grief waves – thelifeididntchoose

2026: Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother

When it first happened all I could think about was getting through a minute, then a day and then all the decisions and days leading up to a funeral or memorial service.

There’s no road map.

Even when others come alongside (and many, many did!) there’s just no easy way to navigate that part of the journey.

And then I realized that in addition to all the “regular” days that absolutely, positively break your heart, I had to forge a path through “special” days.

It was overwhelming!

Mother’s Day was especially challenging that first year. Our loss was fresh and we’d had to acknowledge and celebrate two graduations and a wedding was about a month away. How in the world could I honor my living children and also safeguard my broken heart?

We muddled through by having Mother’s Day at my daughter’s apartment co-hosted by some of her sweetest and most compassionate friends. Not a lot of fanfare, but good food, good company and a quiet acknowledgment of Dom’s absence but also my living children’s presence.

It was a gift.

This is my thirteenth Mother’s Day. It’s my first as a bereaved grandmother. Every year is different. Every year presents new challenges and every year things change.

Since discovering there is an International Bereaved Mother’s Day my heart has taken advantage of having a day to think about and honor Dominic and then another day to think about and honor my living children.

That helps.

I wrote this post years ago but can’t really improve on it so I’ll share it again. I pray that each heart who finds Mother’s Day hard will lean in and take hold of the hem of His garment.

It’s really the only way.

Read the rest here: Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother

Mother’s Day 2026: From the Child Not Here on Mother’s Day

I post this around Mother’s Day every year since my daughter, Fiona, wrote it in the voice of her brother who is in Heaven.

It helps my heart sort the mixed emotions that this day stirs up.

I’m not ONLY a bereaved mother. I’m a mother and grandmother of earthbound children too.

I’m grateful for all of them. So very, very grateful.

❤ Melanie

My daughter, Fiona, wrote this several years ago, in the voice of her brother who ran ahead to heaven.

I am so thankful for her and so sorry that she has gained this wisdom at great cost.

Some of the bravest, most loving women I know are those who have suffered one of life’s greatest losses. I hope you know how truly beautiful you are.

“Dear Mom,

I know most days your eyes are misty with tears, your mind full of questions, your voice quieted, your heart broken by the pain of living without me.

There are only two ways to gain a child: birth or adoption.

But nobody and nothing in this world prepares you for the harsh reality that there are countless ways to lose one.

I can’t dry your eyes or answer your questions; strengthen your voice or fix your broken heart. But today, the day you stand with empty arms or a few empty chairs while others’ hearts and homes are full, I want to remind you of a few things:

It is not your fault.

You are a great mom.

It’s OK to wish for more time.

Broken crayons still color and the world needs your tear-washed rainbows to remind them that stormy clouds are not the end of the story.

I’ll see you soon.

<3,

The One Not Sitting at Your Table”

Mother’s Day 2026: Holidays Can Be Hard on a Heart

This will be the thirteenth Mother’s Day since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.

Every year has been different because families continue to grow and change and the world turns and life marches on.

Every year presents unique challenges and particular paths that must be navigated anew. It’s always an emotional roller coaster.

Seven years ago our family welcomed a first grandchild. His frightening entrance into the world made his life all the more precious and Mother’s Day gave us a chance to celebrate him, his mama and the fact that his story has a happy ending.

March, 2022 we welcomed his brother-also a bit early but not nearly as perilous! Once again we give thanks that things have turned out well.

Coming home!! Big brother is so excited.

In December last year we held our breath as their little sister made her highly anticipated entrance into the world just before Christmas. We said our good-byes only two short weeks later almost to the minute.

Now my son and his wife join us as bereaved parents and this is their year of sorrowful firsts.

This year I’ll be a motherless child when the sun rises tomorrow. For the seventh time in my life, I won’t be able to see or telephone my own mother. More lights and lives lost from sight.

Dominic and Mama and Holly in Heaven together.

Julian, Dominic, Mama, James Michael & Fiona

Every year my living children work hard to celebrate me even when they are unable to make it home.

I always feel loved.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is fiona-and-brandon-wedding-boys-and-fiona.jpg

So what’s a mama to do when her heart is torn between the very great and beautiful blessings of her living children and grandchildren and the very great and devastating sorrow of missing her child in Heaven?

I also rise early enough on Mother’s Day to have time alone with my thoughts and feelings.

I walk my heart through the upcoming hours and “pre-grieve” moments where I’ll be looking for Dom among the faces at the table or around the room. I remember the gift of his life and place it in context of the gift of each of my children.

I thank God for my family.

Thanksgiving years ago, when we were all younger and all here on earth. One of my favorites.

And then I get up, get dressed and open my heart to the love I have in front of me.

I never, ever want my living children to think that their brother’s ABSENCE is more important or more precious to me than their PRESENCE.

My mama’s heart has room for all of them as it always has.

And as it always will.

An Open Letter to My Fellow Sisters in Loss on International Bereaved Mother’s Day 2026

Dear Mama,

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.

no way to be a perfect mother child in arms

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.

mothers grow love intl bereaved mothers day

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.

There’s no right way or wrong way to grieve.

Twelve Years. For You a Moment, For Me a Lifetime.

Twelve years ago today I woke up knowing that at some point I’d close the lid on my son’s casket and never again see his face this side of Heaven.

For friends and family it was the moment when Dominic’s death was “over”. His story complete. His life appropriately marked and celebrated. It was the end.

For me, it was a beginning.

A beginning I did not want to embrace. But there was no going back, only forward, ever forward.

Melanie

I used to look at tombstones in cemeteries and do the math between the dates.

I was most focused on how long this person or that person walked the earth.

I still do that sometimes. But now I do something else as well.

I look to the left and the right to see if the person who ran ahead left parents behind. My eye is drawn to the solitary stones with the same last name next to a double monument clearly honoring a married pair.

And then I do a different kind of math.

I count the years between the last breath of the child and the last breath of his or her mama.

Because while that first date marked an end for everyone else, for the mama, it marked the beginning of the rest of her life- a life she never imagined nor would have chosen.

Read the rest here: For You, a Moment; For Me, a Lifetime

Twelve Years. Sigh…

The calendar is relentless. There’s no respect for seasons of mourning or grief anniversaries or weeks of sickness or unexpected early births of grandchildren.

The sun rises, the sun sets and another day is crossed off into history.

So somehow-without my permission-I find I’ve woken to mark the twelfth anniversary (do you call such a horrible thing an anniversary?) of Dominic’s death.

It’s humbling to realize I (and my family!) are not only still standing but flourishing. It’s horrifying to comprehend I’ve continued to live and breathe for 4383 days since Dominic left us.

Most days are pretty good.

Today is hard.

❤ Melanie

When the numbness wore off (maybe around six months) I remember vaguely wondering what years down the road would feel like.

I tried to project the “me” of that moment into the future and imagine how I might deal with life changes, new circumstances, an empty nest, grandchildren (if there were any) and growing older alongside the heartache of burying a child.

But just as it’s impossible to comprehend how the addition of a child utterly transforms a family, it’s impossible to understand how the subtraction of one changes everything just as much.

We are all so very different than we would have been if Dominic were still here.

Life most likely wouldn’t be any more perfect because we would each grow and change, find common ground and find points of conflict, make new memories and drag up old hurts.

Still, none of us would carry the deep wound and traumatic injury of sudden and out-of-order death.

THAT is impossible to ignore. Even twelve years later it’s a red flag, a sticky note, an addendum to every family gathering and holiday.

So we carry on.

Like generations before us who have walked this world dragging loss behind them, we keep going. It shapes us but doesn’t limit us. It informs our views but isn’t the only thing that molds our opinions and frames our choices.

My faith in God’s larger and perfect plan helps me hold onto hope even as I continue to miss my son.

But today is a hard day and I don’t think that’s going to change as long as I live.

I’m getting better at remembering Dominic’s birthday in ways that honor who he is and the man he might have become. I can’t say I’ve figured out any good way to walk through the yearly unavoidable and unwelcome reminder of the day he left us.

I’m learning to allow the grief waves to simply wash over me without resisting them.

Eventually the hours tick away, the day is over and I find I’ve survived yet again.

Sometimes It Feels Like a Dream…The Gap Grows

Tomorrow will be twelve years since Dominic left this life and entered Heaven.

I had someone ask me last week how I was doing and, surprisingly, I could honestly reply I was doing OK.

Today, not so much.

The gap between life lived AFTER and life lived BEFORE is growing and while I cherish every new memory, the old ones are fading.

My cousin asked me about that yesterday and I told her that sometimes it almost seems like a dream-a family of four children, growing, learning and striving toward what I thought would be a future knit together in love and shared experiences.

Oh, you say, “But you still have three children and now you have grandchildren!”

Yes, yes I do. I am thrilled and work hard to be present for them and for every important moment they celebrate or sad moment they struggle through or ordinary moment when we sit having snacks outside under the sun.

But this mama’s heart was enlarged to hold another child who is now forever absent.

And that space is always present and always empty.

When my granddaughter joined Dominic in Heaven this January, it was another stark reminder that this world is not how God intended it to be.

Our family is shaped again by loss and missing and will always be holding space for those we can no longer hold close.

The Lord has been and continues to be faithful in giving me strength to hold on to hope and for that I am oh, so grateful.

He has gathered the ashes of sorrow and pain and fashioned them into a testimony to His love, grace and mercy.

These milestone days are (and always will be) hard.

But just like that first awful day, they only last twenty-four hours.

I’m confident that the morning sun will bring new mercy.

His grace is enough. His promises are sure. His love endures forever.

Silent Sorrow-National Siblings Day and Grieving Siblings

Today is National Siblings Day. It’s fun for those of us who haven’t had to bury a brother or sister to post silly photos and memories.

But for those who have lost a sibling today is bittersweet.

Want to know how to love someone who is missing a brother or sister?

Ask them for a favorite memory. Tell them you recognize it hurts. Don’t dismiss their grief and rush to ask about a surviving mother or father.

Love them. Be there.

❤ Melanie

I am always afraid that Dominic will be forgotten.

I’m afraid that as time passes, things change and lives move forward, his place in hearts will be squeezed smaller and smaller until only a speck remains.

Not in my heart, of course.

Or in the hearts of those closest to him, but in general-he will become less relevant.

But he is not the only one who can be forgotten. I am just as fearful that my living children will be forgotten.

Read the rest here: The Forgotten Ones: Grieving Siblings

This Is What Grief Looks Like

Today I was backing out of the driveway when my eyes landed on the tag of one of our other cars.

Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t renewed our tags this year.

They are due in January and, like other important dates graven in my over- organized brain, I literally NEVER forget.

But I did.

And I hadn’t even thought about it these three months until just now.

My sweet granddaughter, Holly, went to Heaven at Dallas Children’s Hospital January 4th. My elderly dad had eye surgery in Florida January 19th. I was home for exactly four days the whole month.

This is what grief looks like in real time twelve years later.

I still have six half grown kittens born a week before Holly entered the world . I brought their poor mama 700 miles because I didn’t want her to deliver while I was away welcoming my precious girl.

I just can’t let them go.

They are connected to her life, a source of joy, a reminder that death doesn’t claim every beautiful thing.

I’m probably going to keep them all because I can and because a farm can always use more barn cats.

This is what grief looks like twelve years later.

I recently had a nuclear stress test and an echocardiogram. My EKG in January was just a little “off” so my cardiologist sent me for testing.

The results were good. No real issues other than that I need to get back to walking every day and should lose weight.

I finally activated a Fitbit tracker I bought months ago to track my heart rate, activity and steps.

This is what grief looks like even after over a decade.

I’m rapidly approaching another unwelcome milestone marking twelve long years since I heard Dominic’s voice, saw his face, hugged his neck.

I’m stronger.

I feel joy.

I don’t cry every day.

But if anyone thinks the absence of my son or my granddaughter doesn’t change EVERYTHING, they are wrong.

Twelve Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke one morning to a frantic voice mail left overnight when my phone was on sleep mode which silences all but my few “favorites” from ringing through.

A precious young woman from my family’s past was reaching out because she knew I was a safe person. I wish I had been able to talk to her when she needed me most but I was left with the only option available: call her back and leave a voice mail message.

It’s a poor substitute for being there when someone is hanging on by a thread.

It made me think of the dozens of ways my children and I have learned to “be there” for broken hearts and broken lives.

It’s an easy yes for any one of us when someone calls and says, “Can you talk?”.

Even when it’s inconvenient or worse, we answer the phone and allow that heart to spill its contents until there is some relief and possibly some way forward.

Some days I’m tapped out.

I may not haul feed bags or lift boxes but my heart is wrung dry by mid-morning.

Hours long telephone conversations in which there is no real answer and no way to untangle complex webs of addiction or family history or personal trauma leave me needing a nap.

I try to take a break when I need to and come back fresh when I can.

In this Season of Sorrow I have a little less to give.

But I am committed to helping other broken hearts limp along toward healing for as long as I am able.

So many have helped me.

I want to share the gift.

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