This is Our Story

A Mother, A Daughter, and the Wind

When Emily died, the world felt painfully small and isolated. We were only two weeks into the COVID lockdowns, and it seemed as though everyone had vanished. I withdrew from the few who reached out, unable to celebrate her life or find comfort in the presence of family and friends. Instead, I buried myself in books about grief, blogs, online support groups for bereaved moms, and playlists on Spotify that helped me during the long, dark nights. I even wrestled with thoughts of taking my own life. It’s difficult to share this, but it feels necessary because not acknowledging the depth of that despair would be untrue to my experience.

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In those hours, my mind was consumed with Emily, my little girl in Heaven, making sure she wasn’t alone or afraid. It was my job; I am her mom. Even as my adult children required less of me, Emily always did. Sharing my story is my hope that anyone drowning in grief might pause, breathe, and find even a glimmer of hope. I want to honor the reality of your pain: it is beyond comprehension. No one can fix it, but there are support systems, tools, and pathways that may help you move through heartbreak. Something might reach you at just the right moment, and you can find your way forward just as I did.

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What shifted everything for me was something I read by Berly McCoy: grieving is a form of learning; it teaches us to live in a world without someone we love. This idea resonated deeply. Learning and teaching have always been my life’s calling. I spent 33 years as a teacher and Reading Specialist, helping others navigate challenges. Several months after Emily’s death, a friend pointed out that education has always been my way of coping with life’s difficulties. I realized then that I could apply the same approach to grief: I could learn how to survive.

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As a parent, I had always researched every challenge my children faced and how to help them grow into confident, resilient adults. When my 8-year-old daughter struggled with self-esteem, I studied ways to nurture her confidence. When my son entered a demanding military academy, I sought advice from the mothers who came before me and later shared what I learned to help others. When Emily struggled with reading, I immersed myself in teaching her to read, special education, advocacy, and life skills development, ultimately becoming a certified Special Needs Coach. In each case, knowledge became a lifeline, a way to navigate challenges, connect with others, and offer support. Grief became another lesson, one I could study, process, and ultimately understand.

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Through reading, journaling, and connecting with others, I came to understand that Emily has never truly left me. She walks beside me every day, our bond unbroken, only transformed. This knowledge saved me.

I discovered Itaru Sasaki and his Phone Booth of the Wind. I imagined myself sitting in that white booth, surrounded by his serene garden, holding the receiver to my ear and dialing Emily’s number. I could hear the phone ringing in my mind and picture her answering with her playful voice, “Oh, Hellooooo!” I imagined our conversation - everything and nothing at once. 

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As of March 25, 2026, I have mapped 557 public Wind Phones, adding new locations several times each week. Inspired by Itaru, caring individuals have created these sacred spaces for reflection, remembrance, and connection. They allow those grieving to continue nurturing the bond with loved ones who have passed. As the saying goes, where there is deep grief, there is deep love, and creating this website, guiding others, and easing their pain has become my way of honoring Emily. I believe this is a calling she guided me toward, and I strive every day to make her proud.

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I hope that on your own journey through grief, your path may lead you to a Wind Phone, a place where your words can be carried on the wind to those you love who have gone ahead.

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With love on the wind,

~Amy