I wasn’t planning on crying in Walmart. I mean, it’s Walmart!
My husband had wandered off to the men’s t-shirts, and I had slipped into the toy aisles—half on a mission, half just curious. (Did I mention we got GUINEA PIGS?! Of course, I wanted to see if they had anything fun for them to play with.) 🐹
But then it happened. I rounded the corner, and suddenly, I wasn’t in Walmart anymore. I was in 2003.
Barney. Bright purple and smiling back at me. Shelf after shelf of the same silly dinosaur I once hunted down with the determination only a mom can understand. My heart raced as I scanned the toys, instinctively searching for the one Garet didn’t already have.
And then the realization landed like a punch:
This isn’t 2003.
Garet is gone and had no children of his own.
None of the other kids are young enough (or old enough, apparently) to ever be into Barney.
The tears came, uninvited but unstoppable. I turned and walked quickly back to my husband, the only safe place I could find in that moment. I catch myself whispering a prayer on the way to him—God, help me. Don’t let me start bawling over Barney in Walmart, for goodness’ sake.
This is the life of a parent who has lost a child. Grief doesn’t only live in the anniversaries, the birthdays, the holidays. It hides in aisles of Walmart. It leaps out from a cartoon face on a toy box. It ambushes you in the most ordinary moments and reminds you that time has moved forward, whether you were ready or not.
The ache of nostalgia
Toys are more than plastic or stuffing. They’re time capsules.
Each one holds fingerprints of memory—sticky fingers clutching a stuffed animal, squeals of laughter when the batteries actually worked, or the comfort of a familiar song on repeat.
For parents, toys are bookmarks in the story of childhood. They remind us where we were, who our kids were, and who we were in those fleeting chapters.
But when your children are grown—or when one of them is gone—those toys become reminders of everything you can’t get back. They’re proof that time is both beautiful and brutal.
The deeper loss
For me, it’s not just about kids growing up. It’s about the empty seat at the table, the Barney toy that will never be played with again, the memories that stop in 2022 and can’t move forward.
And sometimes, in the middle of it all, I find myself whispering little prayers—God, please, not here, not now. Don’t let me break down in the middle of [whatever store, playground, restaurant] over a [song, silly story, old friend seen]. But sometimes the tears come anyway. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s holy, too.
Grief is tricky like that. It doesn’t ask for permission before it rips open old wounds. And it doesn’t care if you’re just trying to buy guinea pig toys on a Friday afternoon.
But here’s what I’m slowly learning: grief shocks don’t mean I’m broken. They mean I am human. They mean I’m still loving. They mean the bond is still alive, even when the body isn’t.
Finding steady ground
That day, my steady ground was my husband—his presence pulling me back from the spiral. Some days, it’s the guinea pigs squeaking for snacks. Other days, it’s writing these words, letting the memories find a safe place on the page instead of rattling loose inside my chest. And always—whether I feel it clearly or not—God is there too. Quietly steady. Gently holding what I can’t.
Grief never fully leaves, but neither does love. And maybe that’s the point.
So if you ever find yourself stopped in your tracks by a toy, a song, a smell, or a silly purple dinosaur—know this: you are not alone. Your heart is simply remembering what it once held, and love will always echo louder than loss.
Light and Love ~Mandy
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