Stormeyes Enchanted

The first year without Garet was strange. I was numb. I wasn’t really “living”—I was going through the motions, hyper-focused on keeping things normal for the other kids.

Did they want the holidays to stay the same? Did they want to change things and start new traditions? When they said they wanted everything to be as it had always been, I had to force myself to not think about what those traditions actually meant.

Because the truth is, those traditions started with him.

Garet made me a mom. He made me want to create magic for the holidays. I had visions of these traditions with his kids someday. And suddenly, that magic felt unreachable. I couldn’t let myself think back to those early years—the years when his excitement filled the house, when his joy made the season what it was.

I expected the first year to break me. But it didn’t. I was on autopilot, focused on the living, pushing through because I had to. I thought that was grief.

But then year two came, and everything changed.

Year Two: The Grief I Thought I’d Feel in Year One

Looking back, I expected the first year to feel like the hardest one. But instead, it was year two that truly shattered me.

I think, in that first year, I was too focused on holding everything together. I was trying so hard to make sure the other kids were okay, that the holidays didn’t feel empty, that life kept moving forward even when I felt frozen in time. And because of that, I didn’t allow myself to fully feel the loss. But in year two, something shifted.

The kids were getting older, and their excitement over traditions had started to change. And without the constant distraction of their childhood joy pulling me forward, my mind started wandering back. I let myself think about the early years—the ones where Garet was small, wide-eyed, and making everything feel magical. The ones when I only had Garet and Kaden, listening to them giggle with excitement and anticipation. The mornings of all of the kids ripping into their gifts while Garet sat and watched because he loved their excitement. And suddenly, it was like I had lost him all over again.

The weight of the grief hit me in ways I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t just mourning the present—I was mourning the past. I was mouring the future. The little boy who once sat under the Christmas tree, the pre-teen who laughed at his younger siblings’ excitement, the older teen who should have still been here meeting his brothers wife and new family. Watching his sisters ride bikes and skate. Watching how tall his youngest brother is now, and knowing he would be mad that both of his “little” brothers were taller than him.

Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. Sometimes, the pain waits until you have no choice but to feel it. And when it comes, it is just as fresh as the day they left.

Year Three: The Breaking Point

By the time I reached year three, I thought maybe the worst had passed. But I was wrong. This was the year that nearly broke me.

I could barely force myself out of bed. Every single thing felt heavy, forced, painful. I was enduring each day, just trying to get through, but I was also drowning in exhaustion. I had never felt this kind of fatigue before—not even when my kids were newborns and sleep was a luxury. This was different. This was a weight on my soul that made even breathing feel like effort. And then, it happened.

I was shopping for Christmas, making sure I had these heart shaped rose quartz pieces for everyone. I counted, recounted, checked my list over and over. Everyone was accounted for. Until I got home. That’s when I realized I had one extra gift. One that didn’t belong to anyone. One that had no name attached to it. I say it was meant for Garet. My husband says it was a gift from Garet.

Whatever it was, that was the moment something changed.

I suddenly felt like I was being directed—as if he was showing me that I still had a purpose, that I wasn’t lost, that there was still something I was meant to do. That moment was the start of this blog. I don’t know what I am doing, but I know how important connection is and how difficult it can be after such a big loss. I am here for you.

Grief doesn’t just break you—it reshapes you. And sometimes, just when you think you’re at your lowest, something happens that reminds you your story isn’t over yet.

What I’ve Learned Three Years Later

Three years without Garet. Three years of grief changing, shifting, breaking me down and pulling me forward at the same time.

I won’t say it’s gotten easier. That’s not how grief works. What I will say is that I am learning how to exist in it, how to carry it, how to keep moving—even on the days when it feels impossible.

I’ve learned that grief isn’t something you heal from—it’s something you learn to live with. It becomes a part of you. Over time you start learning to feel happiness and grief at the same moment. The feelings learn to coexhist.

I am learning that some years I will feel numb and others will be raw, and I won’t always know which one I’m walking into until I’m in the middle of it. I am learning how to let feelings be felt and then move forward.

I’ve learned that exhaustion, sadness, anger, and even unexpected moments of joy can all live in the same heart at the same time. I’ve learned that Garet is still with me. In signs, in memories, in the ways I carry him forward.

And I’ve learned that even though I will never be the same, even though I would give anything to have him back—I am still here. His siblings are still here. The family is still here. And for whatever reason, that means I still have more to do. For him. For his memory. For them.

Grief doesn’t stop. But neither does love. And as long as I’m here, I will keep sharing his story, honoring his life, and finding the strength to take one more step forward.

Grief Changes, But Love Never Fades

I will never be the same person I was before losing Garet. That version of me left with him. But what I’ve come to realize is that while grief changes us, so does love. Garet’s love still exists. In me, in his siblings, in every life he touched.

Grief will always be part of my story. Some years will feel okay, and some years just wont. But no matter how much time passes, one thing will never change—he is still my son, and I will carry him with me for the rest of my life.

If you are grieving, know this: There is no timeline. There is no finish line. There is only love that continues, in memories, in signs, in the way we honor those we’ve lost. And as long as we carry them, they are never truly gone.

💜 Have you experienced grief that changed over time? What has helped you keep going? Let’s share and support each other. 💜

Light and Love ~ Mandy💜