Why We Do What We Do

We are a motorsport family. My husband, Dan, comes from a long line of auto enthusiast men, and he passed that passion on to our son. Some of Zach's earliest memories were of helping his Dad out in the garage. Like most young men, that passion increased the older he got. Once he received his license, it was all downhill. I don't think the keys were in his hand yet, and he was making big plans for his car, and the future.
Many nights and weekends were spent in and under vehicles for my boys. The garage was our family playground. We probably spent more time there and in cars together, than anywhere else. It was while working on cars that we had most of life's big discussions. Sex, drugs, relationships, responsibility, and more. Wrenching on cars was more than just a hobby. It was a character building experience. It was a way for us to all bond. It was something we loved doing together. Our personal cars were our canvases. The way we showed the world who we were, and what made us happy. Dan was thrilled to see his son share in that love, and had begun teaching Zach the skills he would need to continue the tradition. Watching my boys working side by side, talking, laughing, and creating something together, warmed my heart like nothing else. Seeing the pride and smiles on their faces when they finished a project was a sight I never tired of.
We spent many hours discussing future plans, and my guys had some pretty grand ideas. Team Finn was on its way to doing some big things in motorsports. Or so we thought... 
Then every parent's worst nightmare happened. A knock on the door from a police officer informing us that our son had been in an accident and we needed to go to the hospital immediately.
From the moment we stepped into that hospital room, we knew nothing would ever be the same again.
We lost our only child. And with him, all of our plans and dreams of the future. We were utterly and completely lost.
What most people don't understand is that when your child dies, you die with them. Your shattered heart still beats, but it does so reluctantly. You survive on instinct alone.
We lost our son in a car accident. He wasn't drunk, driving recklessly, or speeding. He wasn't doing anything dangerous. It didn't involve any other vehicles, and it could have happened to anyone.
For a long time, it was impossible to think about doing anything in motorsports again. Even though the car wasn't to blame for Zach's accident, it was still connected. Every car became a reminder of the broken wreckage that held our child. It's difficult to separate those things. You can't just shut off a lifetime's worth of passion for something, but if anything comes close to hitting the off switch, that was it.
So we struggled. We tried to keep going, and we looked for things to be passionate about. But nothing worked.
Eventually, it became clear that the place we felt the deepest connection to our son was in the car. There was no denying it any longer. So after many long talks, and internal battles, we knew what we had to do. We had to carry on Team Finn's legacy. And we had to do it for Zach. Each breath we take now is for our son. Each laugh, each smile, each step forward, is for him. His spirit lives on in us, and we owe it to him to make his dreams a reality.
That began with rallycross. It was a way to figure out if we could do this. If we could carry on without Zach. It hasn't been easy, that's for sure. But when we are in the car, doing what we love to do, we feel him there. We know he is laughing and having a great time right along with us.
As Team Finn makes progress towards bigger and better things, it is a bittersweet journey. When we finally make it to stage rally, and I'm sitting in that co-driver seat, I'll know that it should be Zach there. That I'm just a place filler for him. With every moment of excitement and joy, there will be an equal moment of sadness and heartbreak for the missing member of Team Finn.
Dan & Zach had aspirations of entering numerous types of events. From rallies and hill climbs, to 24 hour races, like LeMons and ChumpCar. They wanted to experience as many varieties of motorsport as they could. Team Finn still hopes to accomplish those goals. Our team roles may have changed, but our destination is still the same.
So why do we do this when we know how great the risks are, even better than most?
Because we have to. We owe it to Zach, and we owe it to ourselves to keep these dreams alive. Each step we take towards making that happen is a step closer to our son. It makes us feel that much more connected to him, and for that.... we would go to the ends of the Earth.
If it takes every last penny we have, and every breath left in our bodies, we will see this through. Team Finn may be short one member, but we ride on. And his spirit and soul ride with us.
The road may not always be smooth, but we know one thing.... it leads us to our son, so we will follow it to the end...

Happy Birthday in Heaven...

Today would be our son's 20th birthday. The last birthday he celebrated here on Earth was his 18th. He's been gone for 16 months, as of today.
Birthday's are a BIG deal to me. Always have been. They are bigger than holidays or anniversaries. They are each individual's special day. A celebration of the moment in history that you were brought into the world. In that moment, countless lives were altered, paths changed, and a new timeline began. All because of one person's birth. I think we forget that sometimes. We view birthdays as a date on a calendar, or a number of years grown. We brush them off, forget them, or place little to no significance on them. But that day is special. It is the day a life began. And each year should be a celebration of the joy, love, kindness, and wonder that each life has brought. Some people are given many, many years. Others... so few. But regardless of how many you get, each one should be treated with reverence and celebration.
This year, I wanted to honor our son in a special way. I wanted his birthday to mean something. So I asked my loved ones to light a candle in his memory, and send a wish to Heaven.
I was not prepared for the incredible response. As I write this, it is only noon, and already my social media is lit up with candles, photos, angels, and messages of love. I'm overwhelmed. I haven't stopped crying since 6:30 this morning, and I don't see it ending anytime soon.
We knew our son touched many people, but I don't think you fully realize just how much impact one life can have, until that life is taken from you.
Today I want to send a message to Heaven. I want Zachary to know that we love him, and that he lives on in each person who saw his smile, heard his laugh, felt his touch, or knew his kindness. I want him to know that each year we will celebrate his life, and that he will NEVER be forgotten. I want him to know that his father and I are so proud of the life he lived, and so honored to have been blessed with him. I want him to know that his soul burns as brightly now as ever, and that he is still touching lives, and making the world a better place. I want him to know that we love him more than words could ever express, and that we carry him with us every single moment, and we do our best to honor his memory, and continue on where he left off.

Happy Birthday, Boy Child. May you fly among the stars on angel wings, and feel the warmth of a thousand flames burning brightly in your name.

These are just a few of the beautiful tributes to Zachary today...

With Thanks, from Team Finn

 

Over 15 years ago, I met an incredible man named Dan. I fell in love with him almost immediately. As if that wasn't enough of a package, he came with an adorable miniature version of himself, named Zach, and the two of them took over my heart. I didn't realize that my life had been missing anything up until that point, but the sense of absolute completeness that they brought me made it very clear that I had indeed had a void. The three of us were an instant family. Without question or hesitation. And as the years passed, we only grew closer and more connected. We started referring to ourselves as a team. Team Finn we would say. And like any good team, we all had our positions and we always had each other's backs. Always. Our little team/family was perfect. We loved and supported one another through everything, and like any good team, we started making plans for our future. One of those plans was to build a stage rally car. Dan would be the driver, Zach, the co-driver. And me, I was to be the team manager, part time crew chief, and head cheerleader.

As Zach grew older, started driving, and bought his first Subaru, this dream suddenly became more and more real. And in June of 2012, when he graduated from high school, it became even more real. He could go to college anywhere, so we could travel to races without risking his education.

 It all seemed so perfect.

Until August 3, 2012.

That evening, while driving with his friends to a car event, Zach was involved in an accident. His two friends walked away. Unfortunately, he did not. On August 4, 2012, he passed away from his injuries.

Team Finn was changed forever.

Dan & I had lost our son, and our way. Life no longer had any meaning. For months, we floated along, not caring about anything. Our passion for cars was still there, but after what happened, it was greatly diminished and we thought Team Finn's dreams were over for good.

But as he always was in life, Zachary was once again our inspiration.

We knew that even though we didn't care if we went on, that it would matter to our son. We channeled his positive attitude and zest for life and we struggled to find our way on this new path. We made friends with a local rally team, and volunteered with them at a stage rally event. We also entered local rally cross competitions and found some happiness once again behind the wheel. We started slowly building the car more and more for rally, and decided that Team Finn would carry on in Zach's memory. That even though I will be taking his place in the passenger seat, he will ALWAYS be our co-driver. He rides with us in spirit, and in our hearts.

When Zach was in high school, he designed a logo for our team. A family crest of sorts.

We now rock this logo on all of our vehicles, among other things. It is a symbol that represents not just our family, but a passion and love for life that was Zachary's legacy. Team Finn lives on in Dan and I every single day. The lessons our son taught, and continues to teach us, give us the strength and guidance we need to continue to pursue our dream.

Since Zach's passing, we have received support and love from many unexpected places, and one of those is the car community. From friends and loved ones, to strangers who never got the chance to meet our son, we have seen compassion and sympathy. Many people have asked us for Team Finn stickers since we started doing this, and we are beyond touched by the gesture. To see this logo on cars, helmets and more reminds us that Team Finn is still here and still going strong. It reaffirms that we made the right choice to continue on in our son's memory. But more than anything it makes us love and appreciate those of you supporting us in our dream, and cheering us on. We know Zach is smiling down on each and every one of you...



Grief

Wow... it's been awhile. So much has happened in such a short amount of time... Where do I even begin?
On August 3, 2012 (exactly 25 days ago) my son, Zachary was in a car accident. On August 4, 2012, he passed away due to his injuries. At 18 years old, he had his entire life ahead of him. He had just graduated high school (Cum Laude) and was preparing to start college in September. I could go on and on about what an amazing young man he was, and how many lives he touched. This is an endless list. But that is not why I am writing today. Today I want to talk about Grief. (Yes, I believe it deserves a capital G...)
When you lose a loved one, you go through a series of emotions. Anger, guilt, hurt, loneliness, etc. When you lose a child, you experience all of those same emotions, but they are hard to identify because they are overshadowed by one major thing. Emptiness. In one split second your life is over. Your reason for each breath is gone. The pain is indescribable, and only one who has felt it can understand. But above all that, looms a terrible, crushing emptiness. I know my heart still beats, because I am alive, but I am nearly certain there is a hole where that organ used to be. My soul is gone. I see the same face when I look in the mirror, yet is is vastly different. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, mine are closed. Permanently. I am followed by what feels like a physical black hole. It sits there, just at the edge of my consciousness, begging me to fall in and never come out. And it is oh so tempting... One of the very first things you experience when you lose a child is the contemplation of suicide. (And maybe this was just me.) The idea of never seeing, hearing or holding your child again is unimaginable and impossible to accept. The easiest and fastest solution to that problem is to join them in the hereafter. Sounds crazy, right? 26 days ago, I would have agreed. But in that moment, when your entire world falls apart, it seems as logical as breathing. For me, that moment passed as soon as I looked at my husband. In that moment, the only other person in the world I cared about was him. And the idea of hurting him even a little was just too much to bear. Had I known in that moment that he was fighting the same internal battle, who knows what would have happened. But luckily, neither of us knew that.
Now, don't get me wrong, we are NOT suicidal. It is just that initial emotional impact that sends you into a place so dark, it would be easy to never come out. We opted to fight back. I made a promise to my son that I would take care of his father. I promised him that I would keep living and keep fighting. I fully intend to keep that promise. But understand, this is not an easy road. Grief is the most unfair enemy. It plays by no rules, and it takes no prisoners. Grief takes its toll on every aspect of your existence. It effects you in ways you could not have imagined and holds on tightly. This is something that I want people to understand. When you lose a child, you do not just grieve. This is not a loss like a parent, a friend or a pet. (Yes, people try to compare losing a dog or cat to what you are experiencing.) This is a loss that has no equal. Period. So PLEASE do not try to tell a Grieving parent that you "understand" what they are feeling, unless you yourself have lost a child. While I am on the subject, here are a few other suggestions:
*Do not say "They are in a better place." To a parent, there is no such thing as a better place than with your child. They belong with you and that is it.
*Do not say "God works in mysterious ways." or for that matter, any trite religious quote. Not everyone finds solace in religion, or the Lord, and if you do, great, but do not assume that a Grieving parent does as well.
*Do not say "It must have been their time." Really? I didn't realize my child had an expiration date. I would really have appreciated that memo...
*Do not ask if we have other children. I realize your intention may be innocent, but all a Grieving parent hears is "Well... at least you have a replacement." On that note, it's also NOT a good idea to suggest they have more children. Like you can simply replace the one you lost. This may work with pets, but not with children.
*Also, this is one instance where silence is NOT golden. Saying nothing is worse than saying ALL of the above. Any attempt at comfort is better than no attempt. A simple, "I am thinking of you." or "Sending you hugs." or "I love you." is wonderful. NO ONE likes to deal with death. So don't use the "I'm just not good in these situations." to make yourself feel better about doing nothing. One thing a Grieving parent learns quickly is that people can be cut out of your life very easily. Suddenly, a lot of things (and people) are not nearly as important as they once seemed, and the fastest way to be on that list is to do or say nothing.
*Support means EVERYTHING. A call, a text, a facebook message, a drop in, a lunch date, a simple smile and hug mean more than you will EVER know. A parents Grief does not end when the funeral does. It NEVER ends. So just because you have moved on, does not mean that they have.
These are just a few simple suggestions to help people understand what we are going through. These are by no means accusations, or even black and white guidelines. Every person and every parent is different. And even Grieving parents understand that this is a difficult issue to deal with for outsiders. We do try to see past the faux pas, and try to understand where people are coming from. That being said, we are also human, and can and may freak out on occasion. Please don't hold that against us. We love you, and know you are doing your best.
It is also important to note that just because a Grieving parent is attempting to go about doing normal things, that DOES NOT mean we are back to normal. We no longer have a normal. We may smile, laugh, joke, work, go out to dinner, take trips, etc, but 99.9% of what you see is merely an act. We are TRYING to learn to live again, and we may have to fake it sometimes. Please do not take this personal. It is just what happens. We still want to do things, so please don't stop inviting us. Though we may sometimes decline, we may also accept. You just never know. Our emotions and nerves are well past frayed and raw and somewhere in the category of a live wire. You just never know what may trigger a break down. It could be something as simple as a word, a place or a type of food. We have no idea. And when it happens, it is out of our control. The emotions just take over. We apologize in advance for this. It will be awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved. Sorry.
I suppose I will try to wrap this up (for today at least) and just say this; Grief sucks. No one asks to lose a child, and NO ONE knows how to deal with it, least of all the Grieving parents. So just be understanding and patient and generous with the hugs. That is all we ask...