This year, I learned that growth and success—especially when unexpected or hard to fathom—can make people uncomfortable. I’ve felt this deeply through Discovering Pie, as I’ve delved into the truth of my aunt’s life and death. In the process, I’ve had to separate from most of my family, and I’ll do it again if I need to. Searching for truth and honoring my aunt’s legacy has come with a cost, but it’s also shown me who’s genuinely here for me. When people avoid or dismiss your efforts to uncover the past, it’s a reminder that some prefer silence over truth.
In certain families and communities, unspoken codes dictate who can step forward and who can’t. Reaching beyond those limits—whether by succeeding, thinking differently, or speaking up—can be seen as a threat to the established order. That’s when the backhanded comments, dismissive silences, and subtle criticisms appear. People find ways to “keep you in your place” rather than support you as you move forward. But I’ve learned that those who truly love and support you don’t need to control the narrative around your work or ignore your commitment. They stand with you, in truth.
When you call out someone’s lack of encouragement or question their silence and receive pushback instead of acknowledgment, it’s a sign they’re more invested in preserving their version of you than embracing who you really are. This year, by choosing to distance myself from those who invalidate or ignore my work, I’m reclaiming my power. Their responses, or lack thereof, don’t reflect my worth—they reflect the limits they place on themselves.
For anyone stepping into the role of citizen investigator or family advocate, it’s essential to know from the start: you may have to go it alone. Your critics might say, “You’re making it about YOU!” To them, I say this: only one person can hold the pen in a story, and that’s usually the author. We don’t hold the story forever; we hold it until we can pass it on to someone with an even greater stake—hopefully, the next generation.
Many of us are carrying these stories on behalf of family, on behalf of loved ones who were silenced, and sometimes even for people we’ve never met but feel a deep compassion for—something that defies explanation. Objectivity isn’t always an option for those of us who’ve lived with the direct fallout of these losses. I wasn’t even born when Aunt Pie died, but I’ve felt the impact all my life. Some family members moved on, but some of us lived in that fallout zone. The pain touched everyone, but not everyone had to live in the echo chamber it left behind.
Earlier this year, during a casual lunch with my young cousin Justin, who had been researching our family history, he brought up Aunt Pie’s murder—a case I hadn’t thought about in years. That single mention rekindled questions I hadn’t planned on asking. Seven months ago, this project was the furthest thing from my mind. How could it ever be about me? Yet as I dug deeper, I found myself uncovering feelings I hadn’t fully processed—even about my mother’s death, a story still largely unknown to my family. This project brought all of those feelings to the surface.
Ideally, it would be best if we could all cooperate, face our pasts, and heal as families of victims. Working alone isn’t better than working together. Magic happens when there’s unity, when multiple people work toward the same goal with goodwill. Even small gestures like bringing a coffee, a meal, or offering a kind word of encouragement go a long way in lightening the load. At no point, however, should the resistance from family be greater than the resistance of the world.
That’s why the 5th estate—the independent investigators, the citizen journalists, the family members who seek justice—is so powerful in uncovering truths. History shows us that traditional media, police, and institutions sometimes fail or even work to keep certain stories hidden due to bias or business interests. In that silence, citizen investigators take on the role of watchdog, doing what’s necessary to make sure that the silenced are remembered and that injustices aren’t buried.
When people suggest that family advocates or investigators keep emotions out of their work, I say we should be as honest as possible about how it feels. Why? Because processing the pain and grief is necessary to reach clarity. Do you want someone writing about your loved one filled with unresolved anger and trauma, or would you want someone who’s faced that pain, processed it, and now sees clearly? I can’t help making this personal. For those who criticize without contributing, they could at least learn how to bring coffee to those of us working through the night, sitting with grief, and then rolling up our sleeves to do the work.
So, I’ll keep focusing on my work, my truth, and my goals. I’m building my own power dynamic, one where my commitment and worth speak for themselves without needing validation from anyone unwilling to give it freely. This year has shown me that peace, resilience, and truth come from within—not from the silence or approval of others. I’m here to do the work, and I’ll continue, whether others stand beside me or not.
Respectfully,
Edmund J. Janas, II
Pie’s Nephew
