grieving parents – Page 2 – thelifeididntchoose

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.

Compassion is A Choice, Not a Virtue.

Some people are natural servants.

Not the kind in Downtown Abbey but the kind who see something that needs doing and just do it.

They open doors, return shopping carts, wash dishes, pick up trash and bend down or stretch high to help children or senior citizens reach what otherwise would be unreachable.

Some of us aren’t naturals but we can learn.

Because when we open our eyes to those around us and choose to be helpful we make a change to our hearts and theirs. We build bridges of grace and kindness that help to connect individuals and communities.

When a person feels seen, heard and cared for, they are much more likely to drop the drawbridge to their heart.

It’s no good saying, “Well, he didn’t ask for help” or “She didn’t let me know she was struggling”.

If we are paying as much attention to our friends and family as we are to social media memes and funny TikTok videos, we can’t miss the signs of desperation and hopelessness.

If we take time to ask important questions there’s no way we won’t hear sadness or loneliness in the reply.

So let’s stop acting like doing good is something only a few select individuals can or should do. It’s a myth that bringing meals and checking in on those who are no longer able to make it to our fellowships or church services or bingo halls is a special skill.

Compassion isn’t a calling or a gift or a virtue.

Compassion is something we choose to practice.

And for those of us who call Christ “Lord” it is a command.

Still Fighting Grief Brain

I first wrote about Grief Brain many years ago.

When I reshare that post, it always generates lots of comments from fellow bereaved parents.

Forgetting things and people’s names, misplacing important documents, sometimes even getting lost in familiar surroundings while driving-all common experiences following loss.

It feels like you’re losing your mind but for most of us, it gets better over time.

I’ve developed lots of habits and tricks that help me navigate my still-less-than-perfect memory and much slower processing ability since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.

One of them is to carefully check when exiting my car that I have my keys, phone and payment method.

The other Saturday I was running a couple of errands early in the morning so I could cocoon the rest of the weekend, knowing Sunday was the anniversary of Dominic leaving for Heaven.

My first stop was our local feed store.

I got out of my car, opened the trunk and went in to purchase a couple bags of horse feed. When I began walking back to my car, I reached in my pocket for the keys and realized I didn’t have them. Panic set in (it’s never far away).

So I went in to the store to see if I left them on the counter. Nope.

Back out to car-not there. Damn.

As I’m standing there, getting ready to phone AAA and order a locksmith the young man who loads feed asks me what is wrong. I tell him and he says, “You know you can crawl through the trunk and into the back seat on these cars, don’t you?”

Of course I had no idea even though I’ve owned the car for fifteen years and knew the back seats folded down. Never had need of using that feature before.

So now I’m wondering how in the world my big behind and arthritic joints are going to navigate that space when the same fella offers to do it for me.

Can I just say I’ve never been more grateful to anyone in all my life as I was to that young man?

He wriggled and squirmed and wedged his not-too-slender form into that tiny space and popped up victorious in the back seat.

God bless him.

He walked away to continue working and it was then I reached into the driver’s side and realized my keys weren’t there. Not in the ignition. Not in my purse I’d left behind when I tucked the debit card in my pocket.

The WHOLE TIME they were in the key hole of the trunk. Accessible, available.

SIGH…

I slid my hand over them as if I was only closing the trunk down on the feed and drove off. Thankful. Embarrassed. Humbled.

Again.

I know everyone forgets things sometimes.

But those of us living with grief understand that this happens all too often.

And it doesn’t go away even when it gets better.

We just learn to live with it.

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.

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

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.

Twelve Years: Reflections, Regrets and Reality

I’m writing this today as springtime sunlight floods my window and the scent of grass and growing things wafts in the breeze.

I still feel the stir of life when the days grow longer and the laying hens gift us with eggs every twenty-four hours.

But for twelve years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

In the early years it totally eclipsed any promise spring might portend. Birdsong only reminded me of my son’s silent voice. Flowers smelled like death. The appearance of fresh growth highlighted the passage of time and the timelessness of missing Dominic.

It took a long while to learn how to be alive and also acknowledge the awful reality and sadness of death.

Now I can watch the faithful chickadee family (generations of them) who perch on a garden torch singing praise to the rising sun. I marvel when a daring chipmunk races to retrieve some tasty tidbit while keeping a watchful eye for my outdoor cats. I count the hours as the sun makes its path outside my kitchen window from darkest dawn to midday and beyond.

I put on and take off the garment of grief many times each day.

I regret springs spent doing anything other than reveling in the beautiful life of my beautiful children. I wish I had understood then what I understand now: Life is short, no matter how long it lasts.

Then a lovely memory pops into my mind and I know I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. We DID spend days playing and laughing and learning together.

It’s a battle, this remembering.

I don’t always have time to indulge my heart.

But for this season, this day, I’m giving myself permission.

Palm Sunday 2026: What if I’m Not Rescued

If you haven’t watched the body of someone you love lowered into the ground while holding your breath and praying, praying, praying that somehow, some way this isn’t real then maybe you can’t imagine what it feels like not to be spared.

Me? It doesn’t take but a single breath to go from “everything is alright” to “my world is shattered”. I feel every. single. death. added to the tally a mass shooting or tornado destruction leaves behind.

So what do we do if we aren’t rescued? What do we cling to if our family isn’t spared?

What if all the prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?

When Jesus entered Jerusalem He was hailed as a hero. But when He didn’t perform as expected He was cast aside.

Will I choose to believe even when it’s hard?

Melanie

So what if I’m not rescued?

What if my family isn’t spared?

What if all the faithful prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?

Will I still believe?

Will I still trust that God is a loving Father who is in control and working all things together for His glory and my good?

Read the rest here: What If I’m Not Rescued?

“How are you doing?” “Not as well as you might think.”

For over ten years this space has been a lifeline to me.

When I first started writing here it was, honestly, a way for me to express feelings and thoughts that were unwelcome in my social and personal circles.

I thought that if I wrote them down for the world to see, maybe some friends (and most especially) extended family, might read them and gain a bit of insight into the long, lonely road of grieving a child.

A couple of weeks ago I confessed that I didn’t have it in me anymore.

So many responded with kind comments and encouragement. Thank you, Thank. You. THANK YOU!

The break has been good in one respect-it gave me a little more freedom to just experience my life and less pressure to turn that experience into something I could share.

Here I sit, not on the DATE of Dominic’s running ahead, but on the DAY (the Saturday before Palm Sunday) of his running ahead and I am not really OK.

I feel like most of 2025 was like 2013-a year of promise.

The year before Dom went to Heaven, I turned 50. As an ardent student of Scripture, I had claimed that year as a Jubilee. All my children would be college graduates, one would be married and they were pursuing their own paths-each successful in their own way. I would finally be able to be more than a mother and free to follow my own ambitions.

April 12, 2014 changed that.

Last year also felt like a kind of freedom.

After over ten years of carrying this burden, I launched an official ministry and was doing things I had only previously dreamed of. Four amazing mom retreats, speaking engagements, book studies, monthly support meetings, the blog, sharing on podcasts and gaining additional credentials in grief counseling all meant I was beginning to live forward once again.

Then my dad had a devastating stroke.

I spent three months just trying to reach equilibrium for an almost 90 year old man who was way too involved in way too many things. If you haven’t had both the privilege and burden of caring for an aging parent, let me tell you it is so. much. more. than you can imagine. Even with every good intention and forethought, running two households is hard.

I had two days between leaving Papa’s home (praying the caregiver who was coming in three days a week would manage half of what I had when there 24/7) and heading to Texas for the too-early birth and ultimately tragically short life of my granddaughter, Holly.

Christmas was made jolly for the grandboys but the adults were just there for the show.

January 4, 2026 was the second day the earth stood still for our family.

Except that it doesn’t. The world keeps spinning and people keep going and somehow, miraculously, our broken hearts continue to beat.

I won’t type every event since then but suffice it to say nothing has slowed down, no provision has been made for deep rest, reflection and the silence that gives any of us the time to process loss and the questions it raises.

So here I am at the Saturday before Palm Sunday once again.

And I am not as well as I might have thought this far into the journey.

I’ve gained all the necessary tools to hold on and to make it to the next morning, trusting the sunrise to bring new mercy and trusting Jesus to help my heart.

But I’m exhausted.

I don’t want to discourage anyone who is earlier in this journey.

I am stronger and better able to carry the load-if I wasn’t, I would not have survived this past year of additional burdens. I only desire to be as honest as possible. so, honestly, today (and probably this entire week) I’m not feeling very strong.

Grief continues to shape who I am and how I interact with the world.

I can’t pretend it doesn’t.

Navigating Grief: How Terrible it is To Love Something Death Can Touch

I know as a believer in Jesus I’m supposed to be able to look beyond “this mortal veil” and treat death as a mere “address change”.

Well, I can’t.

Death is the enemy and I do not experience it as simply a transition from one state to another.

The last enemy to be abolished and put to an end is death.

~I Corinthians 15:26 AMP

Death is a reminder of all that is wrong with this earth. It’s a reminder that sin is costly. It’s a reminder that this world is not my true home.

It’s just plain wrong!

I hated death long before I counted my own son among the casualties.

Living on a farm, we have buried everything from domestic livestock to random wildlife that wandered up, wounded and we tried to save. I have hatched eggs found in disturbed nests, loved on baby rabbits, squirrels, deer and woodchucks, nursed abandoned kittens, lambs and goat kids. Many of them didn’t survive and every one took a bit of my heart when they breathed their last.

how terrible it is to love somthing that death can touch memorial stone

I have said “good-bye” to my 99 year old aunt, my grandmothers, my grandfathers and my own son.

There is nothing pretty about death. It wasn’t in God’s original plan and I hate it.

Lately, I’ve been worrying about my “therapy” cat-Roosevelt. He’s aging. And all things being equal, he won’t last much longer.

He sat in my lap as I recovered from numerous surgeries and hospitalizations.

And he stayed with me as I received concerned family and friends when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven. I don’t know what I would have done without his warm weight holding me in the chair when all I wanted to do was run away and hide.

He has been a compassionate companion in many sad and lonely moments-never asking for a thing and giving so much with his presence and unconditional love.

Every night he sleeps beside me, snuggled down tight against my neck, purring peacefully.

But he’s getting old and I am becoming fearful that I don’t have too many more years left with him. I hate that most nights I drift off to sleep thinking he won’t be here much longer.

And then I feel guilty.

Because the death of my cat (when it happens) can’t begin to touch the depth of pain of the death of my son. It seems, though, that every death taps that wounded spot in my soul.

But every death-whether a person or an animal I love-opens the floodgate of sadness I work so very hard to keep behind the dam.

I know I’m not supposed to borrow trouble from tomorrow and I work hard not to do that.

I’m working hard to cherish each moment with everyone I love without worrying that it may be one of the last.

It’s a fine line I walk every day.

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