We lost Garet in January of 2022.
Two months to the day later, we lost a family friend, and that loss ripped my trauma wide open. It felt like I was left gasping for air all over again.
Since then, I have lived through the downs and the deeper downs of this grief path. I have been in places emotionally that I never thought I would survive. I have been stuck in grief so deeply that I am honestly surprised I am still here today. There were times when I was terrified of myself, terrified of the pain, terrified of how far down grief had pulled me.
And as anyone who has lived through loss knows, grief is not linear.
You can be doing okay for a while, functioning, laughing, handling life, checking off the responsibilities. Then suddenly it feels like someone pulls the rug out from under you, and there you are again, gasping on the floor with pain so deep in your chest that it feels like you just lost them all over again.
Getting out of bed for the next few days can feel like climbing Everest.
And through all of this, life did not pause.
I am still a mom.
Still a wife.
Still a full-time college student.
And now, a grief coach.
I have clawed my way through more pain than I ever knew a human being could carry. I have sat with other grieving mothers. I have heard stories that would break your heart wide open. I have held space for pain that has no easy answer.
And maybe somewhere along the way, I started to believe that after losing my child, there was not much else that could knock me down.
But a couple of days ago, my world shook a little.
And it reminded me of something I guess I needed to remember.
We are never as prepared as we think we are.
The People Who Have Always Been There
We all have those people in our lives who somehow just stay.
The ones who maybe do not make sense on paper.
The ones who went from “kid in the school hallway” to “how in the world have we known each other this long?”
The ones who have been in the background of your life for so many chapters that you almost forget they were not technically family.
And then sometimes you realize they kind of are.
When you share a birthday and a hometown, when you realize you might have been in the same nursery as babies back in those days, it hits differently. It makes you stop and think, Wait. This person has literally been part of my entire life.
Not every day.
Not always in the center.
But there.
Through marriages.
Children.
Divorces.
Life struggles.
Hard seasons.
Good seasons.
And even through the loss of a child.
Some connections do not need constant explanation. They just exist. Somehow, across all the twists and messiness of life, they remain.
Always.
And two days ago, I almost lost one of those people.
When Survival Still Scares You
The situation could have been horrific. It could have been tragic.
And even though my friend made it, even though I was walking into the hospital because they were still here, I still fell apart.
I started bawling as I walked toward the room for the first time.
And I remember thinking how ridiculous that felt.
I was not walking in to say goodbye.
I was not walking in because they were gone.
I was walking in because they survived.
But my body did not seem to understand that yet.
My nervous system heard “hospital.”
It heard “almost.”
It heard “could have.”
It heard “what if.”
It heard “you know how fast life can change.”
And suddenly I was right back in that horrible place where the world feels unsafe and fragile and entirely too breakable.
It was not stupid.
It was trauma.
It was grief memory.
It was my body remembering what it feels like when life splits into before and after.
And standing there, I realized something that scared me:
If something happened right now, this one could knock me right back down.
After everything.
After losing my son.
After walking through the muck.
After being around so many grieving mothers.
After learning, healing, coaching, writing, praying, screaming, sobbing, surviving.
Still.
This could knock me down.
And that was a terrifying thought.
None of Us Have This Perfectly
I think that is something we need to be honest about.
None of us have this perfectly.
Not the people who pray every day.
Not the people who do activism work.
Not the people who write about grief.
Not the people who coach others through loss.
Not the people who seem strong.
Not the people who have already survived the unthinkable.
We may become wiser. We may become more compassionate. We may learn tools. We may learn grounding techniques. We may learn how grief moves through the body. We may learn how to keep breathing through moments that feel impossible.
But we do not become immune to love.
And because we still love, we can still be shaken.
That is the risk of being human.
That is the risk of having people who matter.
We can understand grief deeply and still be terrified by the thought of losing someone else.
We can know all the right words and still crumble in a hospital hallway.
We can hold space for others and still need someone to hold space for us.
We can be healing and still get triggered.
We can be strong and still be scared.
Both can be true.
We Know Better, But We Are Still Human
Those of us who have experienced deep loss know how quickly life can change.
We know how one phone call, one knock at the door, one message, one accident, one moment can blow up the entire world we thought we understood.
We know there is such a thing as the last conversation.
The last hug.
The last picture.
The last ordinary day before everything becomes divided into before and after.
We know this.
And still, because we are human, we get complacent.
We stop checking in as much.
We leave texts unanswered.
We turn the ringer off and think, I will call them later.
We assume there will be another chance.
Another visit.
Another coffee.
Another laugh.
Another “I love you.”
Another “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”
Another chance to say the thing we meant to say.
And I am not saying this to shame anyone. Life is busy. We are tired. We are overwhelmed. We are raising children, working jobs, going to school, paying bills, managing stress, healing from things we do not always talk about.
Sometimes we are simply trying to get through the day.
But maybe every now and then, we need the reminder.
Not because we are failing.
Because time is fragile.
Because people matter.
Because love deserves to be spoken while people are still here to receive it.
Say the Thing
Maybe today is a good day to send the text.
Make the call.
Check on the friend.
Tell your spouse you appreciate them.
Tell your kids you are proud of them.
Tell your parents, siblings, cousins, friends, chosen family, and lifelong people that they matter to you.
Say the thing you keep assuming they already know.
Because maybe they do know.
But maybe they need to hear it anyway.
We all do.
We need to hear that we are loved.
We need to hear that our presence matters.
We need to hear that someone noticed we have been quiet.
We need to hear, “I am glad you are still here.”
We need to hear, “You have been part of my life for so long, and I do not take that lightly.”
We need to hear, “Thank you for being there.”
We need to hear, “I love you.”
And sometimes, we need to be the one brave enough to say it first.
Start With Your Own Circle
The world can feel huge and hurting and overwhelming.
There is so much pain everywhere. So many lonely people. So many grieving people. So many people walking around quietly carrying more than anyone knows.
But we do not have to fix the whole world today.
Maybe we start with our own circle.
Our children.
Our spouse.
Our family.
Our friends.
The people who have been around forever.
The people who somehow became part of the story without us realizing just how much space they held in it.
And then maybe we stretch outward.
A kind message.
A check-in.
A meal.
A card.
A comment that says, “I see you.”
A little more patience.
A little more gentleness.
A little more willingness to show up before tragedy reminds us how much we should have.
Kindness does not have to be grand to matter.
Sometimes it is a text.
Sometimes it is a voice message.
Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in a hospital room.
Sometimes it is letting someone cry without trying to fix it.
Sometimes it is telling the truth: “You scared me. I love you. I am so glad you are still here.”
Life Is Fragile, But Love Is Worth It
I wish grief made us invincible.
I wish surviving the worst thing meant nothing else could shake us.
I wish trauma healed in a straight line and never came back to remind us of what we have lost.
But that is not how this works.
We are still human.
We still love people.
We still get scared.
We still have moments where the floor feels unsteady beneath us.
And maybe that is not weakness.
Maybe it is proof that our hearts are still open, even after everything they have survived.
Maybe it means love is still alive in us.
And as scary as that can be, I do not want grief to make me numb to the people who are still here.
I do not want loss to steal my ability to love out loud.
I do not want fear to keep me from reaching for the people who matter.
Because we are not promised endless time.
We are not promised one more conversation.
We are not promised the chance to say it later.
So say it now.
Love them now.
Check in now.
Hug them now.
Send the message now.
Let people know they matter while they are still here to hear it.
Because life can change in the blink of an eye.
And if grief has taught me anything, it is this:
Love should not be saved for someday.
Love should be spoken, shown, shared, and lived now.
Out loud.
As often as we can.
Closing Reflection
Maybe today is not about fear.
Maybe it is about remembering.
Remembering that people are precious.
Remembering that time is not something we control.
Remembering that even when we have survived terrible loss, we are still allowed to be shaken by the thought of losing someone else.
And maybe today is also about gratitude.
Gratitude for the people who made it.
For the people still here.
For the friendships that somehow stretched across a lifetime.
For the chance to say, “I love you,” one more time.
So if someone crossed your mind while reading this, maybe that is your nudge.
Send the text.
Make the call.
Say the thing.
Love them out loud while you can.
Love and Light ~Mandy
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