People who have never had a big loss do not understand just how deep grief can run.
They do not understand how every single part of your world can blow up into a million little shards of what once was.
They do not understand what it is like to look into a mirror and see someone you no longer even know.
Your thoughts change.
Your views change.
Your perspective changes.
Sometimes you see things more openly. Sometimes you see things more painfully. Sometimes you feel completely lost.
Broken.
There is an anguish that I am not sure there are even words for. A pain that runs beyond anything I know how to explain.
I remember times when it felt like my chest was going to collapse from the weight inside it. Not just emotionally. Physically. Like my body could not possibly hold that much pain.
And then, maybe one month later or maybe five years later, someone says:
“You aren’t over it yet?”
“But it has been so long.”
“How can you still be sad?”
“How can you still miss them this much?”
Well.
Love does not go away.
Neither does grief.
Not the kind that alters your very soul.
Some losses are just…more.
They just are.
I do not know how else to explain it.
Four and a Half Years
Garet has been gone for 1,644 days.
Or, if weeks make more sense to you, 234 weeks and four days.
If you track months better, it has been 54 months since the last time I saw my son.
In years, we are at four years and six months today.
Four and a half years.
There has not been one day when I have not thought of him.
Not one.
I still see things I want to tell him about because I know he would love them.
I still want to send him some stupid meme.
Sometimes it is only for a split second.
The thought comes naturally: I need to send this to Garet.
And then reality catches up.
That is not me losing my mind.
I know he is gone.
My mind knows.
The heart just takes longer to take it all in.
Maybe it always will.
An Ordinary Sunday Morning
This morning is a perfect example of how quickly grief can change an ordinary day.
I woke up fine.
I took my daughter to church. I normally go on Saturday nights, but she had to work, so she went Sunday morning and I drove her.
We talked on the way there.
It was a beautiful morning.
I was not jumping up and down with excitement about anything, but nothing was wrong either.
I was just going to drop her off, go tan, and then come back to get her.
Normal.
Simple.
No warning signs flashing that said, “You are about to cry in your car.”
As I was driving past Giant Eagle on my way to the tanning salon, two men walked out of the store.
Each of them was carrying a planter of flowers.
Each planter had a “Happy Birthday” balloon in it.
They were talking and joking with each other as they crossed in front of the store.
And my mind did what my mind does.
I decided they were probably brothers.
It was probably their mom’s birthday.
Did she know they were coming?
Were they going to surprise her?
How happy would she be to see both of her boys walking in together with flowers, balloons, jokes, and stories from the past?
And then—BOOM.
(You saw that coming, didn’t you?)
That was all it took.
I will never get to see my three sons walk toward me together carrying birthday flowers.
I will never hear all three of them joking with each other as they come through my door.
I will never have another birthday with all six of my children here.
Yes, I still have my other two boys.
Yes, I still have my three girls.
And I am incredibly grateful for every one of them.
But that does not change the space where Garet belongs.
That space was not filled.
It cannot be filled.
That hole is his.
It will always be his.
I Created a Whole Story About Two Strangers
Now, let me acknowledge something.
For all I know, those two men were not brothers at all.
Maybe they were friends.
Maybe one planter was for a wife and the other was for a sister.
Maybe they were coworkers who happened to be leaving the store at the same time.
I created an entire emotional situation by daydreaming about two strangers crossing in front of my car.
(I am shaking my head at myself even as I write that.)
But that is grief.
It can take the smallest thing and connect it to everything you lost.
I felt the tears coming, so I did what any sensible person would do.
I tried to focus on the radio.
Because music heals, right?
Except apparently the radio had other plans.
Air Supply came on singing “All Out of Love.”
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Yes, I know it is technically a love song.
I also know that chorus can sound one hundred percent like grief when your heart is already cracked open.
That is when the big tears started rolling.
Sometimes Quiet Kindness Is Enough
I did manage to pull myself together before I went into the tanning salon.
Mostly.
It was still pretty obvious that I had been crying.
Some of the girls there know parts of my story.
They have seen me on difficult days.
They have seen me on better days.
When I went to check in, one of the women looked into my eyes.
I saw the moment she remembered.
There was just a small flash of recognition.
Then she gave me a soft smile.
No questions.
No pressure.
She did not ask what was wrong.
She did not make me explain myself while I was trying to hold it together.
She simply understood that I was working through something.
I honestly appreciated that so much.
Sometimes people think they need to say something profound to a grieving person.
They do not.
Sometimes a gentle smile is enough.
Sometimes noticing without demanding an explanation is enough.
Sometimes letting us move through the moment without making it bigger is one of the kindest things you can do.
We Cannot Prepare for Every Trigger
The thing is, I woke up fine.
I laughed and talked with my daughter.
It was a beautiful morning.
I was simply driving to tan.
Then two men walked out of a store with flowers, and everything flipped.
Sometimes we know our triggers.
We know certain dates will be difficult.
We know birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, songs, or places may bring grief closer to the surface.
We can prepare for some of those.
But we cannot prepare for every single trigger.
How could I have known those men would cross in front of me?
How could I have known my mind would create that particular story?
How could I have known Air Supply was waiting on the radio to finish the job?
This morning was my perfect little grief storm.
Flowers.
Birthday balloons.
Brothers I invented in my mind.
A sad song.
Boom.
Sometimes the Trigger Makes Sense Later
I had another situation this past week that made me do some deeper digging.
A friend of mine took a couple of road trips during the same week.
That is their life.
Their decision.
Their trips had absolutely nothing to do with me.
Still, I felt something strange in my chest when I heard about them.
It was almost like a rock sitting there.
Something felt wrong, but I had no reason for it.
After the second trip, when I noticed the same feeling again, I realized I needed to stop and ask myself what was happening.
Why was this bothering me?
I have never lost someone during a road trip.
Thankfully, that is not part of my story.
So why was my body reacting?
Then I remembered.
Garet took a weekend trip.
I said goodbye to him on Friday night.
He came back late Sunday night/early Monday morning.
I was waiting to see him in the morning.
But he never woke up.
I never got to see him alive again.
There it was.
That was the connection.
My friend taking a trip did not mean anything bad was going to happen.
I knew that logically.
But something in me remembered waiting for Garet to come home.
Something remembered that he came home—but I still never got him back.
That was a new trigger.
Four and a half years later, I am still discovering pieces of this grief.
This Is All Part of the Process
That is what people need to understand.
Grief is not a straight line.
You do not learn all your triggers in the first year and then move neatly through life knowing exactly how to handle every moment.
New things appear.
A song you have heard a hundred times suddenly feels different.
A friend takes a trip.
Two strangers carry flowers across a parking lot.
A mother laughs with her sons.
Someone says a phrase your person used to say.
And suddenly your heart is standing in a place your body was not prepared to visit that day.
We cannot expect ourselves to know what to do before we are in the position to react.
Sometimes we respond well.
Sometimes we cry in the car.
Sometimes we change the radio station.
Sometimes we sit with the feeling until we understand where it came from.
Sometimes we do not understand it at all.
That does not mean we are failing.
It means we are human.
Grief Is Not Meant to Bother Anyone
People need to know that someone grieving is not trying to bother or annoy them.
We are not crying to make anyone uncomfortable.
We are not talking about our person because we want attention.
We are not having a difficult day because we are refusing to heal.
We are healing.
Sometimes healing may need to continue forever.
And that is okay.
As long as we are still living our lives, loving the people who are here, and honoring the people who are gone, we are not doing grief wrong.
There is no prize for pretending we no longer hurt.
There is no finish line where we finally stop missing someone we love.
There is no point when their place in our life suddenly becomes unimportant.
I Do Not Have It All Together
As a grieving mother and grief coach, I would love to say that after four and a half years, I have this all figured out.
I do not.
That would not be real for me.
I am not sure it would be real for anyone who has experienced a loss that changed the entire direction of their life.
I can have good days.
I can laugh.
I can enjoy my children.
I can make plans.
I can go to church, tan, write, help people, and live a full life.
And I can still cry because two strangers walked out of Giant Eagle holding birthday flowers.
Both things can be true.
I can be healing and still hurting.
I can be grateful and still grieving.
I can love the children who are here with everything in me and still ache for the son who is not.
One truth does not cancel out the other.
Some Losses Alter the Soul
So, no, I am not “over it.”
I will never be over loving my son.
I will never stop missing him.
I will never stop noticing the space where he should be.
What I can do is keep living.
I can allow the tears when they come.
I can look for the reason when something feels wrong.
I can be patient with myself when a new trigger appears.
I can appreciate the people who offer quiet kindness.
I can love my family.
I can laugh again after I cry.
I can keep carrying Garet with me.
Some losses are just more.
They alter your life.
They alter your heart.
They alter the person you see in the mirror.
They alter your soul.
Healing does not always mean the pain disappears.
Sometimes healing means you learn that when the pain suddenly returns, you can feel it without losing yourself completely.
You can cry in the car.
You can take a breath.
You can gather yourself.
And when you are ready, you can keep going.
Not because you are over it.
Because love is still here.
And so are you.
To the grieving person reading this: please be patient with yourself. A hard moment does not erase your progress. A trigger does not mean you are going backward. It means you loved deeply, and some part of that love was touched.
And to the people who love someone who is grieving: do not rush them, correct them, or remind them how much time has passed. Sit with them. Remember with them. Offer the soft smile, the warm hug, the quiet presence, the space to feel what they feel.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is simply let someone know they do not have to carry the moment alone.
Love
~Mandy
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