Hi, I'm Robin.

I want to let you know this bio is going to be a bit long. I'm opening my heart and being very vulnerable. Writing is my release—it eases my pain, brings me comfort, and serves as my escape. It's important for me to share my words honestly and openly.

I've only just begun within the past few weeks managing several memorial pages for my loved ones. Many of the people who love me most are no longer here, and their absence has shaped the way I carry love, memory, and meaning in life. I didn't create these memorials myself, but I'm so grateful for the kind people who did and who transferred their care over to me. It means more than I can say.

In 2006, when I lost my son Levi, everything changed. My whole world shifted forever, and I've been trying to find my place in it ever since. It's been 19 years, and I still haven't found it.

There are days when the grief hits so hard, it feels like I won't survive it. I've learned that even the smallest things can trigger waves of memory and heartache—a piece of paper, a familiar song, the sight of a horse running free in a field. Loss has a way of creeping in quietly or crashing in suddenly, and no matter how many years pass, it still takes your breath away.

Now, I spend time walking through cemeteries, taking photos, and connecting families with lost stories. It makes my heart smile. It reminds me that love outlives the physical, that stories matter, and that writing has become my lifeline—how I cope, how I grieve, and how I hold on.

One recent morning, I had a moment like that. I was sorting through important papers when I unexpectedly saw Levi's death certificate. I've read it before, but it had been years. Just seeing his name printed like that—so final, so cold—tore me open. The grief was overwhelming. I wanted so badly to talk to him, to say his name, to feel close to him again. So I sat down and wrote him a letter.

I hadn't planned on sharing it with anyone. It was simply something I needed to do for Levi — and for myself. But now I realize it might help others understand they are not alone in their grief.

Even now—19 years later—when people think you should be "over it," the sorrow can still come crashing down like an earthquake or a tornado. It doesn't ask permission. It just hits. This is what I wrote that morning:

July 19, 2025 – 5:20 a.m.

For Levi, my son, my heart

From Mom, on a hard day, with all my love

Some days I carry you like a quiet ache.

Other days, like today, it's too heavy to hold.

I saw your death certificate again.

God, I wished I hadn't, seeing your name printed like that—so final, so cold.

It tore me open.

You are so much more than a document.

You were fire.

You were light.

You were wild and stubborn and full of heart.

And you were mine.

When you died, Levi, my love for you didn't fade.

It crashed into a wall—no warning, no way around it—just impact.

The kind that knocks the breath out of you and changes everything.

I didn't just lose you.

I lost the rest of your story.

I lost the chance to watch someone fall in love with you—really fall.

Someone who could see through the chaos, calm your wild spirit,

and want something good for you.

A life.

A family.

Horses.

Laughter.

A soft place to land.

And you never got to come back to the house that day.

And now it isn't even my house anymore.

But I still hear your last words to me ringing in my ears:

"It's our house, Mom."

You were right.

Even if I had to leave it behind,

it will always hold a part of us.

Some days I feel guilty for still being here—

for waking up, and paying bills, and doing what has to be done while you're not.

But the truth is: I don't keep going because I'm strong.

I keep going because I have no other choice.

I write because it's the only way to keep the ground beneath me

from falling away completely.

I write because grief This big—it has to move somewhere.

And I write to say:

You mattered.

You matter.

Always.

Levi,

You are still my son.

Still my heart.

Still my love.

Forever,

Mom

If my words touched you, please consider visiting the memorial for my son. It would mean the world to me if you left him a flower.

Levi Allan "Leak" Shearburn

Gill Cemetery, Van Buren, Arkansas