Stormeyes Enchanted

There’s a woman my husband works with.
I’m not going to share her real name, and I’ve softened a few details to protect her privacy. But the essence of her story… that’s heartbreakingly familiar.

She lost a child.
She went through a major health crisis.
She had to rebuild her life from the ground up—professionally, emotionally, physically.

She eventually had another baby (thank God for that joy), but the reality is, she was forced to adjust her entire life to survive. That includes switching to a different area at work. She couldn’t stand the constant negativity anymore—it was draining her spirit, compounding the grief she was already carrying. And nobody needs that, especially a grieving parent.

And then one day, my husband came home and said this:

“They talk about us. They joke about our lives—say it’s all a disaster, a mess. That they are glad their life isn’t so much.”

I didn’t even know what to say at first. I mean, I thought it had to have been said with a soft, sad tone. But no. We are the joke. Because we have children who have passed on. My jaw locked. My stomach turned. And then came the heat.

You’re talking about us?
You’re talking about her?

Because of our children?!?!

About the woman who buried her child and had to fight her way back into the workforce through pain most people couldn’t begin to imagine? That is strength and determination. That deserves respect.

About the mother who walks through this world with invisible weight strapped to her chest and still manages to show up?

About the family that’s lived through nightmare after nightmare and still breathes, still tries, still loves?

We are not your entertainment.
We are not your morale boosters.
We are not your “at least I’m not them” story.

We are humans. Parents. Partners. Fighters. Survivors.

And every time you turn our pain into a punchline, what you’re really doing is exposing your own lack of empathy—your refusal to connect with another human being whose life just looks different than yours.

And I’m left wondering…
When did this become normal?

When did it become okay to mock other people’s trauma at the breakroom table?

Is it fear? Is it the need to feel safe, superior, separate?

Is it the way we’ve trained ourselves to scroll past pain instead of sit with it?

Because grief… real grief… it doesn’t need your judgment. It doesn’t need your jokes. It needs your humanity.

And if you can’t offer comfort, the least you can offer is silence.

So I’m writing this for all of us who’ve felt like walking caution tape.

To the grieving moms, the people who’ve survived strokes, cancer, addiction, trauma, loss, abuse, heartbreak—

To anyone who’s overheard laughter when what they needed was understanding:

You are not a joke.
You are not a mess.
You are not the sum of your worst days.

You are still standing.
And I see you.

And while I’m at it—let me be very clear about why this blog even exists.

I created this space to help others who are hurting.
To remind anyone grieving that you are not alone.
To speak honestly about pain and healing and survival.
To offer a kind of light I desperately needed when I was deep in the dark.

So to those of you who mock others in their hardest moments?

That’s fine. Go ahead.
Because I know my heart. And I like it.

While you’re laughing, I’m becoming a certified grief coach. Plus my college classes.
While you gossip, I’m holding space for shattered people trying to feel whole again.
While you mock, I’m building something rooted in kindness, empathy, and hard-earned wisdom.

All while still broken.
All while still grieving.

So maybe take a look at your own heart.
Ask yourself what kind of person you really want to be.

And if you find it’s time to grow?

Then do better.
Be better.

Some of us are already trying.

Love and Light ~Mandy