1,457 days.
That’s how long it’s been since Garet left us — January 31, 2022.
And even now, my mind goes back to that morning.
The sights.
The sounds.
The way the world split open and somehow kept going anyway.
There are still things I can’t do. People I can’t talk to. One of my child’s teachers — because I remember her voice teaching math while my world was exploding. Those memories don’t fade politely. They wait, tucked away, and then show up when you least expect them.
One song from my past still echoes in my head on days like this — “Beautiful Day in the Cold, Cruel World” by The Warren Brothers.
“Under the very same sky, at the very same time,
Somebody’s laughing, somebody’s crying,
Somebody’s living, and somebody’s dying…”
That was me.
Living and dying at the same time.
Life ending — and continuing as if nothing happened.
And yet, everything happened.
Grief Is Not Linear — No Matter What We Were Told
Grief does not move in a straight line.
It isn’t “time heals all wounds.”
It isn’t “each day gets easier.”
It isn’t even predictable.
Grief is weeks of tears, followed by a day where you don’t cry at all — and you feel proud. Relieved. Almost hopeful.
And then the next week feels just as raw as the moment it happened.
Grief is reminding yourself to breathe in and out — over and over — until one day you realize you don’t have to remind yourself anymore. And then, without warning, you do again.
It’s having a day where you feel almost happy… and realizing how much you missed that feeling.
And then not being able to get out of bed the very next day.
This is grief.
It is learning, over and over, to give yourself grace.
Because you are not the person you were before — and now you’re trying to learn who you are after.
Where do you go from here?
Are you strong enough?
What does “forward” even mean now?
The Mind That Searches for What It Can’t Change
Here’s something I don’t talk about much — something I’ve barely admitted out loud.
Even now, 1,457 days later, my mind still scans the past.
I replay those final days, hours, moments.
On January 27, 2022 — what were we talking about?
Was I updating him about my sister — sick with COVID, very pregnant, all of us terrified?
Was he telling me about work?
Did he hug me as he walked out the door for third shift?
My mind searches for pieces I can’t retrieve.
And because of that, sleep doesn’t come easily.
I see my husband struggling too. He doesn’t say much — but I see it. Grief doesn’t belong to just one person. It moves through the whole family, quietly, differently for each of us.
This is child loss.
This is teen loss.
This is parenting after tragedy blows your life apart.
Staying Busy Isn’t Avoidance — Sometimes It’s Survival
So I keep moving.
I tell my story.
I write.
I show up.
And now, school — which will absolutely keep me busy (statistics is currently kicking my rear in a very personal way).
But maybe this movement isn’t running away.
Maybe it’s choosing to live alongside grief instead of underneath it.
Because grief doesn’t disappear — it changes shape.
And some days, surviving is the victory.
Grief doesn’t ask permission to revisit us.
It doesn’t care how much time has passed.
But even here — in the remembering, the exhaustion, the questions — I am still breathing.
And today, that is enough.
Love and Light ~Mandy
Journal Prompt
What would it look like to offer myself the same grace I give others?
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