Stormeyes Enchanted

Grief is a long, lonely road, something people think they understand—it’s sadness, it’s tears, it’s missing someone you love. But what no one tells you is that grief is so much more than that. It’s exhaustion. It’s loneliness. It’s waking up every single day and remembering all over again that your child is gone. It’s the world moving forward when you feel stuck in time. It’s trying to keep your head above water while carrying a weight you never asked for.

And for me, it’s not just my own grief I have to carry—I also have to be the one who listens, guides, and comforts my other children through their own loss. I have to answer questions I don’t have the answers to, hold them when they break down, and somehow convince them that life will still be okay, even when I don’t believe it myself. I don’t have the option to collapse under the weight of my grief because they still need me, but my goodness, some days I want to!

No one prepared me for these parts of grief. No one told me how isolating, relentless, and heavy it would be. I know I’m not the only one feeling this way. If you’re grieving, you already know—grief is filled with things no one talks about. Here are some of the hardest parts of grief that I never saw coming.

In the beginning, people show up. They check in, they bring meals, they say all the comforting things they know how to say. But then, slowly, the world starts moving forward—except you’re still standing in the wreckage of your loss. The messages come less often. People stop asking how you’re doing. The world expects you to return to “normal” when normal no longer exists.

What most people don’t realize is that grief doesn’t have an expiration date. The pain doesn’t fade just because time has passed. There’s no moment when you suddenly feel “okay” again. Instead, you wake up every day in a world that has kept turning, while a part of you is frozen in the moment everything changed.

I still struggle with this. The calendar keeps moving, and I have to keep going, but honestly? I feel stuck. Some days I don’t want to keep going. How can the world keep celebrating holidays, birthdays, and milestones when my child isn’t here?! How do I pretend that life is “back to normal” when nothing about it feels normal anymore?

The truth is, people don’t stop caring—they just don’t understand that grief doesn’t end. But for those of us living with loss, the pain doesn’t disappear just because the rest of the world has moved forward. We carry it every single day.

Grief isn’t just about missing them either—it’s about the fear of losing the little pieces of them over time. I used to hear Garet’s voice in my head so clearly, but as the months passed, I caught myself struggling to remember the exact way he laughed. That realization? It’s terrifying.

I cling to every memory, every saved voicemail, every picture—because what if I forget? What if the details start to blur? What if, years from now, I can’t close my eyes and picture him the way I do now? The idea of losing him all over again, piece by piece, is almost too much to bear.

Sometimes, grief isn’t just sadness—it’s a desperate fight to hold onto what’s left. His favorite songs, his worn-out hoodie, the shirt he loved that my husband hated, the way he used to say certain words. I find myself replaying old videos, searching for new ways to keep him close, because I refuse to let time take anything else from me. If you’ve ever felt this way, you’re not alone. The fear of forgetting is real, but love is stronger than memory. Our children are woven into us in ways that time can’t erase.

I was not prepared for the guilt that comes with grief. I expected the sadness, the pain, the longing—but I didn’t expect the gut-wrenching guilt that would creep in at the most unexpected moments.

Some days, it’s guilt for not crying enough or trying to move forward. On other days, it’s guilt for crying too much or my other kids seeing me too sad. There are moments when I catch myself laughing, even just for a second, and immediately feel like I’ve done something wrong. How can I smile when my child is gone? How can I enjoy a moment when Garet doesn’t get to? This feeling has not faded for me, but I hope in time it will at least lessen. And then there is the guilt of moving forward. I know life has to continue, but every step forward feels like I’m leaving him behind. Time is moving, but he is forever frozen in the past—and that thought alone is unbearable. How can I leave my beautiful boy behind?

Grief is full of contradictions. I know Garet wouldn’t want me to suffer forever. I know he would want me to keep living, keep loving, keep finding joy. But knowing that and feeling that are two very different things.

If you’ve felt this guilt, know you are not alone. Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting. Smiling doesn’t mean you love them any less. And having good days doesn’t erase the grief—you are simply learning to carry it differently. And that’s okay. That is our goal!

Grief is already unbearable, but when you’re a parent, it comes with an added weight—the pressure to be strong for everyone else. My other children still need me. They need reassurance, comfort, and guidance. But how do you pour from an empty cup? How do you tell them everything will be okay when you don’t believe it yourself?

People often say, “You’re so strong,” but I don’t feel strong. I feel exhausted. I feel shattered. I feel like I am carrying the weight of my own grief and my children’s grief at the same time, and some days, it’s too much.

I’ve learned that sometimes, being “strong” doesn’t mean holding it all together—it means letting yourself break when you need to. It means showing my kids that it’s okay to cry, that it’s okay to talk about Garet, and that grief isn’t something to be hidden. I used to think I had to protect them from my pain, but now I know that letting them see my grief teaches them that their own grief is safe, too. I must remember they are watching me to learn how to navigate this loss. If you’ve ever felt like you had to be strong for others, know this: Strength isn’t pretending you’re okay. Strength is allowing yourself to grieve, even when the world expects you to carry on. I will be honest; I am still learning as we go. I stumble often, but I keep trying.

Losing a child isn’t just losing a person—it’s losing a piece of your everyday world. It’s the empty chair at the table, the missing voice in the house, the absence that feels louder than anything else. It’s the silence where laughter used to be.

Grief isn’t just about missing them—it’s about missing the life you had with them. The routine of checking in, the little texts throughout the day, the sound of their favorite show playing in the background. It’s the small, seemingly insignificant moments that hit the hardest.

And what makes it even harder? Other people don’t always understand this kind of loneliness. They think grief is just about the big moments—birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. But for me, it’s also the everyday things. It’s driving past where we lived at the time he left us and looking for his car. It is the goofy creature stories I make up. It’s grocery shopping and realizing I no longer need to buy his favorite snacks. It is the release of VooDew every Halloween, and the memories of him bring them home for me to try. It’s those tiny, ordinary details that remind me—he’s not coming back.

This kind of loneliness is hard to explain, and it makes grief feel even more isolating. I know I’m not alone in this feeling. If you’ve ever found yourself missing not just the person but the life you shared with them—I see you. And I understand.

These are the parts of grief that people don’t talk about—the ones that feel too raw, too heavy, too impossible to put into words. Grief isn’t just sadness. It’s loneliness, fear, guilt, and exhaustion. It’s waking up every day and learning how to carry the weight of love with no place to go. It’s navigating a world that still expects you to function while your heart is shattered.

There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Some days, the weight of it feels unbearable. Other days, you might find small moments of peace. Both are okay. Both are normal. The truth is, grief doesn’t shrink—we just learn how to carry it differently over time.

What is something no one told you about grief that you had to learn on your own? Let’s talk about the things no one else does. You don’t have to carry this alone.

Love and light ~Mandy