Grief's Uncharted Path

Journal Entry:

"Sometimes grief is just a rock I carry.
Other times, it’s a crushing boulder on my chest, and I can’t breathe—while the world around me expects me to solve complex mathematical equations like I’m not already drowning."

Anniversary days—like my son’s death date or his birthday—tear open emotions I’ve learned to bury just enough to function. Christmas still knocks the wind out of me. A few days before Jonah’s death date—March 28th—I sat across from my therapist and asked:

"Do we ever heal from this?"

She paused. Then said she didn’t know. That healing wasn’t a destination—it was learning to live a full life with healthy practices and coping strategies.

"I live a functional life," I told her.
"I have purpose, I serve, I succeed—I don’t let it stop me—but I don’t think it will ever not hurt."

We talked about how grief anniversaries can feel like old wounds ripping open.
"What’s your resistance to the date?" she asked.

I thought for a moment.
"Maybe it is resistance. Or maybe it’s like muscle memory. I know the date. I see it coming. I remember how everything happened. It’s not abstract—it’s alive again."

Sometimes, these days knock me flat. Sometimes I just want to hide in bed, hoodie over my head, blinds closed, breathing in silence.
But I’ve learned to give myself permission.
I budget time and space for it.
"I'll do whatever I want to do," is the rule.
If I cry, I cry. If I rest, I rest.
Maybe I go shopping. Maybe I go to the mountains.
Maybe I visit the cemetery.
Maybe I avoid it like the plague.
I respond to no one unless I want to. I clean, or I don’t.
I exist, in the only way I can.

Because this pain doesn’t operate on a schedule. And no one else can feel it like I do.

No one in my current circle even knew Jonah.
Not even my other kids.
To them, he’s a name. An idea.
They love me, but they don’t miss him.
They don’t know how lonely it feels to grieve a soul no one else remembers.

After he died, I was bombarded with spiritual bumper stickers—people offering their comfort by forcing their beliefs onto me.
Telling me where Jonah was. What he was doing. What God’s plan must be.

I heard, “Are you okay?”
But never, “How do you feel? What do you believe?”

I remember a few months after his passing, someone called to say they spoke about Jonah in church.
"I shared how good you're doing, how our faith is comforting you," she said.
I felt rage crawl up my spine.
She hadn't called once to ask me what I thought or felt.
"I’m glad you have a good story to tell," I said flatly.
Then hung up.

My tragedy had become someone else’s inspirational anecdote.
I felt violated. Used.
That wasn’t comfort. That was projection.
People scrambling to make sense of death—trying to patch up the mystery with their own assumptions.

But here’s my truth:
My faith shattered.
And in the rubble, I discovered something solid—nobody knows what happens after death, except the dead.
That became my anchor. My peace.
The foundation of “I don’t know, and that’s okay.”

Some people find comfort in their beliefs.
For me, surrendering the need to know freed me.
I don’t live up to some cosmic expectation anymore.
I live from choice, not from pressure.
Science tells me energy cannot be destroyed.
That gives me hope.
I believe Jonah still exists—just in a different form.
Still intelligent. Still connected to me.
You might call that an angel. I just call it love.

But it’s not just the grief.
It’s the regret.
The guilt.
The shame.

The thoughts like: "I wasn’t a perfect mom."
"I didn’t know he was going to die."
"I was irritated, tired, overwhelmed. I didn’t savor every second."

But I was human.
I remind myself daily:
Motherhood isn’t sainthood. It’s survival.
I worked because we needed to eat. I rested because I was exhausted.
Yes, I snapped.
Yes, I apologized.
Yes, I sometimes took him for granted—like we all do with those we think we’ll have forever.

When Jonah died, there was no framework.
No online support groups.
No blogs.
No podcasts.
Just a hospital pamphlet and a disconnected phone number.

I didn’t have a roadmap to navigate grief.
I had to forge my own path.
Blindly. Clumsily.
It was trial by fire, by curiosity, by tenacity.
I learned by failing. I learned by breathing. I learned by surviving.

Most of my friends were still figuring out dating. They didn’t have kids, let alone lose them.
No one knew how to be there for me.
Many faded away in the discomfort of my darkness.

My husband spiraled into a haze of video games and sleepless nights—his way of disappearing.
So I became the rower of the boat.
Five months pregnant.
A five-year-old on my hip.
And a storm in my soul.

I didn’t want to live in a world Jonah wasn’t in.
But my other children were still here.
They were the only reason I didn’t end my life.
They needed me.
And that need pulled me from the edge.

Even now—they are why I try.
Why I dig deep when there’s nothing left.
Why I find beauty, purpose, and breath.

This week, I messaged a friend who also lost his child.
"Can we talk?" I asked.
We missed each other. When he finally texted "I can talk now,"
I replied: "I'm not up to it."

He asked, "Is everything okay?"
I said, "It's just hard. Leading up to my son's death date. No one really understands how it feels. But I know you do."

We never even spoke.
But that simple recognition—that brief moment of knowing someone else gets it—was enough.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this.
I didn’t plan to.
But here it is.

If this story reflects any part of yours—I’m tipping my hat to you.
To your grief. Your courage. Your continued breath.
To the rock.
To the boulder.
And all the space in between.

Because this is life.
This is grief.
This is love that never got to finish its sentence.
And somehow, we keep showing up anyway.