Three Girls, Two Heroes, One Story

Hey y’all!

I am super nervous, yet excited to start this new journey. I realize most of the people reading this know who I am and basically my entire life story, but if I reach the audience I am writing for, I want you to hear my story through me. So, here we go!

Hi! I’m Cynamon.

I am a nurse, mother, and now- something I never expected to be- someone rebuilding a life after losing two of the greatest men I have ever known. Professionally, I’ve spent the last 13 years as an emergency room nurse, and 6 of those years also flying as a flight nurse. I’m a Certified Emergency Nurse, and I hold a Master of Science in Nursing with a focus on Executive Leadership nd Administration, along with a certificate in Nursing Education. I currently serve as the Director of Nursing at a rural hospital- continuing to lead, teach, and care for others, even as I walk through my own healing. This work is more than just a job; it’s a part of who I am.

This blog is our story, mine and my two daughters’. It is a story stitched together with love, heartbreak, grit, and a whole lot of grace. A story where all three of us were born in flashing lights and late-night calls, and one that continues in the quiet moments when the sirens stop, and all that’s left is what you carry in your heart.

My father was a police officer. He was murdered in New Orleans while working security after Hurricane Kartrina- a loss that shattered my heart at the age of 15. Years later, I lost my husband to suicide. He was a firefighter, a man who ran toward the flames for others, even while silently burning inside. His battle was invisible to most, but devastatingly real. And now, here I am, raising our daughters- two bright, brave, beautiful girls who carry pieces of both Tristan and Pawpaw Mitch in them.

Let me introduce you to them.

My oldest is H.K., full of strength, wit, and so much courage. Yes, to those of you rolling your eyes while you read this, she is Tristan’s step-daughter, but he loved her as his own, and I don’t refer to her as anything else, because he never called her anything but his daughter. She keeps me grounded and reminds me daily that healing doesn’t mean forgetting but finding new ways to carry love forward. She is such an old soul trapped in a tiny body. She taught me how to love and got me through more than she will ever know.

My youngest P.B. is sunshine and fire all in one. She’s got a laugh that breaks through the hardest days, and eyes that somehow hold both innocence and wisdom. Her name is more than a name- it’s a story within itself. Pierce was my maiden name. Bradlee honors my father’s middle name, Bradley, and my mother’s middle name, Lee. And as fate would have it, Pierce is also one of the most respected brands of fire trucks- strong, dependable, and made to respond when the world is burning. Tristan and I chose it together. It was the perfect blend of our families, our callings, and the lives we were building in service to others. And now she carries all of that forward with fierce grace. She is strong and sweet, full of spark and spirit, and she reminds me every day that while loss may shape us, it does not define us.

Together, we are learning how to honor the past while building something new in its wake.

We are three girls, standing on the shoulders of two heroes. And we are not walking alone.

Through every moment of grief, through the days when I’ve felt hollowed out and unsure how to take the next breath, God has met me there. He has carried me when I couldn’t stand, comforted me when the world went silent, and whispered reminders that joy is still possible-even after everything. This blog is part testimony, part tribute, and fully rooted in the belief that God restores what we thik is too broken to heal.

I created this space not only to tell our story, but to hold space for others who are grieving, surviving, loving through loss, and trying to find light in the aftermath. You won’t find perfection here. But you’ll find truth, healing, and maybe even a little hope. It won’t always be butterflies and rainbows; some of these conversations are hard. Some of these things I will share, only a few people know. But that is another reason I felt led to write, to be honest, and open in case others feel alone.

Thank you for being here with us- whether you’re in the thick of your own storm or just walking alongside someone who is. You’re not alone.

The sirens may have faded. But we’re still here. And so is our story.

“A Father’s Love- And the Men that Carried it After”

Just FYI: trigger warning (this does include some details that might bother some people)

I was 15 when my dad was murdered. I figured I would start with the loss that taught me how to survive. No matter what. 

The case is still unsolved. I have never had any answers. Not one. And anyone who has suffered this type of loss understands the never-ending questions that circle back around repeatedly. 

My dad was sharp- so intelligent. He had been in law enforcement for years. He was one of those people who watched in silence and picked up on things no one else would. Between the New Orleans Police Department and the company he was working for, Dad had to have figured something out. I won’t go into detail here because everyone is scared to talk to the people who worked with Dad, all the way up to some respected law enforcement officers. 

It all started with the initial phone call. They tried to say that Dad was cleaning his gun while he was on duty and shot himself. But my dad? He knew his weapon better than most people know themselves. He would never do something so careless, especially not on duty. The stories that came after were still not true. In the following scenario, he sat in his chair, reading a book. But little did they know, he couldn’t read with his glasses on. Not once in 15 years did I see him read with those glasses on. Being in a small area with multiple other workers and residents, you would think someone would hear a gunshot. Some know the truth, but I respect their wishes to stay silent and save themselves and their families. A dozen versions of the same silence have led to a mess of half-truths and buried evidence.  

Above the lies, which I stopped counting somewhere along the way, was Dad’s missing personal property. Anyone who knew Mitch Pierce knew that he carried that dang black briefcase everywhere, and I mean everywhere. To watch me cheer at football games, gymnastics meets, and sometimes, I think he even toted it to the bathroom. They reported he never had the briefcase. They also deny him having an extra weapon on his person, another lie some families might believe, but not this one. No real investigation, no effort from New Orleans PD. Just silence. 

I was just a kid—a daddy’s girl. And my entire world shattered on March 5, 2007.

His fellow officers, our family in blue, were the ones left with the task to come tell me. They’re also the ones who raised me after. Especially Shorty, he stepped into a father’s shoes he never asked for, but he filled them anyway. Without all of them, I don’t know where I would be. The entire police department, sheriff’s office, and even most of this town looked out for me. 

Today is Father’s Day. And for me, it’s not a card and a call anymore. It’s a deep breath before walking into a memory that still aches. It’s the silence of a case that was never solved. It’s a dad and a black briefcase that never came home. 

But it’s also the men who stepped up for me when you didn’t have to. The ones that made sure I never felt forgotten and still don’t to this day. It’s Shorty, who never tried to replace my dad, but who stood in the gap and helped carry me through. 

Father’s Day is complicated for me. But it’s not empty. Because love doesn’t die when the sirens fade, it just changes shape. I’ve carried this loss most of my life. But I’ve also carried strength, not because I had it, but because God kept showing up when I couldn’t keep going. 

“We are hard pressed on every side but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted but not abandoned; struck down but not destroyed.” – 2 Corinthians 4: 8-9”

That’s what grief has taught me. I’ve been pressed, struck down, abandoned by people, by the system, and by the silence. 

But never by God. 

And that’s why I keep telling this story. Because I survived something I thought would kill me. Not once, but twice. And if you’re reading this and carrying something heavy, you can survive it too. 

And to the two of you who made sure I didn’t sit at home alone and cry all day, thank you. I got to hear the sirens and feel Dad next to me, on a day that I needed it more than ever. 

And yes, this was a hard post to finish, so I am a few days late. But better late than never, right?