigger than most adults I know.
It's hard to put into words what it feels like to lose a child, to lose her. People say the loss of a child is the worst kind of pain, and they're right. There's no comparison.
The day Libby died, my world shattered into pieces, and I'm still picking up the fragments.
Every day since has been a constant ache, a reminder that she's not here, that I'll never see that bright smile again.
I think about her a million times a day—when I see posts from her friends on social media, when I see her favorite snacks in the grocery store, when I hear one of our favorite songs on the radio.
It's a constant stream of memories that bring both comfort and unbearable pain.
Libby wasn't just any child—she was special in ways that words can barely capture. She had this remarkable ability to make people feel good about themselves.
Her teachers adored her, not just because she was a great student, but because she cared so deeply. Her friends all said the same thing: Libby always made them feel loved, seen, and important.
She'd go out of her way to check on people, to make them laugh if they were having a bad day.
That's who she was—kind, thoughtful, and selfless beyond her years.
And then there was her dancing. Libby didn't just love to dance, she lived to dance. From the time she could walk, she was twirling, leaping, and moving with a grace that left people speechless.
Her dance studio was her second home, and she thrived there, with her friends and her teachers who became like family. Her flexibility was the kind of thing that made you gasp—watching her bend and twist in ways that seemed impossible outside of a Cirque-du-Soleil show.
She was a natural, and I loved watching her perform. I could see her face light up every time she hit the stage, and in those moments, she was completely in her element.
When I think about Libby, I think about all the things we used to do together—singing our favorite song before bed, watching Little House on the Prairie together, baking brownies or cookies together.
She loved history and would always come to me with questions about the past, her curiosity boundless. She was smart and funny and had this way of making even the most ordinary moments feel special.
And now those moments are just memories, fleeting, fragile things that I cling to because they're all I have left of her.
The day I lost Libby was a day like any other, until it wasn't.
It was a February evening, and she was in the car with her older brother Max, driving to their dad's house. There was an accident—a truck hit their car, and everything changed in an instant.
Libby took the full impact of the crash. She was gone before I even got there. Our son Max was rushed to the hospital, and while he survived, a part of him will never be the same either.
I stood by his hospital bed, wondering how much of the blood on his clothes was his, and how much of it belonged to his sister. It's a feeling no parent should ever have to experience.
Losing Libby didn't just break my heart—it changed me at my core. I am not the same person I was before. How could I be?
When your child is taken from you, the world becomes a different place. Every day feels like a battle just to get through. There's a part of me that's missing, a piece of my soul that left with her. I will never be whole again, and I've come to accept that.
Grief has no timeline, no roadmap. It's just there, forever woven into the fabric of my life now.
I still talk about her all the time. I tell people about her sweet heart, her sense of humor, and how she was so good. She was the best of us.
I've heard people say that time heals all wounds, but the truth is, time just teaches you how to live with the pain. It doesn't go away. I miss Libby every single day, in every single way. I miss her laughter, her warmth, her light.
There's an emptiness in my life without her that nothing will ever fill.
I'm a mother who lost her daughter, and there's no going back from that.
But I try to keep going, not just for me, but for her. I carry Libby with me in everything I do. I want to make her proud, to live like she did—kindly, generously, with love in my heart.
I don't have the luxury of seeing her grow up, but I can make sure her legacy of kindness lives on. I know she'd want that.
And every time I think of her, I smile, because I know I was lucky to have had her in my life, even for just ten short years.
Within 18 months of Libby's death, I also lost my dad, my stepmom, and my mom. To honor the deep losses I've experienced, I've dedicated myself to helping others who are also grieving.
I am now a certified grief educator and have a YouTube channel where I share my story and offer support to those who feel lost in their grief. I've also written a book titled Grief Sucks (But Your Life Doesn't Have To), in which I share the things that helped me deal with my grief.
Most importantly, my ex-husband and I created a nonprofit, LiveLikeLibby.org, which provides scholarships for dancers in financial need.
Dance was Libby's passion, and through this nonprofit, we're able to keep her love of dancing alive, helping other children who share that same passion. It gives me purpose, knowing that Libby's spirit continues to touch lives, even though she's not here.
I'm still on this journey of grief, and I know I always will be. There are good days and bad days, but I keep going for Libby.
I share my story because I know there are others out there who need to hear it. They need to know that they're not alone, that even in the darkest moments, there's still light to be found.
And Libby—my beautiful, bright, irreplaceable Libby—is that light.
Brooke Carlock is an eighth-grade ELA teacher, public speaker, podcast host, and YouTuber from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and the author of Grief Sucks (But Your Life Doesn't Have To).
All views expressed are the author's own.
This essay was produced in partnership with Evermore, a national nonpartisan nonprofit dedicated to making the world a more livable place for all bereaved people.
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