grief advocacy – thelifeididntchoose

Navigating Grief: When Life Looks More Like Ash Wednesday than Fat Tuesday

Twenty-four hours separate one of the most outlandish global parties and one of the most somber religious observances on the Christian calendar.

Many of the same folks show up for both.

Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday”, is the last hurrah for those who observe Lent-a time of reflection, self-denial and preparation before Resurrection Sunday.

It’s a giant party-food, fellowship and fun-a wonderful way to celebrate the blessings of this life.

Ash Wednesday, by contrast, is an invitation to remember that “from dust you came and to dust you will return”.

None of us get out of here alive.

Even where the Gospel is preached every Sunday there are those who forget this life is hard and often full of pain and suffering.

If your experience so far has looked more like Mardi Gras and less like ashes, well, then-be thankful.

But don’t be deceived.

“From dust you came and to dust you will return.”

For some of us it was a similar twenty-four hour turnaround that upset our world, tossed us headfirst into the waves of sorrow and burned that truth into our hearts, not just dabbed it on our foreheads.

Sometimes I feel excluded from fellowship with the saints because I can’t join in the celebratory spirit of a worship service.

When the hymns only focus on our “victory in Jesus” my heart cries, “Yes-but perhaps I won’t see the victory this side of heaven.”

When the congregation claps and dances to feel-good songs that celebrate the sunshine but ignore the rain, my eyes swim with tears because I know the reality of a downpour of sorrow.

Because sometimes praise is a sacrifice.

Church needs to be a place where we can share the pain as well as the promise that Christ will redeem it.

Jesus Himself said, “in this world you will have trouble”.

So I can’t claim allegiance to the Church of the Perpetually Cheerful.

I want to create space for the hurting and broken and limping and scared.

How about a new denomination that acknowledges the truth that life is hard.

Instead of the “Overcoming Apostolic Praise-filled Ministers of Eternal Optimism” I would name it the “Trudging But Not Fainting Faithful.“

By all means enjoy the “Fat Tuesdays” in life.

Drink them in, dance, celebrate!

But remember that it can change in a heartbeat.

And that it HAS changed for many of us.

There is hope.

All is not lost.

But in the meantime, it’s hard.

Navigating Grief: No Such Thing as “Safe”

I remember as a young mother of four working hard to keep my kids safe.

dominic and siblings little children at nannys

Next to fed and dry (two still in diapers!) that was each day’s goal: No one got hurt.

It never occurred to me THEN to add: No one got killed.

Because the most outlandish thing I could imagine was one of them falling or touching a hot stove and us having to rush to the emergency room.

Then I became a mother of teens and one by one they acquired a driver’s license and motored away from our home.

That’s when I began to beg God to spare their lives.

One particularly frightening test was when all four went to Louisiana-my eldest driving and the rest in the van with her. I made them call me every hour and tell me they were OK. It was the first time I realized that I could lose every one of them in a single instant should they crash-all my eggs in one basket.

I was glad when that day was over. Although the irony is they were no “safer” at the end of those 24 hours than they were at the beginning.

Because what I know now, but didn’t know then is this: There is no such thing as “safe”.

Not the way we like to think of it-not the way we add labels to devices, seat belts to cars, helmets to everything from bicycles to skateboards. Of course we should absolutely take precautions! Many lives are saved by them every single day.

But. BUT…

Life is more random than we want to admit. And there is no defense against random.

There is no way to screen for every underlying physical abnormality, no way to drive so well you can stop the drunk or inattentive driver from plowing through a stop sign, no way to anticipate every foolish choice a young person might make that ends in disaster instead of a funny story.

My first response when Dominic died driving his motorcycle was that I wanted my surviving sons to sell theirs. They did so out of respect for me. Neither of them wanted their mama to have to endure a second knock on the door and the same message delivered twice.

I receive it as a sacrifice offered in love from them.

Because it was.

Since Dominic left us almost [twelve] years ago, I have had to deal with my desperate need to keep my living children safe.

And it is a real struggle.

Each child is involved in a career that includes inherent risk. None of them are foolhardy, but they are exposed-perhaps more than many-to potential bad actors and dangerous circumstances.

julian and branch in snow — This branch fell just minutes after my son was standing in that spot splitting logs.

How I long for those days when I could tuck everyone in, turn out the lights and sleep soundly because all my chicks were safe inside my own little coop! How I wish the only danger I thought about or knew about was a bump on the head from hitting a coffee table!

How my heart aches for one more moment of blissful ignorance!

But I can’t live in some imagined water color past. I have to live in the world as it is.

So I remind my heart that safe is an illusion-no matter where we are. Life is not living if it’s only about preserving breath and not about making a difference.

And I let go.

Over and over and over.

I release them to be who they were meant to be.

Even if it costs more than I am willing to give.

fiona james and julian at james wedding by water

Navigating Grief: Remembering All the “Lasts”

One of the things even the most uninformed person understands about loss is that the first birthday, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas and all the “firsts” after loss will be hard.

But one of the things no one tells you about is that a heart will mark the “lasts” just as much.

The last time I saw him.

The last time I spoke to him.

The last time I hugged his neck and smelled the unique fragrance that was my son.

Every year as I approach the anniversary of the day Dominic left this life and stepped into Heaven, I also remember all the last times.

It’s hard on a heart to think about and wish that somehow I had made more of those moments. I long to have just one more opportunity to say what needs to be said, to see his smile, hear his voice, and hug his neck.

But there’s no going back.

So part of the pain of marking the milestones is knowing there is no way to change a thing. Not only the FACT that my son is gone, gone, gone. But also the FACT that whatever I said or did or left unsaid or undone is utterly and undeniably carved in stone.

I don’t know why this anniversary is hitting my heart harder than last year. Maybe it’s because I recognize how much life has happened since Dominic left us. Maybe it’s because I think in terms of decades. Maybe it’s because there are so many exciting family celebrations that he won’t be part of.

I have no idea.

But it’s nearly eleven long years since my son crossed the threshold of his family home. It’s nearly eleven years since I heard that familiar deep “Hey!”. It’s nearly eleven years since I waved him down the driveway and hollered, “Be careful!” as he drove back to his apartment.

I am thankful for the faithful love of my God and my family. I am thankful for the compassionate companionship of friends. I am thankful that I am still standing after the awful blow that I was sure would knock me so far down I’d never get up again.

But I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

I will never be able to watch the early spring flowers bloom again without also remembering that it was those blossoms that heralded the good weather that lured him to take his motorcycle that night.

I will never hear Spring Break plans without counting the days between his last Spring Break trip and the day he met Jesus.

I cannot step outside and smell the grass growing, feel the breeze blowing and hear the birds singing without my heart skipping beats and doing the math. Today marks less than two months before the day he left us.

I understand that for others-if they remember at all-Dominic’s departure is a day circled on the calendar.

For me, it’s an entire season.

I mark every single day that led up to that day. I remember every single conversation, meeting, text and phone call. I remember all the things I did and regret all the things I didn’t do.

While the world is celebrating new life, I’m remembering a life that ended.

Navigating Grief: Definitely the Worse for Wear

I shared this for the first time last year around this time. I’d had a difficult previous several months and my face showed it.

From February to the first part of September 2025, things were looking up.

I launched my “official” ministry: Heartache and Hope; was hosting monthly in-person bereaved parent support meetings; there were several opportunities to share with other groups around the country; and all four of my women’s retreats were fully booked.

Then September 14th my father suffered a life-altering stroke and I became his full time caregiver for three months. In December, my sweet granddaughter Holly entered the world a little early and after only two weeks on earth joined Dominic in Heaven.

I look at my face now and there are more lines than ever. My body screams every morning when I call on it to get up and get going.

But if I’ve learned one thing on this journey, it’s this: Make memories and TAKE THE PICTURE!

Every photo is precious when you can’t make any new ones.

❤ Melanie

I have never been one of those women who lied about her age.

My weight…well, you will have to threaten me with something that matters to get THAT number out of my lips.

But I’ve noticed this year more than others since Dominic left us that the wear and tear of years and tears and life and loss are showing up on my face as well as my hips.

I am definitely the worse for wear.

I’m sixty-two and for the first time in my life I am religious about applying under eye cream and moisturizing lotion to my face each morning and night.

I don’t want to be the sore thumb in the family pictures!

I’m not sure it’s working. I’m not sure anything can erase or roll back the marks that life and love and loss have etched on my face.

I’m not sure I want to.

Because each wrinkle, each line, each saggy, baggy skin flap says, “I loved, I lived and I am surviving-even though it’s hard.”

Before Dom left I was camera shy. I still am, a bit. But I’m trying hard to suck up my pride and my insecurity and let those flashes pop. Memories are made one day at a time and photos help preserve them.

So whether I’m at my best, at my worst or somewhere in between, I won’t say no to a Kodak moment.

I wish I had more of them from “before”.

I wish I hadn’t’ been so darned particular about what I looked like, what I was wearing and whether or not my wrinkles or big butt showed.

Worse for wear?

Who cares?

This one wasn’t made to last.

For instance, we know that when these bodies of ours are taken down like tents and folded away, they will be replaced by resurrection bodies in heaven—God-made, not handmade—and we’ll never have to relocate our “tents” again. Sometimes we can hardly wait to move—and so we cry out in frustration. Compared to what’s coming, living conditions around here seem like a stopover in an unfurnished shack, and we’re tired of it! We’ve been given a glimpse of the real thing, our true home, our resurrection bodies! The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we’ll never settle for less.

2 Corinthians 5:1-5 MSG

Navigating Grief: Embracing a Messy Journey

Attention spans are shorter than ever.

It’s easy to understand why. We live in a world full of sound bytes, memes, tweets and T-shirt slogans.

But life can’t be reduced to such little snippets, even if we wish it could.

Not every biography has the perfect “beginning, middle, end” arch that makes for a good and satisfying story.

Some of us can’t tie up our experiences in tidy boxes, with colorful bows and a lovely tag line that inspires thousands.

We are living unfinished, messy, hard stories that keep shifting, changing and require us to face mountain after mountain and valley after valley.

And we stumble.

A lot.

I suppose it’s tiresome for our friends to have to slow down, turn around, bend down and help us get back up over and over and over.

Many of our compassionate companions turn into personal trainers at some point: “You can do it! Try harder! Push farther! You’ve got to work at it! Don’t give up! Come on, don’t you want to get stronger, fitter, better????”

The hidden message? If I wanted to badly enough, would try hard enough, work long enough or get the right help, I could “fix” this. I could emerge from child loss whole, healed and healthy.

And when I don’t, they get frustrated, disgusted or just plain bored and leave me lonely on the trail. They walk away and forget-because they CAN forget.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you think it’s hard to watch your friend struggle with a broken heart, a shattered life, doubts and regrets, it’s harder to live it.

You can walk away. I can’t. You can go home, close the door and think of something else. I go home, close the door and am flooded with thoughts, emotions and overwhelming grief.

If I could “fix it” don’t you think I would?

But I can’t.

I will continue to have a messy, untidy, unfinished life this side of Heaven.

And I will keep climbing, struggling and stumbling.

Will you stick around and walk with me?

Or will you walk away?

Navigating Grief: Torches in the Dark

There are so many life circumstances that plunge a heart into darkness.

Child loss is certainly one of them, although not the only one.

And when you’re in the dark, stumbling around, trying to avoid the sharp corners and looking, looking, looking for a tiny sliver of light to guide you out, it is terrifying.

If you don’t have a pocket full of matches or a flashlight or a lantern, you are at the mercy of whoever cares enough to come back for you.

I am so thankful for the friends and family who never tire of my fearful cries when I find myself in dark places.

They come running.

They don’t leave me there.

Sometimes all they have is a tiny candle themselves, a sliver of hope they are clinging to. But they raise it high , share its glow with me and together we take a step forward toward the brighter light of day.

I will never, ever forget the ones who come to me with a torch.

They help my heart when I can’t help myself.

They refuse to leave me in the dark.

you never forget a person who came to you with a torch in the dark

Navigating Grief: Helpful Tips for Interacting With Bereaved Families

I firmly believe that our friends and extended family want to reach out, want to help, want to walk alongside as we grieve the death of our child.

I am also convinced that many of them don’t because they don’t know how.

It may seem unfair that in addition to experiencing our loss, we also have to educate others on how to help us as we experience it, but that’s just how it is.

The alternative is to feel frustrated and abandoned or worse.

So here’s a list of helpful tips (and a great infographic!) for interacting with bereaved families:

Express condolences and show you care. Don’t avoid me, please! You cannot make me any sadder. I need to hear from you.

Refer to my child by name. Dominic is STILL my son. He is still part of my story. But because he’s no longer visible, his name often goes unspoken. Please talk to me about him, use his name, tell me a story of how he impacted your life or a memory that makes you smile. It makes me smile too.

Actively listen and be supportive. It’s hard to listen to someone tell you how much they are hurting and not offer advice or think of ways to “fix” them. I can tell you from experience that what I need most on my darkest days is for someone to say, “It IS dark. I’m so sorry.” Silence is OK too. Not every quiet moment needs to be filled with chatter.

Understand that each family and family member will grieve in different ways. You may have observed child loss before but what you saw in one family may not translate to the next. There are no hard and fast rules for this awful journey. The age of the child, family background and structure, manner of death-all these impact grief. In addition, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers all bring their personalities, stage of life, beliefs and experiences to the journey. There were five of us left behind when Dominic ran ahead. We were each devastated but expressed it in very different ways. Nearly five years later, those gaps have widened, not narrowed.

Fathers grieve too. Sometimes support focuses almost exclusively on the mother. In part because of a common notion that mothers are somehow emotionally closer to their children than dads. In part because many men are less demonstrative and may do a good job hiding grief. Whatever the reason, don’t assume one parent is dealing “better” with the loss than another (mother or father) just because he (or she) is not crying openly. No one escapes this awful blow unscathed.

Don’t overlook siblings. Surviving siblings are sometimes referred to as “forgotten grievers”. If they are very young, people may think they are relatively unaffected by the death of a brother or sister. If they are grown and out of the home, people may figure that the siblings’ own, very full and very busy, lives keep them preoccupied. While some of that may be true-to an extent-most surviving siblings are deeply impacted by the death of a brother or sister, regardless of age. Not only have they lost a member of the family and changed birth order, they have also lost the family they knew, the parents they knew and a co-keeper of memories and secrets. Bereaved parents are often overwhelmed with grief for their living children as well as the child that is missing. One of the best gifts anyone gave me was reaching out to my surviving children. It helped my heart to know that they had friends who were supporting and loving them well.

Be yourself. People often feel awkward and stiff when approaching a bereaved parent or family member. That’s perfectly understandable. The bereaved seem so fragile (are so fragile!) that folks are afraid the wrong word or touch might shatter them into a thousand pieces. But what your friend or family needs right now is the you they’ve always known and loved. If you are a hugger, hug! If you are a storyteller, tell stories (appropriate ones, ones of the missing child). If you are a cook and cleaner, then cook and clean. Our family was blessed by our friends doing exactly what they had always done-come alongside in their own special way. So much had changed in our world that familiar touchstones, familiar routines and familiar faces were a real comfort.

Keep in mind words matter. Now is not the time to try to satisfy your curiosity about exactly “what happened”. Loud joking is rarely welcome. Many bereaved families find it hard to laugh in the first days, weeks, months because it feels like betrayal. Don’t offer platitudes intended to help them “look on the bright side” or consider that “it could be worse”. There is nothing worse than burying your child. Nothing. Listen and take direction from the person you are comforting. Follow his or her lead. And if something less than helpful slips out, own it and apologize.

It’s never too late to reach out. NEVER. Sometimes people stay away at first for lots of reasons. Or they show up for the memorial service and then fade into the background. After a bit, even if they want to reach out, they may feel embarrassed by the long absence. Don’t be. So many people stop calling, visiting and texting within the first weeks that your outstretched hand of friendship will be a welcome beacon of hope. If you need to, apologize for your absence. Be honest. Admit you were scared or whatever.

Then show up.

Stick around.

You don’t have to be perfect.

Just be present.

Navigating Grief: Understanding “Acceptance”

In all fairness, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross had no idea her research would be taken out of context and plastered across professional literature and media outlets as a definitive explanation for the grief experience.

But ever since, counselors, pastors, laypersons and the general public have come to expect folks to politely follow the five (sometimes described as six) stages of grief up and out of brokenness like a ladder to success.

It doesn’t work that way.

❤ Melanie

Sometimes those that walk alongside the bereaved are biding time, waiting for that “final” stage of grief: Acceptance.

And some therapists, counselors and armchair psychiatrists are certain that if the grieving mother can simply accept the death of her child, she can move on–that she can get back to a more “normal” life.

But this notion is as ridiculous as imagining that welcoming a new baby into a household doesn’t change everything.

And new parents have months to prepare.

I had the brief millisecond between the words leaving the deputy’s mouth and my ears hearing them for my mind to comprehend.

And I admit, there were moments in the day, even a few months afterwards, that I found myself saying out loud, “How can Dominic be dead?”

But those have mostly passed.

I accept that my son is dead. He will not return to me in the land of the living. He will not walk through my front door and he will not grow older, marry and have children of his own.

Every now and then, I do see a shape in a crowd, the shoulders set just so and for a moment my heart leaps. But my mind quickly remembers that Dominic is not here.

So, acceptance means that I understand that things are the way they are.

Acceptance does not mean that I have to like it or that I don’t wish some things were different.

Acceptance means that I comprehend the future will not include new memories with Dominic as part of our family circle here on earth.

Acceptance does not mean that I never look back fondly and with yearning for the years we spent together. It does not mean that I don’t grieve the years we won’t have.

I accept that I have a life to live even though part of my heart is no longer with me.

But acceptance does not mean that the life I live going forward is not impacted by my loss or that it isn’t framed at the edges by grief.

I am now what losing a child has made me.

Acceptance means that I will offer up this new me, just as I have offered up every new me in the past, to the God Who made me, to use me according to His plan and for His glory.

The people of Israel were shaped as much by what they lost as by what they gained.

A group of Israelites, led by Ezra the scribe, returned to Jerusalem from Babylon, and were charged with rebuilding the Temple that had been destroyed many years earlier.

A few among them had seen with their own eyes the glory and majesty of Solomon’s Temple, but most of those returning had been born in captivity. To the older men, this new temple paled in comparison to what they had lost. But to the younger, it represented a new beginning and a brighter future.

Many of the older priests and Levites and the heads of families cried aloud because they remembered seeing the first temple years before. But others were so happy that they celebrated with joyful shouts.Their shouting and crying were so noisy that it all sounded alike and could be heard a long way off.

Ezra 3:12-13 CEV

The grieving were sad, but they worked anyway.

Acceptance acknowledges loss, but is not immobilized by it.

So how to love me and others well in this phase of our grief journey?

Understand that acceptance involves both of us: while I must accept the fact that my child is dead and that my life is different than the one I would have chosen for myself–others must accept that I am who I am and I will never be the other me–the one before losing a child, again.

My life as a bereaved mother is always going to be a mixture of sorrow and joy.

It will always include looking back and looking forward.

It can’t be anything else.

Navigating Grief: Love is the Reason I Grieve

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them.
—James O’Barr

I grieve because I love.

My tears are a gift to the son I miss. My sorrow honors his memory. My broken heart gives evidence to the ones walking with me that my love is fierce and timeless.

This love isn’t the romantic, gushy, flowers-and-chocolate love celebrated on Valentine’s Day–but the deep, abiding, sacrificial love that brands a mother’s soul.

The love that began in the first moments of knowing I would welcome a new child into our home. The love that stayed away from certain foods and suffered through colds without medicine because there was LIFE inside of me–my body was no longer mine alone.

The love that poured forth nourishment from breasts and lived the first months at the mercy of his appetite.

The love that did without sleep–because what is a little rest compared to being solace for my crying child?

I would give anything for my children. Even my own life.

But in the end, I didn’t have that choice.

Watching the young mother with her infant, the older mama and her child at play in a park, the joy and pride of the even older woman as her son or daughter graduates high school, college or gets married–how could anyone think a mother’s grief could be small?

How can all the love and all the hopes and all the dreams of a mama’s heart be squeezed into days or weeks or months of tears and sorrow?

If my son had lived, the rest of my life would not have been long enough to pour out the love I have for him.

It is not nearly long enough for me to show my surviving children how very much I cherish them.

So my grief will be large and lifelong–as big and unbounded as my love.

It cannot be anything less.

Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.

—Earl Grollman

Navigating Grief: Just Say His Name

It’s nearly impossible for anyone who has not lost the earthly companionship of a child to know how desperately I long to hear Dominic’s name spoken aloud.

There are days I walk around my home and think silently and even whisper quietly, “You existed! You exist!” just to remind my heart he is real.

You may hesitate to bring him up because you fear my tears. But any tears his name might evoke will be tears of gratitude as well as those of longing.

Please say his name

❤ Melanie

I know you are afraid.

You think that speaking his name or sharing a memory or sending me a photo will add to my sorrow.

I understand.

But even when it costs me a split second of sharp pain, it is truly a gift to know that Dominic lives on in the hearts and minds of others.

It helps keep him alive.

“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” ~Banksy

I know you’re busy. I know your life is full and bustling with so many people and activities demanding attention that you don’t have any to spare.

It is easy to forget.

He wasn’t your child. The date of his homegoing isn’t etched into the marrow of your bones, it isn’t scribed on the inside of your eyelids.

Every time the calendar screams “12” I make one more chalkmark on my heart counting the days since I saw him last.

But please remember. Please don’t let the day slip by and not acknowledge that it is as important a milestone to me and my family as his birthday.

I know you’re scared.

Death is scary. Even for us who trust Jesus. And the death of a child just trashes the notion that we are in control, that we can fully protect the ones we love from all harm.

But you are frightened of what you cannot comprehend.

I am living the reality of your greatest fear.

Be brave. Step out and welcome me in.

Give space for the longing to hear my son’s name, to know my son matters, to relive some of the happy moments and funny times and even some of the hard days.

I can sit by myself and remember him.

But sharing him with you breathes life into the recollection and speaks hope to my heart.

It fuels the fire that helps me see that even when I’m not here to carry him into the land of those still living, someone else will do it for me.

Love is stronger than death even though it can’t stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can’t separate people from love. It can’t take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.

—Anonymous

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