This Saturday, I will be in Chicago to do the AFSP Overnight Walk.

What that means is that I’ll be walking between 16 and 18 miles through the night. It’s not my first time doing this, but it’s been a few years since I’ve been able to participate. I wanted to come back because I missed the community.

More than ten years ago, when I attended my first Overnight Walk, it was the first time I didn’t feel alone in my grief after losing my mom to suicide. For the first time, I found my place among people who understood without me having to explain a thing. No awkward conversations. No discomfort. No trying to make sense of something that often feels impossible to explain. Just understanding.

Part of the experience is receiving your walk shirt and a white paper bag. You decorate both with the reasons you’re walking. The shirt becomes a way to give voice to those we’ve lost and to those who continue to struggle. The white bag becomes a luminaria, one of hundreds that line the walkway at the end of the night, each illuminated by a small light.

Of course, I included my mom. She’s the reason I support this cause and the reason I found this community in the first place. I also included my nephew, Carson, who we lost almost three years ago at the age of sixteen.

But this year felt different and I decided I wanted to carry others with me on this journey. I posted on social media and asked if anyone wanted me to include the name of a loved one on my shirt and luminaria.

When I made the post, I expected a handful of names. Instead, my inbox filled.

With every name that arrived, I realized this walk would be different than any I’d done before.

Now my shirt is covered with names. Names of sons and daughters. Mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters. Friends. Coworkers. Classmates. People whose lives mattered deeply to someone who misses them every single day.

As I sat writing those names, I found myself wondering about the stories behind each one. What made them laugh. What they were passionate about. What traditions they created. What memories their families hold onto when the grief feels especially heavy. Because every name represents a life. A life that was far bigger than the way it ended.

This weekend, I’ll walk with my mom’s name on my shirt. I’ll walk with Carson’s name on my shirt. But I’ll also walk carrying dozens of others whose families entrusted me with their names and their stories. There is something sacred about that responsibility. For one night, these names won’t be hidden away in memories, photo albums, or conversations spoken only among close family. They’ll be visible. They’ll be carried. They’ll be honored.

And maybe that’s one of the things I’ve learned about grief over the years. We never stop missing the people we love. But when we speak their names, share their stories, and remember their lives, we remind the world that they were here.

This weekend, I’ll carry their names through the streets of Chicago.

But more importantly, I’ll carry their stories.

Because every name represents a life that mattered, a life that is still loved, and a life that deserves to be remembered.

This year, I am carrying their names.