I’m pretty sure I’m not the only bereaved parent who has boxed up things post loss and left them untouched for years.
Life kept moving at a fast pace after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve had the time to even consider going through his stuff.
Time alone was not enough to push me toward doing the hard work of deciding what to keep, what to give away and (most painfully!) what to throw away. But various circumstances forced my hand and I’ve spent much of the last couple of years digging through stuff and digging up memories.
To be sure, not everything has a direct connection to Dominic. I have a giant pile of craft materials that needed sorting and organizing.
Even then, as I put like items together I remembered pushing two littles in a buggy with two older children on either side through the craft store or Walmart. I knew where this tidbit was purchased and what school or church project prompted buying dozens of a certain sticker or wooden cut out.
This past week I’ve been working on “my” side of our two-car garage.
It’s never been used as a garage but instead as a catch-all for a house that has no basement. My side is where I store pantry overflow and all kinds of supplies from toilet paper to party goods.
It’s also where I put some things from Dominic’s kitchen when we had to hurriedly empty his apartment over twelve years ago.
Twelve years. How can it be twelve years?
I finally had to do the hard work of deciding what I should REALLY keep and what it was time to let go of. I don’t like it.I don’t like it one little bit. But it is necessary.
I’m taking it in small doses-two or three hours a day-and trying to give myself grace when even that amount of time doesn’t seem to make a dent.
It’s grueling labor to dig up memories and lay down dreams.
Unrelenting emotional work.
Every bit tossed in the trash is a declaration that he isn’t coming back to claim it. I can’t ask him if he deems it worthy of saving because I can’t ask him anything.
That in itself is a kind of concession to defeat.
Where he is he doesn’t need or miss this stuff but it represents hopes and dreams to me.
One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.
“How many children do you have?”
A common, get-to-know-you question lobbed across tables, down pews and in the check-out line at the grocery store. But for many bereaved parents, it can be a complex question that gets a different answer depending on who is asking and where we are.
I decided from the beginning that I would say, “four” in answer to that query.
But that doesn’t always get me off the hook. A follow-up of, “Oh, what do they do?” means that I have to make a decision: do I go down the line, including Dominic in any kind of detail or do I gloss over the fact that one of my children now lives in heaven?
I try to gauge whether or not the person is deeply interested or just being polite. No sense making them feel uncomfortable if they are really only making chitchat.
All of these calculations flash through my mind in an instant but they are distracting and draining.
“Want to go to a movie?”
Maybe.
First I have to look up the plot (something I never did before because I didn’t want to ruin it). I can’t be stuck in a dark theater in the middle of a row full of people with no way out if larger-than-life there will be anything that sends me back to Dominic’s accident.
Same standards for television shows or books-but it’s easier to turn those off or set them down.
Sitting in church can be excruciating.
A hymn or chorus, a Bible text, a random statement from the pulpit-any or all of those things can lead my thoughts down a path that takes me to a dark place where sorrow is overwhelming.
No matter how much I long to listen and participate, I find myself literally biting my tongue so that I don’t burst into loud sobs.
It doesn’t happen every Sunday, but I never know when it might.
Social media is an emotional minefield.
I confess that in the first days after Dominic left us, I had to limit the posts that showed up in my Facebook newsfeed. It was too difficult to see complaints about children growing up or graduating and how hard it was to “let them go”. I could not take whiny status updates that included having to wait in line for the new iPhone.
It’s easier now that my grief isn’t so raw but there are days…
Making a meal, I reach for his favorite ingredient or leave something out because “Dominic doesn’t like it that way” and then I remember he won’t be here to eat it.
Music can transport me to a moment of joy or pain with a single note.
Sometimes I walk in a store and smell coffee-he loved coffee-and I have to turn around and leave. Other times the fragrance draws my mind to sweet memories of shared Starbucks runs for a caffeine infusion.
If you ask me to do something next week or next month, I might say, “yes” and then find on that day I just. can’t. go.
I used to be a woman who lived by her calendar and commitments, but now I’m someone who never knows what a day will bring.
Learning to live with this changed me is an ongoing process and exhausting at times.
So much energy is used up negotiating what used to be simple things that there’s not enough left for pursuing new interests or delving deeper into old ones.
I’m trying to reach equilibrium.
I long for a time when simple things are simple again.
I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels.
And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.
So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.
It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.
I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess- afraid of every sunrise, every phone call, every mile my family travels:
I confront my fear with facts: The absolute truth is that it is no more likely I will lose a child today than it was the day I lost Dominic. I’m not good at determining odds-if I toss a coin ten times and it lands on “heads”-I’m convinced that next time it HAS to be “tails”. But that’s just not true.EVERY time the coin is tossed, it has exactly a 50/50 chance of landing on “heads” or “tails” regardless of what happened last time. That’s not how it FEELS, but that’s how it IS.
I refuse to feed my fear: I don’t linger over news stories that play up danger or magnify the possibility of catching rare diseases. Do these things happen?ABSOLUTELY! But are they likely to happen to me or someone I love, probably not.I will not fuel the fireof fear that threatens to rage through my mind.
I take reasonable precautions: My family wears seatbelts. We take our vitamins and go to the doctor when we need to. We eat right and exercise. We don’t walk across streets without looking both ways. These were all things we did before Dominic’s accident and we continue to do them now.Not one of them would have made a diference that night but they help me feel better.
I limit my exposure to uncertainty: If I’m concerned about someone, I call or text. It’s that simple.I don’t have to live for hours wondering if they are OK. I’m careful not to infringe on my adult children’s lives by a never-ending series of contacts, but they understand my heart. We try to be mindful of letting each other know we arrive safely to our destination.
I exercise control in other areas of my life: Anxiety is a beast that grows stronger the more out of control I feel. I cannot keep my family absolutely safe-it’s not in my power to do so.BUT, I can control some aspects of life. So I do. Even cleaning out a messy junk drawer helps bolster my sense of control. Small, easy to complete projects feed the part of my brain that says, “You can do this!”
I limit caffeine and other stimulants: Increased heart rate, rapid breathing and sweaty palms are signs of anxiety. Caffeine can produce these effects even when I’m not anxious. If my body is feeling this way, my mind is quick to jump on board.
I practice distraction: There are times when I find myself feeling anxious despite my best efforts. When that happens, I am learning to distract myself. I find something to touch, smell, hear or taste that can help me regain composure. I count backwards from ten or twenty. I hum a song or recite a Bible verse. I add numbers in my head or do multiplication tables.
I live in the present: I have no idea what tomorrow holds. If I allow my heart to dwell on what might happen, I will be useless for today. So while I make marks on the calendar for appointments, I wake each morning determined to live right now.
You plan to mark this day as a special milestone for the rest of your life.
You absolutely, positively NEVER think you will have to mark another one: the day he or she leaves this life and leaves you behind.
But some parents have to mark both. The dash in the middle is shorter than we anticipated, and our child’s life ends before ours.
So how do you do it? How in the world do you observe the polar opposite of a birthday?
Here are some ideas (shared with permission) that parents shared recently in an online discussion sparked by one mom’s very honest admission that she just didn’t have it in her to create another video montage from the same old photos to mark yet another year without the earthly companionship of her precious son:
Don’t do anything. That is an option. We do not have to draw a red circle around THAT day on the calendar, gather folks as if it’s a celebration. As one mama said, “Yes, the day they left us does not need to be ‘remembered’.” For some parents, going to work like it’s a regular day, engaging in whatever normal activities are required, ticking the hours off on the clock until night falls and the earth turns to the next day may be the very best choice. Another mama wrote this: “I have friends who celebrate a ‘heaven day’ for their son. I can’t. I just can’t. If it were up to me, I would probably go camp somewhere all alone, and not move a muscle for the entire day.”
Do something big (or small). Some parents choose this day to hold an annual “Celebration of Life”. It might take the form of a balloon release, or lantern release at home, at a park or other outdoor venue or at the cemetery. It might be lunch or dinner out at your child’s favorite restaurant or at home with your child’s favorite menu. Invite friends and family to join you and ask that they bring a photograph or memory and share. One mom said that such an event kind of happened organically and spontaneously when contacted by her son’s widow: “We went to one of [his] favorite restaurants. Told funny stories about him, talked about how missed he is, then went o his grave and put fresh flowers.”
Serve others. Did your child have a special interest in a particular charity or community organization? Maybe you can spend this day volunteering or raising awareness/money for that group. Often having something to do helps a heart from sinking into despair. If the group allows, maybe put up a sign saying, “Volunteering today in honor of __________” and attach appropriate photos of your child. Some parents whose child died from cancer or suicide or violence participate in walks or fundraisers that highlight those causes.
Encourage Random Acts of Kindness (RAK). I plan to do this one in April. It will be seven years (!) and I can barely stand it. But so many of the comments from Dominic’s friends after he left for Heaven went something like this one, “He was always doing something for someone else. Fixing their car or showing up when they needed an encouraging word.” He was known for his many acts of generosity and kindness and I feel like he lives on in the hearts of others because of that. I had cards printed ( I intentionally let his “dates” off) which I will distribute well in advance of April 12th for friends and family to leave behind when they do a RAK in memory of Dom. Vistaprint and other online publishing companies offer reasonable prices and will guide you through the process step-by-step.
Escape. Lots of us find being at home (alone or in the company of others) too hard to bear. Many received word of their child’s death at home and as the day creeps closer, the memories crowd every corner of mental and physical space and are inescapable. So sometimes parents plan a trip around this time. Go somewhere your child would have loved to go or go somewhere he or she enjoyed visiting. Take photos and post them in honor of your child if you want to.
Focus on family. You may not want to be alone, but the thought of being with anyone outside your closest grief circle is overwhelming. That’s OK. Spend time with the people who, like you, are most affected by your child’s absence. You don’t have to do anything special. You can make room for them to speak or not speak about their grief as they choose. Sometimes just having another warm body in the room is enough to ward of the chill of despondency.
Flip the script. For those of us who believe that this life is not all there is, the day can be one of celebration. Our children have escaped life full of sorrow and trouble and are safe forever in the arms of Jesus, where we will also be one day. Waiting is hard, but waiting is not forever.
Simply allow yourself to feel the full force of missing and grief.“As far as his death day, for me, that is a day when I allow myself to fully feel and express the pain of my loss. It is a way to (temporarily) empty myself of all this pain, so I can breathe again to face another day. I will sit in his sweatshirt, listen to reflective music, cry a lot, talk to him, pray to God, and just allow myself to feel all the pain and emotion that everyday responsibilities cause me to stuff away.” If you can manage it, taking the day off work and giving yourself grace and space to grieve in ways that are denied so often may be the very best way to experience the day.
Here’s a list of ways some parents honor their child on this day:
Giving away stuffed toys with a card or note explaining why.
Taking goodies to first responders and/or nurses who were served their family during an accident or illness.
Handing out Bibles or books in memory of their child.
Making memory baskets for parent whose child will be born straight into heaven.
Adding to a scholarship fund or other charitable fund in honor of their child.
Placing balloons, flowers or other special decorations on their child’s final resting place.
Lighting candles, releasing butterflies, balloons or lanterns.
Placing a memorial advertisement in a local paper.
Do or don’t do whatever helps you make it through those twenty-four hours that represent another year of sorrow, another year of missing.
There is NO wrong way to mark or not mark this day.
It’s up to you and your heart.
And absolutely does not require anyone else’s permission or approval.
Even though our children are always on our minds, holidays act as megaphones, amplifying the missing, sorrow, grief and lost opportunity to build more memories.
So it’s particularly helpful when friends and family step up and step in, showing extra support on and around those extra hard days.
Here are seven ways you can bless a bereaved dad this Father’s Day:
MEET THEM WHERE THEY ARE IN THEIR GRIEF
Sometimes friends and family let their expectations of how parents should grieve and for how long influence the quantity and quality of the help they’re willing to give. I can’t emphasize enough that no one outside the child loss community really understands how very, very difficult and how very, very much time it takes for a parent to even wrap his or her mind around the fact their child is truly gone. Instead of pushing or pulling a grieving dad forward, simply accept where he is, meet him there and let him take the lead in conversation, activity and whether or not he can join in a Father’s Day celebration.
LET YOUR FRIEND KNOW YOU’RE THINKING OF THEM
This is probably the most important and the simplest way to make a difference in a bereaved dad’s life! I know we all get busy and let days and dates slip by. But set an alarm on your phone if you have to as a reminder. Send a text or make a call. Tell him you haven’t forgotten he will be missing his child and wishing his family was complete this Sunday, especially.
SAY THEIR CHILD’S NAME
As the years go by it is often more and more unlikely for a parent to hear their missing child’s name spoken aloud. Yet it’s something we all long to hear. Sometimes friends and family are afraid that mentioning the child will make a dad “sad” or “remind him” the child is gone. Trust me, “sad” is something he feels often and he never forgets. Knowing someone else is willing to remember too is a great blessing.
SHARE MEMORIES OR DO SOMETHING TO HONOR THEIR CHILD-IF YOUR FRIEND IS READY
Not every grieving parent wants to talk about their child though many do. And even if they are ready, they may not want to talk about him or her right now. Pay attention and let them lead. If a bereaved dad is receptive, share a memory or photograph you might have of his child. Write a card and include details of how his child influenced your life. There are many ways to honor a child’s memory on important dates: make a meaningful donation, place a book in his honor, add to a foundation or scholarship that bears her name or send a small token that speaks of a child’s interests or personality.
SUPPORT SURVIVING SIBLINGS
Surviving siblings can be forgotten mourners. Grieving parents are frequently caught between their own needs and the needs of the children still with them. Child loss changes everything-for the whole family.So when friends come alongside and encourage and care for surviving siblings it helps everyone. Our family’s first Mother’s and Father’s Days were spent in company of friends of our children. It took a huge load off me and my husband to know the day was still special without all the focus being on us.
ENCOURAGE SELF-CARE
Grief from child loss is so overwhelming that often parents find themselves in a downward spiral where self-care is practically impossible. Even parents years into this journey sometimes say holidays and milestone days bring back the intense feelings of those first days. When that happens we need friends and family outside our immediate grief circle to help us find a path out of the darkness. Father’s Day is a great opportunity to offer a dad a healthy meal, take him on a hike or fishing expedition, or just sit and watch a ball game.
STAY IN THE PICTURE
Everyone gets busy and it’s completely natural that over time people forget days and dates. But Father’s Day doesn’t necessarily become easier for bereaved dads over time. So don’t assume because it’s been years that a dad isn’t still in need of extra support. Commit to checking in and helping keep his child’s memory alive.
Sometimes we just don’t know what to do for a grieving friend and often they aren’t able to express what might be helpful.
I hope these seven suggestions encourage you to try.
I belong to a number of closed online bereaved parent groups.
I’m not sure if it is a function of gender or not, but the moms seem to be a bit more willing to share their feelings and to respond to the feelings of others.
Every now and then, a dad speaks up. When he does, I usually pay close attention to this male perspective.
Wes Lake is a bereaved dad in our group who often has thoughtful posts that touch my heart. This one in particular was a beautiful, true and helpful reflection so I asked him for permission to share.
He graciously agreed.
” [I was] just thinking about 5 years down this road and some of the things I’ve learned:
Grief doesn’t usually kill you.
For a long time I wished the Lord would take me but apparently he had other plans because I’m still here. So if I’m still alive what choice do I have but to pick up the pieces of a shattered life and learn to live again. Yes, I’m severely disabled but I need to make the best of what I have.
It is not the hand your dealt, it is about how you play the cards.
I have learned not to trust my emotions.
I will have the blackest of black days and a day later the world will look like there is hope. Nothing in child loss good or bad is forever other than the loss of our child.
On the bad days I hold out hoping for a better day.
Time does heal but not in a way that most people think.
Time shows you all the sides of grief. Time teaches you your limitations. Time helps you to stuff the grief so you can function again. Time shows you how to interact with a non-grieving world.
You don’t grieve any less, but your life gets easier.
One other one not part is of the OP [overall process]-I had to come to grips with being happy.
For a long time I felt that experiencing the slightest sliver of joy was somehow being unfaithful to my daughter. I’m here to tell you that is a huge lie of grief. Just because you are experiencing good things does not mean you miss your child any less.
I can’t pretend to understand exactly what it feels like to be a father who buries a child. I’ve only been able to watch from the outside as my husband absorbed the impact of that great wound.
But I can tell you this: for dads, like moms, each holiday is another mile marker on the road of grief.
It is another poignant reminder that things are not as they were-they are not as they should be.
Many men keep the hurt bottled up inside, don’t talk about it, don’t seek out fellow bereaved fathers, and don’t cry as much as their wives.
It is easy to forget and overlook the ongoing pain of child loss for fathers-especially when outward signs are few.
But I promise you-that dad in the pew on Sunday-he’s hurting.
That man shaking hands and joking-he remembers.
He hasn’t forgotten that one of the special people that called him “Daddy” is no longer around to do it.
Tell him you remember too.
Speak his child’s name and share a special memory.
Acknowledge the pain. Let him express his grief.
And honor him as a father to ALL his children-those that walk the earth with him and those that don’t.
Like it or not the stereotype often rings true: women emote and men clam up.
I see it play out every day in the online support groups to which I belong. If you check the member list there are quite a number of dads in the mix but it’s exceedingly rare that one of them posts or comments.
I get it. I’m a wife and mother to three boys (now men). All of them are better at compartmentalizing difficult situations and pushing down emotions than I am.
When I have something heavy on my heart it almost always spills out and splashes across everything else.
They, on the other hand, will sit on sadness or anxiety or the never-ending missing that makes up child loss/sibling loss until it finally becomes more than even their iron-clad emotional chests can hold.
Even then they often weep in private, mourn in secret.
That’s unfortunate because it means they are frequently forgotten in society’s rush to comfort parents whose children make it first to Heaven.
Much is made over bereaved moms and Mother’s Day. There is even an International Bereaved Mother’s Day on the Sunday before Mother’s Day (U.S.). I (and others) take that opportunity to have a separate day to think about, mourn and celebrate the life of my child gone too soon.
But dads kind of get short shrift.
While there IS an International Bereaved Father’s Day ( August 31, 2025), it’s nowhere near as well-recognized as the one for moms.
I’ve written often about how important friends are to our grief journey. They can encourage, provide practical help and simply by their presence remind a heart that darkness and despair is not all there is.
Men need friends who will step up and step in. They need masculine examples of sharing and caring.
They need grace and space to unlock the chest of emotions that they sometimes keep tucked away and hidden from their family because they think it’s their job to “be strong”.
So if you know a dad whose child has left for Heaven, reach out in the next few days before Father’s Day.
Take him fishing. Go for a ride. Tackle a project together.
Be a safe place for them to let their guard down, to open up, to release pent up emotions and (possibly) frustration.
I know that you never-in your wildest imagination-thought that you would need a day set aside for your broken heart and your empty arms.
Who thinks when they learn a new life is growing inside that this same life might be cut short? What heart is brave enough to consider the possibility?
Yet here you are.
I’m so, so sorry.
But there are a few things I want you to know. There are some important truths to remember on this broken road-truths that can help you hold onto hope and finish strong.
You are not a failure. I don’t care about those silly social media memes that are tossed around like candy from a Mardi Gras float. You kept your baby or your child as safe as you knew how.You are not omnipotent nor omniscient. You did the best you could. That’s all ANYONE can do.
You are a mother even if you don’t have a single child to hold on earth. You have a child-just not one that others can see. When people ask how many children you have, answer boldly and count the one (or more!) that wait for you in eternity.
Your love is valid and worthy of expression. Love for your missing child may look different than love for a child still walking the earth with you. That’s OK. Grief is love with no place to go. Tears are fine. Laughter is fine. Speaking his name is your privilege. Carrying her legacy is your honor. No one gets to tell you how or when to express your heart.
You are brave. Bereaved mothers are not the only brave ones on this planet but they are some of the bravest ones I know. You have received the heaviest blow a mama’s heart can know and you are still standing. You get up every day and carry on. You continue to love the people in your life and serve your family. You have not given up although giving up would be the easiest thing to do. Don’t discount your own courage.
You are strong-not because you want to be but because you have to be. Other people depend on you and you are trying your best not to let them down. It’s no compliment when someone says, “I just wouldn’t be able to survive.” Because, really-what choice do we have? We bear up under the burden because the alternative is to further burden our families.
You are beautiful. Every time you look in the mirror and notice the circles under your eyes or the lines around your mouth, don’t think that makes you ugly. They are scars-scars of love and sacrifice. They bear witness to the fact that you choose to carry on and carry your child’s legacy even though it costs every ounce of energy and will you can muster. You may not like the way you look in pictures, but trust me, you are beautiful.
You are a living legacy for your missing child. You carry his light. You honor her memory. You keep it fresh and alive and present and refuse to let others forget or ignore it.
You have a story to tell so tell it. Your story may be the key to unlock another mom’s prison. We cannot do this alone. We need one another. Don’t let fear of being dismissed or misunderstood silence you. Speak up. Stand out. Shout your truth for others to hear.
This day is for YOU.
It is set aside for all the mothers who love a child they can no longer hold.
Observe it however is meaningful and healing for YOU.
thelifeididntchoose 