The Loss of my Son
The Loss of My Son
Jonah was bright.
Bright like a star.
His eyes shone.
He walked early.
Ran early.
A tiny raspberry birthmark rested on his left shoulder blade—one of the little details I never thought I would cling to so tightly.
Today, he would be eighteen years old.
I wonder—what would he look like as a man?
Would his blond hair have darkened?
Would he have shaggy, curly locks like his 16-year-old brother?
What would he think about having a baby sibling at this stage in my life?
Would my first marriage have survived if he had lived?
Would I be different? A better mother? A worse one?
The pain of loss is like the clay that has shaped me.
Who would I have been without it?
Would I love more freely? Or hold back, afraid?
I never had professional photos taken of him.
It was too expensive.
We were young, raising two children with a third on the way, stretching every dollar.
I thought we had time.
At night, I waitressed. His dad worked construction during the day.
We parented alone, even though we were married.
Our relationship strained, but our love for our children was the thread that held us together.
We caught each other up on what we’d missed—what they had done, the funny things they had said.
Jonah? He was a climber. A little daredevil.
He would pull out drawers like steps, scale the kitchen counter, and tightrope-walk the edge of the sink to reach the top of the fridge—where we hid the sugar cereal he wasn’t supposed to have.
And the shower? No matter how many times I turned around, there he was. Fully dressed. Laughing under the water. He loved it.
But now?
Now, I can’t remember his favorite food.
Little pieces of his life are slipping through my memory.
Most of the people closest to me—my husband, my children—never knew Jonah.
I have my friends categorized in my mind:
Those who knew me before Jonah passed.
Those who only know me after.
I don’t recognize the woman I was before.
I don’t know if I can bring myself to write about the day he died.
I don’t know why I’m writing this at all.
I Failed Him
I believed the doctors over my own intuition.
I knew something was wrong. I said it over and over.
They sent me home.
The last time, they finally believed me.
But the last time, I went home with empty arms.
Grief is not just sadness.
It is transformation.
It is a depth of being you could never have conceived before.
A thousand people can lose the same person, but no two griefs are the same.
Grief doesn’t mean you’ll cry every day for the rest of your life.
It means you are changed.
To love is to lose.
A life without loss is a life without love.
I Thought I Had Time
Time to say what mattered.
Time to take the photos.
Time to watch TV while he played nearby, thinking I could always give him attention later.
I thought I had time.
But loss teaches you.
It teaches you to speak your truth while you have the chance.
It teaches you that taking a half-day off work to just be with your family is worth more than any paycheck.
It teaches you that recovery is a choice.
I can’t describe the depth of my pain.
It is never gone.
Some days, I sit in it.
Some days, I don’t.
But pain is not what defines me.
Yes, it has shaped me.
But I refuse to let it be who I am.
People who know me don’t see an abyss of sadness.
The pain inside me is a fire—always smoldering.
Some days, it torments me.
Other days, I use it as fuel.
I choose to let it ignite my passion for healing.
For myself.
For others.
Healing and Hope
It is hard to explain to those who haven’t known loss that I can have deep peace about Jonah’s passing and still ache for him.
Both are true.
I know his life was meant to be short.
I believe his soul chose it.
I live my life like anyone else.
I wake up. I love. I laugh. I chase sunsets.
I have my other children.
My husband.
A baby on the way.
I have my heart to love, my hands to create, my voice to speak and heal.
I have a story that helps others heal their own.
Losing Jonah has taught me to seize the moment.
To have authentic conversations.
To set clear boundaries.
To choose courage.
I have survived something I never thought I could.
Some days, I have done so gracefully.
Other days, I have fallen apart.
But I am still here.
And because of that, I am unafraid of most things.
No loss.
No challenge.
No heartbreak—
Nothing has been as hard as losing Jonah.
And when hard things come now, the words echo in my mind:
“You’ve been through worse.”
The Gift of Loss
It seems impossible, but I promise you:
The gift of loss is as great as the loss itself.
The strength.
The love.
The compassion.
The courage.
The faith.
The tenacity.
The ability to hold space for others in their pain.
These things—
These are the gifts.
And they are worth holding onto.
We have only today.
The house cleaning can wait.
There is time for that.
To see more of my writing, click here: How to Support Someone Grieving
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