I remember clearly walking around like a giant nerve for the first days, weeks and months after Dominic left us.
It didn’t take much for me to burst into tears.
Everywhere I went I was forced to endure words and actions that pierced my heart.
It was hard not to take it personally. It was impossible not to react. Surely people should know better, be better, do better!
But the truth is, they don’t know. And if I’m honest I have to admit that before it was ME, I didn’t know either.
So part of the work grief required was for me to develop thicker skin.
I had to learn to scroll past social media posts, overlook careless comments and not expect those outside my immediate grief circle to understand how Dominic’s death continues to impact me and my family.
❤ Melanie
If you’ve joined me here for more than a minute you know I am a fierce advocate for bereaved parents in particular and all grievers in general.
But you’ve probably also noticed that, at least in my own life, I recognize how traumatic and/or difficult circumstances can make it hard to see past the hurt and the shattered world a broken heart inhabits. I can judge others harshly without meaning to.
A couple of recent incidents have reminded me how easy it is to interpret every offhand comment or heartfelt opinion as targeted at ME when, in fact, they are simply a reflection of that person’s experience in the world.
I can’t insist that others see the world through MY eyes if I’m not equally prepared to try to see it through THEIRS.
Look, I know how painful it is to scroll through social media posts and feel the darts land square in the center of my heart. Parents bemoaning their children leaving home (all the while I’m thinking, “yeah-but you can call, visit and still hug your child”); folks complaining about how hard it is to manage schedules and meals or trying to figure out family vacations with teens or young adults (“gee, I wish I had the privilege of including ALL my kids for holidays“); and then there are the “miraculous deliverance from a wreck” posts (I’m wondering why Dom wasn’t delivered).
ButNONEof those folks are posting or commenting with me in mind. They are simply sharing their thoughts and feelings just like I share my own.
I’ve learned to just scroll on past.
It’s neither healthy nor helpful for me to type some long (or short!) snarky comment trying to “correct” them. I’m not entirely sure they need correcting.
Before it was ME that sent a child to Heaven I had No. Idea.
They don’t either.
So save your energy for the work grief requires. Save it for the family you’ve got left. Save it for a rainy day when tears fall as fast as drops from the sky.
Often there are random or unusual physical symptoms that show up days, weeks or even years after a child has gone to Heaven.
An important and necessary part of grief work is learning to recognize the physical manifestations of grief and advocating for care from professionals who may not be able to make the connection unless the bereaved speak up and speak out.
❤ Melanie
It’s a well known fact that stress plays a role in many health conditions.
And I think most of us would agree that child loss is one of (if not THE) most stressful events a heart might endure.
So it’s unsurprising that bereaved parents find themselves battling a variety of physical problems in the wake of burying a child.
What may be surprising is how uninformed medical and even psychological professionals are with respect to the very real ways child loss intersects with chronic conditions and often creates new symptoms.
Here is a list of only SOMEof the physical manifestations of grief (via What’s Your Grief?) with my own comments :
Fatigue. If you’ve always been an energetic sort, you might find this aspect of grief particularly disconcerting. This kind of fatigue doesn’t get better with rest. I’ve written about that here.
Some days I can barely make myself get out of bed and when I do, I struggle to do any but the most necessary tasks. Don’t automatically dismiss this symptom as ONLY grief (although it most certainly could be!) get a thorough check-up to rule out other causes such as low thyroid, diabetes, heart disease, major depressive disorder or a number of conditions that can be treated effectively with medicine. Don’t beat yourself up if the doctor decides “nothing is wrong” with you. You are grieving and grief is work! I know this symptom has improved for me over time as I’ve established boundaries, admitted limitations and learned to rest when necessary.
Aches and Pains. Our bodies and minds are connected in ways not well understood. Mental and emotional distress can make any underlying pain condition that much worse. When I’m feeling especially lonely, desperate or sad my autoimmune disease flares AND my perception of the very real pain that causes is heightened. Pain and heartache can lead to a downward spiral that is hard to undo. Get help and treatment for the physical and give yourself grace and space to endure the emotional causes of body aches. Don’t self-medicate with drugs, alcohol or other self-destructive coping strategies. Reach out to a safe person and let them help you find a better way.
Headaches. Needless to say, stress makes tension headaches more likely. Sometimes, though, a headache can be a symptom of something more serious. Don’t dismiss an especially sudden, intense or long-lasting headache as “just grief”. It could be previously undiagnosed high blood pressure, stroke or migraine. Those being ruled out, various relaxation techniques, cold or warm compresses, over-the-counter analgesics and gentle stretches might help.
Sometimes grief headaches can be alleviated by the simple act of telling our stories. Bottling up emotions and thoughts adds to the ongoing stress and tension of my child loss burden. When I spill them-either on paper in a journal, in a closed online bereaved parents’ group or in person to a safe friend or family member-often I feel the band around my head relax and the pain fade away.
Tightness in Chest, Shortness of Breath. The day I got the awful news, I remember asking friends who came to sit with me over and over, ” Am I still breathing?” My world was spinning out of control and my body responded. Anxiety after child loss is real. Broken Heart Syndrome is real. Heart attacks are not uncommon. Don’t ignore these symptoms. But don’t be surprised if they persist despite all tests to the contrary. When I feel trapped and overwhelmed, a walk outside or even to another room can help. Deep breathing exercises and grounding exercises can often interrupt an episode.
Forgetfulness. I wrote this post on Grief Brain: It’s a Real Thing! a couple years ago and am always surprised to see it shared repeatedly. But I think it strikes a chord with any heart walking through grief. You are not crazy! You are not experiencing early onset dementia (most likely). Like other symptoms, get checked out if they persist or worsen. But odds are, your experience falls within the range of normal for anyone whose life has been shattered by child loss. Losing things, forgetting things, getting lost in familiar places, missing appointments or bill payments, inability to remember names of people you know well-all of these are common after loss. In time, the symptoms usually diminish. They have for me. I still have to rely on lists and reminders much more often, though. And that’s OK.
Inability to Focus. Like grief brain, this is another cognitive manifestation that’s not only annoying, it can impact life in significant ways. Before Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, I was an avid reader. I often had three or four books going at the same time. I could spend hours focused on a single project. Not anymore. I sometimes find it difficult to read a recipe.
I have to take frequent breaks when working on something because my mind gets fuzzy and I just can’t pay attention for more than a few minutes at a time. Some bereaved parents have to change jobs or careers because they are not able to perform necessary tasks anymore. This particular symptom has not improved very much for me although I’ve found ways around it. I use lists to keep an external record of what I should be doing and when. I mix up mindless chores with ones that require more attention to give my brain a break. I try to dissect larger jobs into smaller, manageable chunks. And sometimes I just have to admit that today a particular thing just isn’t happening.
Appetite or Digestive Issues. Stress has long been linked to gut problems. I suspect we’ve all had that “rumbling in our tummy” from time to time even before child loss. For many of us it’s exponentially worse after. Some bereaved parents try to stuff emotions by stuffing themselves with food. Others can’t eat at all. Still others experience stomach ulcers or bowel disease ranging from acute to chronic. I was hospitalized twice in the first year after my son’s death for serious colon issues.
Again, don’t ignore sudden or persistent symptoms. Try to eat well and avoid self-medicating with food. Added pounds rarely add up to better emotional or mental health. I let pounds I’d lost ten years ago find me again. Get help if you need to from someone willing to act as an accountability partner. I’ve recently joined a friend in setting goals for ourselves and sharing recipes and meal prep. Try to treat food as another aspect of grief work and manage it the best you can.
Getting Sick More Often. Stress lowers the immune system. That’s a fact. So when bereaved parents encounter germs (as we all do from time to time) it may well be our bodies don’t have the energy or resources to combat them. Colds, flu, strep throat, skin infections may all be more likely this side of child loss. Don’t be discouraged to seek treatment. There is so much we can’t control in life, but getting antibiotics for an infection is pretty easy.
It’s not in your head, mom or dad!
Grief has real physical manifestations.
Don’t be dismissed or denied the care you need.
Educate your healthcare providers and insist on being heard.
*photo credit: The Weight of Grief Scupture ~ Celeste Roberge*
That little tacky plaster has soothed more fears and tears than almost any other invention in the world.
Skinned knee? Put a BandAid on it.
Bee sting? BandAid.
Tiny bump that no one can even see? Oh, sweetie, let me give you a BandAid.
Simply acknowledging pain and woundedness is so often all that is needed to encourage a heart and point it toward healing.
It’s the same in the world of emotional, psychological and spiritual wounds.
But we have yet to invent the BandAid for those.
Instead, frequently we ignore, refute, minimize and pass over the one in our midst who holds out a hand or a heart saying, “I have a boo boo.”
Believe me, I understand-so many of these wounds are incurable, they are uncomfortable to think about, hard to look at.
But often the only thing the hurting heart wants is acknowledgement, a moment of time, a face turned full into theirs, eye-to-eye and unafraid to remain alongside through the pain.
Just as a BandAid bears witness to the wound underneath, our compassionate presence can bear witness to the deeper wounds no one can see.
When we choose to lean in and love, to listen and learn, to walk with the wounded we give a great gift.
Today is Dominic’s birthday. He would be thirty-six if he lived.
I find as the years roll by it becomes increasingly difficult to “age” the person I last saw into the person he might have become. Oh, I can guess-but that’s hardly worth doing since we all know life rarely follows a straight path.
And that’s what defies language and steals my breath. On milestone days especially, I’m not only mourning what I have lost but also what I will never know.
It would surprise my mama most of all that on this day I’m at a loss for words.
I regularly embarrassed her with my non-stop commentary as a child. I told stories about what I heard and saw (and what my young mind THOUGHT it heard or saw) to anyone who would listen.
But I realize now there are moments too sacred, wounds too deep, experiences too precious for words.
Either you are there and share it-or you’re not-and can’t imagine.
This is one of those times.
Dominic would be thirty-six years old today if he had lived.
He’d be over a decade out of law school, on some path toward making his mark in the world, maybe (?) married, perhaps even a dad but absolutely, positively here and part of our lives.
To be honest, I wouldn’t even care what his life looked like right now as long as it wasLIFE.
Something very few people know and even fewer would note is that on Dominic’s birth day, the doctor who delivered him had just the day before become a bereaved parent himself. His daughter left this world by her own hand.
Another C-section, Dominic was lifted up next to my face by this sweet and vulnerable man while the tears poured down my face. I was crying for HIM not for me. I was undone that he had shown up and delivered my child while his own laid lifeless wherever they had taken her.
I thought I understood then.
But I had no clue.
I understand now.
Sometimes you show up and do what you need to because it’s the only way for a heart to survive.Sometimes you walk on because standing still leaves too much time for the horror to take root and overwhelm you.
I miss Dominic.
I miss the future we would have had togetherand the family we would have been if death hadn’t invaded our reality.
I would literally give anything other than the life of one I love for Dominic to be alive right now.
But it’s not an option.
So I’ll spend his birthday thinking about what we had, lamenting what we will never have, rejoicing that his faith is made sight and I’ll cry.
Because a mama’s arms are made for holding her child, not holding his memory.
I first shared this post three years after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Since that time, I’ve learned better how to carry his absence, to rejoice in life as it IS and not to always, always, always long for the past.
But there are seasons when stress, additional loss and upcoming milestones-like his birthday tomorrow-when my heart is still overwhelmed.
❤ Melanie
I will not get used to the fact that my son is beyond my reach. I have come to a certain acceptance of it as fact, and acknowledgement of the truth that I cannot change that fact.
The pain hasn’t become less painful, only more familiar. It doesn’t surprise me as often when it pricks my heart anew.
The world goes on. I am a tiny speck in the greater scheme of things and my heartache hardly merits any pause in the machinery of the cosmos.
I have learned to put on the face I need for everyday tasks and to look the part of a functioning human being. But just beneath the surface is a cauldron of emotion that can be exposed in a heartbeat.
I miss my son.
I miss the part of me that was reflected back from the mirror of Dominic.
I miss the family we used to be.
I miss the past when there could be a whole day of laughter without a single tear.
I miss the children I used to have-the ones who knew nothing about irrevocable loss and breathtaking heartache.
I know I’m indulging in selfish introspection and that I should be looking with faith-filled eyes to the glorious future God has promised through Christ.
But today I just can’t.
I won’t be guilted into trying to pretend that I don’t miss all this.
I wrote this a few years ago in response to post after post across social media of (mostly!) moms lamenting the fact their son or daughter would soon be moving away or off to college.
I get it!
When you are used to having your kid around it’s tough when he or she leaves the nest.
But there is a vast difference in having to work a little harder to stay in contact or arrange visits and never being able to speak to your child again.
It’s an adjustment to compare calendars to find a day your family can celebrate together but it’s heartbreaking to know that one chair will always be empty at every family gathering.
When I started writing in this space over ten years ago, I never expected any but a few close friends and family to read my ramblings.
It was a complete surprise to realize my words struck a chord with a wider audience.
My corner of the Internet is still very small compared to today’s mega-influencer types, but it is near and dear to my heart and I want to give you an update on how life is going, where I feel the Lord is leading me and what I hope to do in the next few months.
As most of you know, my father suffered a significant stroke in mid-September, 2025.And as all my bereaved parent friends are aware, ANYnew stressor is magnified by the grief we continue to carry regardless of how long it’s been since our child went to Heaven.
I was completely consumed with his care until mid-December when I was able to break away and be with my son and his family to welcome the birth of their third child, a little girl named Holly.
Sadly, her earthly sojourn was short and on January 4, 2026-just two weeks after her birth-Jesus welcomed her to Heaven.
Our hearts were devastated and broken.
I had only a couple of days home before I returned to my father who had to have eye surgery that turned into a five week ordeal when in order to save his lower left eyelid, his left eye was sown shut for over a month. Vision in his right eye had been cut in half by the stroke and further impacted by a cataract.
It was a tough time.
I won’t give you a blow-by-blow of the days and weeks since then except to say this: I have spent only thirty percent of nights in my own bed for eight months. For a homebody, this is HUGE.
Lately I haven’t been thriving.
So I’m employing all my creative energy in trying to figure out how to remain engaged with ministry (which is my heart) and still meet the needs of my hurting and healing family.
Which brings me to this update.
I think the best way to use whatever moments I can steal from overwhelming obligations is to comb the archives of the blog and try to assemble some printed resources. People have encouraged me to do this for years but I’ve never been willing or able to focus on the project when it was so much more exciting to to keep writing, sharing and having retreats.
I hope to keep showing up here when I can and giving myself permission to skip days when I can’t.
I would like to learn more about creating video resources (both short and longer format) to make material more accessible to more people.
The heartacheandhope.org website needs updating. I want to have a drop down menu highlighting not only my own content but that of other excellent ministries and individuals who can help bereaved parents steward their grief well.
Someone recently asked me the “why” of what I do and I replied:
I don’t want any bereaved parent sitting in darkness to feel like darkness is all there is.
My candle is small but even the smallest candle in the black night of child loss is enough to help guide a heart to hope.
My candleISsmall.
It’s light has definitely diminished of late.
But it’s still lit and I’m determined to keep it that way as long as I can.
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.
Believe me, no one wonders more than I if the things I’m feeling, the things I’m doing and the rate at which I am healing is “normal”.
I belong to a couple of bereavement support groups and a recurring theme is, “Am I crazy? Is this the way it is supposed to be?”
Sometimes grieving parents wonder these things because of their own misgivings.
But often, we question our feelings and experience because of external pressure.
And that is unfortunate and unfair.
When a mom brings her new baby home from the hospital, people are quick to remind her that life “will never be the same”.
She is encouraged to seek advice and help from friends and family and given space and time to figure out this new way of being. As the years pass, she might express frustration and concern over the challenges of going back to work, sleepless nights, feeding issues, potty training, and dozens of other, everyday struggles that result from welcoming this little person into the family. And that is just the beginning.
No one thinks it strange that the ADDITION of a child is a life-long adjustment.
So, why, why, why is it strange that the SUBTRACTION of a child would also require accommodation for the rest of a mother’s life?
My heart grew larger when Dominic was born and the space that is his cannot and will not be filled by anyone or anything else.
I am learning each day to work around this empty spot. I am becoming stronger and better able to carry the weight of grief that I must bear.
I can do many of the things I used to do before the only place I could visit Dominic was at the cemetary.
But I have to do them differently. I need more help. It takes more time. And sometimes I find after I plan to go somewhere that I am just not able to go after all.
I will never “get over” burying my son.
There will always be another mountain to climb, another loss to mourn, another hurdle to clear in this grief journey.
Dominic is part of me. That didn’t change when he went home to be with Jesus.
The absence of his presence is EVERYWHERE.
And just for the record–missing the child I love for the rest of my life is perfectly normal.
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 