family – Daly Chronicles

9.1.26

117 months into your precious life … 117 months gone today.

This image is from one of our camping trips at Wolf River Campgrounds. Just me, you, Logan, and a couple of friends.

It stormed like crazy one night, and our campsite flooded. There was a literal river running through the ditch alongside our tents, the sky was pitch black, and the wind was whipping everything around us. Our screen tent eventually blew over and broke, and, honestly, it was kind of scary!

We were there with a couple of other moms and their kids, but we spent most of our time at our own site, swimming in the Wolf River and, I think, maybe tubing too. I honestly don’t remember for sure. There are no pictures of us tubing, so maybe the weather had the tube runs shut down. Or maybe we just never made it there. Some of those details are a little fuzzy now.

Logan and his friend manned the grill—brats and even fresh-caught fish from the river.

It was definitely a trip for the books.

I’ve always struggled. That part isn’t new. But lately, it feels harder. The struggles seem to get heavier with every year that passes. Maybe it’s because it will soon be termed a decade. Maybe it’s just because this is how my journey is unfolding. I don’t really know. My brain doesn’t seem to want to work right. Everything feels so chaotic, and lately, even finding the words to explain it feels difficult.

Did you see Hazel?

Were you waiting to stomp your foot at her so she’d “chase away” from you?

She was the last pet from when you were here. Saying goodbye to her was another loss—not just of a beloved pet, but of one of the last pieces of the life we had when you were here.

I’m sorry, Morgan, that I didn’t let you name her Rain. I remember you wanting to. You gave me so much shit about always needing names to be unique, always wanting something different than everyone else.

But we agreed on Hazel—the name of your first-grade crush!

And now I wish I had known then how much I would someday wish I could go back and say, “Okay, Rain it is.” Or, yes, we can have ham for Thanksgiving.

I’m sorry for all the little things I didn’t know would one day feel so big. Things that normally wouldn’t have been “such a big deal,” but now carry so much weight.

I really am stuck for words. There is so much going on in my head all the time that I can’t seem to focus on one thing long enough to make sense of any of it. It hurts that so many of the familiar things that once brought me comfort are gone now, too. I keep losing pieces of what once felt familiar.

I feel like a stranger in my own life.

I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.

MoM

8.1.26

116 months into your precious life … 116 months gone today.

Nine years old. Blue belt in Kenpo Karate, working toward his next belt. These photos were taken during one of his belt tests. One photo captures the gauntlet kick, where the students stood in a line taking turns receiving a kick from the Sensei while another line of students behind them held each person steady so they wouldn’t lose their balance or be pushed backward. A tradition that every student anticipated with a mix of excitement and hesitation. No one was ever quite eager to be the next one up—but once it was over, there were always grins, laughter, and a sense of accomplishment.

These photos remind me that before he was a Marine, before he became a coach, before he encouraged others to become stronger versions of themselves… he was just a little boy with big dreams, a huge heart, and a determination that seemed far beyond his years.

It was here, at karate, that his dream of becoming a Marine truly began to take shape. The Marine Corps poolees would often come to the dojo to work out alongside the students, and Morgan looked up to them with admiration. Watching their discipline, strength, and commitment planted a seed that continued to grow until the day he earned the title of United States Marine.

As he grew older, Morgan developed not only as a martial artist, but as a leader. By his final years of training, he was assisting with classes and helping teach other students. Even the adults referred to him as “Mr. Morgan.” He was only 13 or 14 years old, but he had already earned their respect—and their trust. In fact, he even had a key to the dojo. Looking back, it was another glimpse of the man he would become—someone who found purpose in encouraging others, helping them grow stronger, and leading by example.

It’s easy for time to blur the memories, but photos like these bring me right back. I can still picture the excitement on karate nights, the concentration on his face as he practiced, and the pride he felt every time he reached another milestone.

Looking at these photos, I don’t first see the Marine.

I simply see my little boy.

And I smile, because even then, so much of the man he would become was already there.

Morgan’s story didn’t begin with tragedy. It began with life—full of dreams, determination, kindness, and love.

That’s the Morgan I hope you’ll remember.

I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.

MoM

Before the uniform… there was this little boy.
— The Daly Chronicles ❤️

4.1.26

112 months into your precious life .. 112 months gone today.

Today I’m just ignoring the fact that it also represents April Fool’s Day. I feel like I have no “foolishness” left—or what is left is buried deep.

I remember the school project these pictures are from—early Spring 2006. You were tasked with creating a homemade instrument, and we decided on a cigar box guitar. Gramps had the cigar box and the tools, so we pulled him in to help. We brought Trevor along too—your best friend for life. I still have that “guitar” upstairs, stowed away (I brought it out for a picture). And it still has a nice tone to it! One of those projects—like all your keepsakes—that were supposed to be handed back to you someday, maybe even passed down one day.

That day will never come.

I was just having this conversation with a friend a couple weeks ago—what will I do with all your things? All your memories? I’ve kept just about everything from the day you were born, and I still find myself holding onto anything connected to you. Time will tell…

Your game room looks just as it did 10 years ago. I finally brought your PS4 and VR up to the living room. It hadn’t been turned on in a few years and needed quite the update. It took me 10 years to move it, even though the thought came and went so many times. Doing things like this throws me down Alice’s rabbit hole, and I often get stuck there. Maybe that’s why I stopped playing in the game room—why it took me so long to move it.

The bigger part of me didn’t want to disrupt your space.
The most recent part of me thought, why not?
You can always put it back.

So now it sits on the entertainment center, covered to protect it from dust—I know how much it meant to you. I’ve used the VR twice since bringing it up here last week—Tetris. And, I might add (not sure if you’d agree, lol), I prefer my Meta Quest 3 over the PS VR. 🙂

I still can’t get into your PlayStation account. Who knows what birth date you used when you set it up—you were underage at the time. And getting back into mine? That took a minute too—and not without tears. Everything feels like a task, and somehow it all connects back to you… to this grief journey, in one way or another.

Looking back at that mop of hair—you were in a “let’s grow it out” phase. Nothing major—the brief black hair phase was yet to come. I think a lot of it had to do with Logan—you looked up to him, followed his lead. He was your big brother, after all. But wow… a head of hair. Just like Mom.

I talk to you every day. Do you hear me? Do you see me cry?

Grief.
And a decade coming up.

I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.

Mom.

3.1.26 111 months since March changed us forever…

Once again, I wasn’t able to find photos for this month’s post. For years, I believed entire stretches of pictures had been lost, so I learned to improvise. When I came across the long-missing box of developed photos tucked away in the basement last year — untouched since we moved into this home nearly 17 years ago — I thought I had finally recovered all those missing years. But as I move through them month by month, it has become clear that January 2006 is still MIA. The month that marks 111 months simply doesn’t exist in photographs (which I find hard to believe), or it’s hiding in some other very secretive place, waiting to surprise me at the least expected moment.

So instead, I return to the moments I do have — the days of March 2015, just before everything changed.

Every part of the year — every month, every day — feels like the rebirth of unfolding events. I think that is why the first is so prominent to me. Many see it as a new beginning, a turning of the page, or the simplicity of a refresh.

The first, to me, is none of those. It is a cycle of replaying unfolding events in my mind. Date by date. Milestone by milestone. Worry by worry. Interwoven with the good and everyday aspects of the life I’ve come to know.

And then there is March — the month that carries its own weight. None of us knew what this journey would bring. And as a mom, of course I didn’t want to see you go, but I supported your dream one hundred percent.

The weekend before you left for boot, you had the guys over to make your final D.I.P. video. You played cards, laughed, and were the same goofy, fun-loving kid everyone knew you to be. None of us could have imagined how profoundly those first steps onto the infamous yellow footprints would change the future — for you, and for all of us.

The weekend you left, we all went to Red Lobster for a going-away, good-luck dinner together.

The following morning, we drove you to the Green Bay recruiting office — where hugs were given and goodbyes and I love yous were shared. The Morgan we knew left with you that day, never to return the same.

I remember a talk we had once, after you were finally home — after you had experienced the things that broke you. You told me you wished that I had stopped you that day — that I had told you not to go. At the time, I wanted to say those words, but only for my own sake. I didn’t want to watch you leave. Not knowing what was to come, I don’t believe you would have listened, and who was I to try to sway your dream? You didn’t share much more after that.

Hindsight… if only.

So, you see, it isn’t only the firsts, but March as well. March marks the beginning of the time frame in which the unraveling unfolds — and where I slowly come to understand the limits of what love, distance, and hope could reach.

Writing these posts are never easy. Memories hurt — even the good ones. Every first of the month pulls me back in time. I carry a quiet expectation of perfection, even though this story has never been neat or finished. Someday, a book may hold the pieces in a way that feels complete. For now, I’ll let the moments I do have speak for themselves.

I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.
~ Mom

Morgan J. ~ PFC Daly USMC

2.1.26 110 months into your precious life… 110 months gone today…

Today. December 2005. This is where I am.
I chose a couple of Christmas photos to share.

Looking through these memories takes me back to when you were introduced to Tim Burton films. The Nightmare Before Christmas — the coffin-shaped DVD box set you were gifted from Santa — and Corpse Bride were among your favorites. I still have your Jack Skellington blanket, and I think the beanie is stashed away somewhere… or Logan may have confiscated it. My memory isn’t always the greatest. Someday it will resurface like a small, unexpected gift, right when I need it most.

It’s strange how memory picks and chooses when to show up — when to offer details freely, and when to interrupt with the realization that you had completely forgotten about that.

Things continue to change. I know it’s inevitable, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

John and Miriam have moved, and soon a new neighbor will take over the space we all came to know so well. Things I’ll never forget: the SunDrop video you made with your friends — newly formed at the time as Drop It Productions (D.I.P.) — knocking on their door, John opening it, clearly wondering what on earth was happening, and you all “dropping it like it’s hot” right there in the middle of his driveway, in front of him. I still wonder what must have been going through his mind.

Then fast forward to the first day John saw you in your dress blues while you were home on leave after graduation. A young Marine shaking hands with a veteran — also a Marine. A moment frozen in time that I was able to capture on camera.

We shared sixteen years as neighbors. Almost ten of those years were held with your absence — and memories were all we had left to share.

Since you’ve been gone, change hasn’t come all at once — it’s arrived in waves, some quiet, some impossible to ignore. It isn’t just people moving on or time marching forward — it’s the steady disappearance of the life that once surrounded you. Neighbors, routines, places, even the small constants that anchored those years have slowly slipped away. Hazel is the only pet left now from your time here, and even the big brown couch — the one that held so many ordinary moments — will soon fade away too. That reality carries more weight than it should.

Each loss is small on its own, but together they make the absence louder. And that’s the part that breaks my heart — all the pieces quietly disappearing from you.

I have to remind myself that no matter what changes, your moments will always remain whole.

I love you.
I miss you.
You should be here.

~Mom