There are losses we can name easily - a death, a relationship ending. But some losses are far more complicated - such as the ones that happen while the person we love is still alive, but no longer part of our lives in the way they once were.

This kind of grief can be difficult to explain. There is no funeral, no final goodbye, and often no clear moment when the relationship changed. There may still be hope, unanswered questions, and the possibility that things might one day be different. And yet, the grief is real.

This is a theme I also explore in my upcoming book, What If This Is Grief?, particularly through ambiguous loss and disenfranchised grief. Not all grief follows a death, and not all losses are recognised or understood by those around us. Sometimes, we grieve a relationship that has changed, a future we once imagined, or someone who is still alive but no longer present in our lives in the way they once were.

If you’ve ever questioned whether what you feel is grief because it doesn’t look the way you believe grief should, I invite you to remember that there is no single way to grieve.

Today, I’m especially honoured to share Janelle Martin’s story. Janelle and I first met last year when we became part of a group of ten women who came together to write Rising Above: Stories of Overcoming. My story opens the book, and Janelle’s story of family estrangement closes it. I remember finishing her story with tears in my eyes. It stayed with me.

Since then, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know Janelle, and I’m so grateful that our paths crossed. Her story is a powerful reminder that sometimes the deepest grief comes from a love that remains.

I’m deeply grateful to Janelle for trusting me with her story and for allowing me to share it here. If you’ve ever carried a loss that was difficult to explain, I hope her words remind you that you are not alone.

And if her story speaks to you, I’d love to hear from you.

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‘A Grief Without Goodbye: Loving a Child Lost to Parental Alienation’ by Janelle Martin

Grief Story #027

When Katy so graciously invited me to share my grief story, I didn’t hesitate to accept.
But sitting down to write it, I realized - grief isn’t just a story. It’s something I carry with me, quietly, constantly. It lives in me. And when I sit with it, allow it room to rise to the surface, it washes over me again - fresh and piercing. The wound isn’t as deep now, and it doesn’t bleed as long. But it’s still there. Always.

Both of my children are victims of parental alienation. Their father and I divorced when they were just 3 and 5 years old, largely due to his angry, controlling behavior toward me. At the time, they were too young to understand what was happening, but I knew something had to change. I was losing myself in that marriage, and I made a promise: that my daughter - just a toddler - would never grow up believing that kind of relationship was normal.

Years later, when I remarried and a new, stable love entered our lives, my ex-husband
began what I can only describe as a quiet campaign to destroy me. And his most potent weapon? Our children.

Parental alienation is a slow erosion. It’s when one parent - through manipulation, lies, and emotional coercion - turns a child against the other parent. Often, it leads to estrangement, or even total cutoff. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s far more common than most people realize. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone - not even on the man who inflicted it on me. The same man I was once married to for twelve years. The father of my children.

The damage he caused was real, and it manifested differently in each child. My daughter - fierce and emotionally intuitive - was less easily manipulated, but the tension, the confusion, and the underlying loyalty conflict tore her apart inside. Over time, that internal chaos laid the groundwork for depression, suicide attempts, and drug addiction during her teenage years.

My son, older and eager for his father’s approval, was more vulnerable. Especially after
his dad moved out of state when he was just ten. His longing to feel close to his dad made him susceptible to the lies - about me, about the divorce, about whose fault it all was. His dad played the role of the “fun parent” with ease, never bothering with the responsibilities of parenting, but always ready with sympathy when my son got in trouble. It was a calculated contrast. And it worked.

By the time my son graduated from high school, he was bitter. Angry at his stepdad.
Emotionally abusive toward his sister. Detached from me. He moved in with his dad the day after his graduation - a ceremony his dad didn’t even attend. Within a month, he cut off all contact with me. No explanation. No goodbye. And for a long time, I told myself it wouldn’t last.

That was nine years ago. The road since has been long and difficult, to say the least. At
first, I waited, believing he just needed space - that he would come around. Maybe he just needed time to figure things out. He was still a teenager, after all.

But when his eighteenth birthday came and went with no contact, my heart began to
worry. Something deeper was happening. And when I realized I was blocked from reaching him altogether, the full weight of my grief landed. That was the moment my grief journey truly began.

My daughter was still at home then, and she too felt the ache of his absence, even after
the turbulence that had defined their relationship in the final years before he left. They
maintained occasional contact, but the closeness they’d once shared - the bond that had defined their childhood - was gone.

I tried to focus on her, on my work, on what was still good and steady in my life - exercise, friendships, church. It helped, to a degree. But inside, I was unraveling. I got up every day, painted on a smile, and showed up for life. No one knew how hard that was. Most days, I cried all the way to my office... and all the way home again. I cried out to God, pleading with Him never to leave me.

The song “Hold On” by Selah became my anthem. I played it on repeat in the car, as if
sheer repetition could write it on my soul: Weeping may endure for the night, but if you trust in Jesus, everything’s gonna be alright. Just hold on... a little while longer. I needed those words to be true. I clung to them. I would lie in bed at night, tears soaking my pillow, and picture myself holding onto the hem of Jesus’s robe - begging Him to hold onto me, too.

During quiet hours at work, I buried myself in online Bible studies by Melissa Radke,
Beth Moore, Jen Wilkin, and others. Their words became a lifeline. My spirit slowly began to heal. My faith grew stronger - stronger, perhaps, than it could have ever become without this loss. And unknowingly, I was building a foundation I would soon need... just a year later, when I discovered my daughter’s drug use.

In time, the grief softened, reshaped by the light of truth and grace. I started to let go of the pain that had kept me tethered. I focused less on the brokenness and more on forgiveness. The song “Losing” by Tenth Avenue North helped guide me: Father, won’t you forgive them? They don’t know what they’ve been doing. Father, give me grace to forgive them, ‘Cause I feel like the one losing.

Music, especially songs that gave voice to my unspoken pain, was a powerful outlet.
Through singing, sobbing, or simply letting the melodies wash over me, I found release. Slowly, the hurt made space for healing. It made space for Jesus.

I miss my boy deeply. He's 28 now, married, and living in another state. I wasn't invited to attend his wedding - a painful reminder of the distance that still exists between us. We've had brief moments of reconnection - fleeting but meaningful. And I hold tightly to those moments, however short-lived they were. Jesus is the great Restorer. I still believe that. All of my hope remains rooted in Him.

Grief Story Janelle Martin.

Friend, have you ever experienced the grief of someone who is still alive but no longer part of your life in the way you once hoped? What has been hardest about carrying a loss that has no clear ending or resolution? If someone you love is distant, estranged, or no longer able to be part of your life as you hoped, what do you want to say to them - or what do you wish you could say?

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Janelle Martin is a writer, speaker, and licensed therapist who specializes in supporting families affected by addiction. Her own journey as a mother navigating grief, parental alienation, and her daughter’s addiction has shaped her mission to bring hope, healing, and connection to others walking similar paths.

She is the author of Losing Her, Finding Us and founder of The Mind Connection, a holistic mental wellness practice in Texas. Janelle is passionate about faith, family, and storytelling that honors both struggle and restoration. She lives with her husband,
two beloved dogs, and remains anchored in hope for continued healing.

You can find more about Janelle and her work on her author website, ourbeautifulrecovery.com, or her professional website, tmcbrainhealthcenter.com. You can also follow Janelle on Facebook and Instagram. You can also follow her accounts on Facebook and Instagram, or connect with her professional work on Facebook and Instagram.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Instagram Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Wednesday 2nd September at 10 am CDT / 4 pm BST (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Lea Turner for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Lea is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about the subtle grief that comes from life taking an unexpected turn.

Wednesday 2nd September

Instagram Live

10 am CDT / 4 pm BST (UK)

If you have any questions for Lea, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

No two experiences of grief are ever the same. Although we often think of grief as sadness, it can encompass a whole spectrum of emotions. One moment may be filled with longing or anger, the next with guilt, relief, confusion, or even an unexpected smile sparked by a cherished memory.

This is a theme I also explore in my upcoming book, What If This Is Grief?, where I invite readers to move beyond the idea of grief as a series of stages and instead embrace it as a deeply personal experience shaped by love, loss, and the unique circumstances of each person’s life.

My heart is with everyone who has ever questioned their emotional response to loss or wondered whether they were grieving “the right way.” There is no single way to grieve, and every feeling that emerges deserves compassion rather than judgment.

In today’s Grief Stories, Angie Hanson shares the devastating experience of losing her son, husband, and brother within just two and a half years. Through remarkable honesty and vulnerability, she reflects on how each loss brought its own emotional landscape, offering a powerful reminder that our feelings after loss are as individual as the relationships we mourn.

If Angie’s story resonates with you, I invite you to sit gently with it. You’re welcome to share your thoughts in the comments, or simply read and reflect in your own time.

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‘The Many Faces of Grief: A Journey Through Emotion’ by Angie Hanson

Grief Story #026

Grief is often painted as sadness - a quiet, tear-streaked sorrow that settles in the heart like a heavy stone. And yes, grief is sadness, but it’s also so much more. It’s anger, guilt, relief, numbness, longing, confusion, and even moments of unexpected laughter. It shapeshifts, slipping through the cracks of our everyday lives in ways we never anticipate.

I’ve walked this road more times than I ever imagined I would. I’ve lost my son, my husband, my brother - three of the most important people in my life - all within a span of 2.5 years. Grief didn’t knock politely at my door; it crashed into my life like a wrecking ball, leaving me gasping for air. And yet, through each loss, I found myself experiencing a different storm of emotions, each one demanding to be felt in its own way.

Anger: The Uninvited Guest

No one told me how much anger could be a part of grief. It wasn’t just sadness I felt when my son, Garret, died - it was rage - anger at the universe, at God, at the unfairness of it all. I was angry that the world kept turning while mine had shattered. I was angry at people who said, “Everything happens for a reason.” As if there could ever be a reason good enough to justify losing my child.

And then, when my husband, Jack, was diagnosed with cancer, that anger flared up again. But this time, it had a different edge. I was angry at his body for betraying him, at the doctors for not having better answers, at myself for not being able to stop what was coming. Anger is exhausting, but in some ways, it was easier to feel than the crushing sadness lurking beneath it.

Then came the loss of my brother. A different kind of anger settled in, one I wasn’t prepared for. This time, it was anger at how grief seemed relentless in my life - how it kept coming, wave after wave, taking the people I loved. I was mad at how unfair it was, how cruel it felt to endure another devastating loss before I had even begun to comprehend the others. I was angry at the circumstances surrounding his passing, the things left unsaid, the way life just kept throwing punches when I was already down.

If you’ve ever felt this kind of anger in your grief, know this: you’re not wrong for feeling it. It’s not a sign of weakness, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t grieving “the right way” (whatever that means). Grief makes you angry in ways you don’t expect. But I’ve learned that anger is just love with nowhere to go. It’s the fight inside us that refuses to accept what is. And sometimes, it’s what gets us through the hardest days.

Guilt: The Shadows That Linger

Guilt is a cruel companion to grief. It whispers in your ear at 2 am, making you question every decision, every word left unspoken. When Jack passed, I felt guilty for the times I lost patience, for the moments I wasn’t strong enough to hold both of us together. When Garret died, I tortured myself with what-ifs - what if I had done something differently? What if I had seen some sign, some warning?

Even now, guilt sneaks in when I catch myself laughing, when I find joy in something new. The guilt of moving forward, of building a life after loss, is something no one prepares you for.

If you’re feeling this too, try this: When guilt creeps in, ask yourself - what would they want for me? Would they want me to stay frozen in time, or would they want me to find moments of light again? I like to think my son, my husband, and my brother are all cheering me on, hoping I embrace every bit of life I have left.

Relief: The Emotion No One Talks About

This one feels like a dirty secret, but it’s real. When Jack’s battle with cancer came to an end, a small part of me felt relief. Not because I wanted to lose him - I would have given anything for a different outcome - but because I saw how much pain he was in.

Relief doesn’t cancel out love. It doesn’t mean you wished them gone. It just means you loved them enough to want their suffering to stop. If you’ve felt this, please know you are not alone. This doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

The Missing Link: A Void in the Family

Grief rearranges the family in ways no one talks about. When my brother died, it was as if a link in the chain that held us together had snapped. We were still a family, still connected, but there was an empty space where he once stood.

With the loss of my son and husband, grief had already torn through my world. But losing my brother felt different. It was losing a piece of my past, a piece of my identity, someone who had been part of my story since childhood. Who else remembers the inside jokes, the childhood adventures, the family traditions quite the way he did?

Siblings hold a unique space in our lives - they are our first friends, our lifelong witnesses. And when they’re gone, the shape of our family shifts in a way that’s hard to explain. If you’ve lost a sibling, I see you. It’s a different kind of grief, but no less deep, no less worthy of being spoken about.

Finding Light in the Darkness

Grief is not linear. It doesn’t come in neat stages that we check off like a to-do list. It’s messy and unpredictable. Some days, I feel strong. Other days, I crumble. And that’s okay.

What I’ve Learned About Grief:

● Every emotion is valid. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve.

● Grief doesn’t follow a timeline - don’t rush yourself.

● Finding joy again isn’t betrayal. It’s proof that love never leaves.

● Talking about grief doesn’t make it worse. Silence does.

So, if you’re grieving - whether it’s been days, months, or years - know this: Whatever you’re feeling is valid. Anger, guilt, relief, numbness, longing... it’s all part of love’s aftermath. And you don’t have to carry it alone.

We grieve because we love. And love, even in loss, is never wasted.

Grief Story by Angie Hanson

Friend, have you ever experienced an emotion in grief that surprised you? Which part of your grief has felt the hardest to put into words? And what do you wish more people understood about the many faces of grief?

Leave a comment

Angie Hanson is a grief educator, certified grief coach, and author of Chapters of a Resilient Heart. After enduring multiple heartbreaking losses, she founded Butterflies + Halos, a grief-focused stationery and support brand. Angie is passionate about helping others navigate loss with grace, grit, and hope through her writing, coaching, and speaking.

Sometimes loss doesn’t end when we survive something - it begins there in ways we don’t immediately recognise.

When life continues, when no funeral is held, and when others move on believing “no one died,” it can become difficult to name what we are actually carrying. And yet, grief has many forms. Sometimes it arrives not as a single loss, but as a life quietly reshaped by trauma.

June is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) Awareness Month, and this story feels particularly meaningful to share at this time.

After my own accident - a moment that split life into ‘before’ and ‘after’ - I also learned that survival does not mean the absence of grief. It took time to understand that what I was experiencing was not just recovery, but mourning: for my health, my identity, my career, and the future I had once imagined.

This is a theme I explore in my upcoming book, What If This Is Grief?, where I look at how grief often appears without death - in trauma, illness, identity shifts, and the quiet losses that can be difficult to name or explain.

My heart is with anyone who asks, “What I feel can’t be grief…can it?” just like Catherine Hannah. Today, I’m honoured to share her story, a powerful reminder that grief after surviving trauma is often invisible, unspoken, and unrecognised, though no less real.

In today’s Grief Stories, Catherine shares a deeply personal account of surviving a road traffic collision where, thankfully, no lives were lost - and yet everything changed. Her story sits in that difficult space where trauma and grief overlap, and where words can sometimes struggle to fully capture lived experience.

She first shared her experience with us in my PTSD: My Story Project over a year ago, and today she returns to share this deeper reflection through Grief Stories.

Her writing is a powerful reminder that grief may not always be visible, or validated by others, but it’s still real. And naming it can become part of the healing.

If this story resonates with you, I invite you to sit gently with it. You are welcome to share your thoughts in the comments, or simply read and reflect in your own time.

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‘When Grief Has No Name’ by Catherine Hannah

Grief Story #025

Once upon a grey day in May 2020, two vehicles collided when one driver decided not to stop at an intersection. Three people were injured, but -thankfully- no one died. So what I feel can’t be grief... can it?

As an early years educational leader and teacher-in-training, I placed value in supporting young children to name their emotions. Doing so helps the overstimulated individual to take a step back, thus encouraging emotional self-regulation. I suppose it’s similar to when I was an au pair - I would invite the children to name any spider we found around the house before releasing it outside. It’s harder to be scared of a huge hairy Huntsman once you’ve named it Wesley.

Lying in the hospital bed in my neck collar, I suppose I felt shock. Finding out that this particular injury is known as the Hangman’s Fracture - as the C2 vertebra is the one the executioner is aiming to break - compounded this. Later, when I would flinch and cry in the passenger seat whenever another car approached an intersection, I knew that was fear (I was diagnosed with PTSD three months post-crash). And in the months/years that followed, I could name the frustration I felt over word-finding difficulties, memory problems, dizziness and crippling fatigue; the result of a traumatic brain injury (now called Post Concussion Syndrome).

There was anger too, at having to give up my career as a result of my persistent symptoms; loneliness due to my reduced mobility; the physical pain; and a sense of injustice that none of this was my fault. There was something else too, but I just couldn’t identify it.

I tried to make sense of these emotions through journaling, but I found the practice too confronting. Then, a year after the crash, I wrote a poem. I found that by treating a challenging feeling as a project, I could take a step back, concentrating on structure and rhythm, perhaps rhyme. Then I could reread it and feel that same emotion, but this time - in an organised way - that made sense. I soon had quite a collection and began to wonder if my poems could help others as much as they had helped me. The Ballad of the Bunny and Other Poems: The Diary of a Car Crash and Beyond was published in February 2024.

It wasn’t until after this that something clicked - the process of understanding a feeling through writing a poem was similar to the process of taking a step back to name an emotion. Perhaps poetry could help me identify that niggling sensation?

Gradually, I began to understand that what I was feeling was, in fact, grief. I was grieving for the past I would never get back and the future that would never come to be. My previously active and social lifestyle has been defeated by my post-concussion exercise intolerance and the cognitive fatigue that accompanies conversation. The teacher I wanted to be for so long is gone - an early years classroom is no place for one whose symptoms are triggered by simultaneous sounds and unpredictable movement. My symptoms have also answered the question of parenthood. Even if I recover significantly in the next few years, I’m approaching forty. It would have been nice to have made that choice with my husband, rather than have it made for me by a stranger back in 2020.

The concept of choice has been a significant part of my experience. For so long, it felt as though I had no control. Recognising that I needed time to grieve has helped me to understand that I can’t change what happened, but I can choose what to do next - an understanding that we can only embrace in our own time. For me, that has meant finally saying a dignified farewell to the early childhood profession and instead following the fulfilment I’ve found in writing into a career. I’m actually really excited about it! I am continuing to explore the concept of poetry for healing as I truly believe in its value as a writer and reader.

I wrote The Life of Sir Dunstan Pigglesworth initially as a poem to comfort my sister following the death of her pet pig. Fast forward to January 2025, and Dunstan is now published with my own illustrations to support families in holding grief - death can be difficult to talk about, so I hope this book will help start conversations. Dusted with gentle humour as well as sadness (and all the other emotions grief invokes) I wanted it to be a positive experience for all ages and leave readers with a sense of the love that we will always have for those we grieve for.

Grief is both universal and unique. However, whilst I learn to move on, the bereaved of loved ones learn to expand their hearts to make room for the grief that will always be there. This is where our experiences differ. Over the last couple of years, I’ve watched impotently as those dear to me have lost sisters, fathers, children, mothers, best friends. This is why I wanted to take part in Grief Stories; not only to share a less documented manifestation of grief, but to help raise the profile of those mourning a gap that will never be filled. There is comfort to be found in shared experience.

I wish you all the best in navigating your grief.

Grief Story by Catherine Hannah

Friend, have you ever experienced a loss that others didn’t recognise as grief — because “no one died”? Where might grief be showing up in your life in quieter or less obvious ways? Is there something in your own experience that feels easier to hold once it has a name?

Leave a comment

Catherine Hannah is a poet, author-illustrator, and road safety advocate. Catherine was working and studying in childcare when she sustained life changing injuries in a car crash.

Catherine turned to poetry to make sense of her new life. She published her book, The Ballad of the Bunny and Other Poems: The Diary of a Car Crash and Beyond, as a way to reach others living with road trauma. She has also written/illustrated a rhyming picture book, The Life of Sir Dunstan Pigglesworth, to support families through grief.

Connect with Catherine on her website or Facebook and Instagram pages.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Instagram Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Friday 19th June at 10 am CDT / 4 pm BST (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Kathy Dye for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Kathy is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about the loss of a parent to Alzheimer's and processing layered living losses.

Friday 19th June

Instagram Live

10 am CDT / 4 pm BST (UK)

If you have any questions for Kathy, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

May holds particular meaning for me. It’s Mother’s Day in many countries around the world, including my birth country, a day when motherhood is publicly honoured. It also marks two years since I began my Grief Stories series, created on Mother’s Day in honour of my mum to hold the quieter, often unspoken experiences of loss and love. Returning to the present, I find myself reflecting not only on grief, but on motherhood itself - and all that it can hold beyond what is usually spoken.

Motherhood is often held up as something universally joyful - a beginning wrapped in celebration, love, and instinctive connection. But for many mothers, the lived experience can feel far more layered. It can hold beauty and grief in the same breath, love and uncertainty in the same moment, and the unknown where there was once an expectation of certainty.

In that spirit, this feature turns toward motherhood from the mother’s perspective - the emotional reality beneath early motherhood, where expectation and experience do not always meet, and where silence can feel heavy.

If you are reading this and have ever questioned your experience of becoming a mother, there is no correct way to feel. Your experience is valid, even when it is complicated. Today, I’m honoured to share Ivana’s story.

In this Grief Stories feature, Ivana Poku opens up about her experience of severe postnatal depression following the birth of her twin boys. She shares the slow unfolding of struggle during early motherhood, the weight of unspoken expectations, and how transformative it can be when the silence is finally broken.

I’m deeply grateful to Ivana for her honesty and vulnerability. Her story sits within a wider conversation about motherhood that includes not only celebration, but also emotional truths that are often left unspoken.

As this piece is shared in May, marking both Mother’s Day and two years of Grief Stories, it feels like a continuation of the same intention: to give space to what is often felt, but not always said.

If this story resonates with you, I hope it offers recognition - and a reminder that you are not alone in what you carry. And if her words speak to you, I’d love to hear from you.

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‘My Honest Postnatal Depression Story’ by Ivana Poku

Grief Story #024

I feel incredibly lucky and grateful for my wonderful family. But I didn’t always feel this way. The beginning of my motherhood journey - also known as the postpartum or postnatal period - was nothing short of traumatic.

In the first months of being a new mum, I suffered from severe postnatal depression (PPD/PND). It was the loneliest and most terrifying experience of my life - one I wouldn’t wish on any new mother. Yet, it all began so quietly, so unassumingly.

My boys were born via emergency C-section, and I couldn’t wait to meet them. I had been told about the overwhelming rush of love that was supposed to wash over me the moment I laid eyes on them. But when that moment came, my reality shattered my expectations.

No rush of love. No fireworks. I felt nothing special. In that instant, I became convinced that I was a failure - a terrible mother. From that day forward, every experience only deepened my sense of inadequacy.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel like a mother. The boys wouldn’t latch onto my breasts. I didn’t love them the way I thought I “should.” At times, I even regretted having children.

The weight of it all was unbearable. It wasn’t long before I convinced myself that my family would be better off without me. I was certain that every other mother was enjoying motherhood - except me. I felt utterly useless.

There were moments when I wished I were dead. The only person I confided in was my husband. He urged me to talk to my family, to seek help. Eventually, I did - but even then, taking antidepressants made me feel like even more of a failure. So I didn’t take them regularly.

To the outside world, I seemed fine. But inside, I was falling apart. I wanted my old life back. I saw no point in anything anymore. And then, after eight months of silent suffering, I hit rock bottom.

The Day Everything Changed

It started like any other day. My husband left for work, and I was home alone with the boys. A friend was coming to visit, but I had a few minutes to spare. I sat down with Henry on my lap, playing with him. And then, out of nowhere, an urge to hurt him surged through me. I was horrified. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t misbehaving. He was smiling. But something dark took over me, and I felt completely powerless against it. I was terrified. More terrified than I had ever been in my life.

Panicking, I strapped both boys into their bouncers, ran to my bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I collapsed onto the bed, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. I felt like I was losing my mind. I wanted it all to stop, but I couldn’t see a way out. I felt trapped. Hopeless. Empty.

I called my husband in tears. He wanted to come home immediately, but I told him not to - I knew my friend Lenka was arriving soon, and at that point, I didn’t care if she saw me like this.

When she arrived, I was still crying. And for the first time, I let it all out. I told her everything. How lonely and desperate I felt. How I saw no way out. How I thought my boys deserved a better mother. That conversation changed everything.

Once I started talking to someone else other than my husband, a massive weight lifted off my shoulders. Hours and hours of truth spilling out, layer by layer.

Lenka listened. She didn’t judge. Even though she didn’t have children yet, she was kind, supportive, and understanding. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so alone. I couldn’t believe I had suffered in silence for so long.

Talking Was the Best Medicine

From that day on, I started opening up to more people - even strangers. And to my surprise, many mums admitted they felt the same way. They had just been too scared to talk about it.

Gradually, I started taking my antidepressants properly, and they helped me function and heal. Over time, my love for my boys grew naturally. And finally, I started to enjoy motherhood the way I had always hoped I would.

It took time. It took tears. But I made it through. And now, I am on a mission to help other mums so they never have to feel as lost as I did.

Unrealistic Expectations Are the Root of the Problem

I truly believe that one of the main reasons new mums struggle - even if they don’t develop depression - is the lack of knowledge about what life after birth is really like, and that as a new mum, you GRIEVE the old version of yourself that you will never get back. It’s a normal and natural process.

Prenatal and antenatal classes focus primarily on childbirth and provide little to no information about postnatal mental health or the emotional challenges of motherhood. Meanwhile, society and the media paint an illusion that new mums should feel nothing but bliss and gratitude from the moment their baby arrives. But when happiness doesn’t come, mums feel like failures. And that feeling of failure can spiral into postnatal depression.

We Must Break the Silence

If we stop pretending and start speaking honestly about the realities of motherhood, we can break the stigma surrounding postnatal mental health. We can help new mums feel prepared, supported, and less alone. We can reduce the risk of postnatal depression.

This is why I share my story. This is why I fight for mums to be heard. So that no new mum has to struggle in silence again. Ever.

Grief Story by Ivana Poku

Friend, have you ever experienced grief for a version of yourself after becoming a parent? Why do you think so many mothers suffer in silence? And what do you wish more people understood about postnatal depression?

Leave a comment

Ivana Poku is a mum of three - including twins, founder of Mumsjourney, award-winning postnatal mental health advocate & mentor, and author of Motherhood - The Unspoken, who is on a mission to create a world where mums don’t struggle in silence.

You can connect with Ivana on Instagram or Facebook.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Thursday 28th May at 1 pm EDT / 6 pm BST (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Janice Lombardo for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Janice is a Grief Stories contributor - she was the first one sharing her story two years ago, and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about the loss of a parent and the most important self-care in grief.

Thursday 28th May

Facebook Live

1 pm EDT / 6 pm BST (UK)

If you have any questions for Janice, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

Grief has a way of challenging what we think we understand about love. It rarely arrives where we expect it, and it doesn’t follow rules that others can easily recognise. Sometimes, it asks us to sit with emotions we can’t quite explain - even to ourselves.

While writing What If This Is Grief?, I’ve found myself drawn to the quieter forms of grief - the ones that often go unspoken. These are the losses that feel deeply personal, yet difficult to share. In those moments, grief can feel especially isolating. Not because the connection wasn’t important, but because sometimes they aren’t always acknowledged in the same way.

I’ve come to know this kind of grief in my own life. After my accident, I lost my health, my work, and the life I had been building towards. I remember questioning why the loss felt so overwhelming. But grief doesn’t need to justify itself. It reflects the depth of what we’ve lost - and the love that once filled that space.

Wherever you are in your own experience of grief, and whatever loss you may be carrying, I want to gently remind you of this: your grief is valid. It doesn’t need to be explained or compared to be real. And while the intensity of pain may shift over time, loss has a way of reshaping us. If you’ve ever questioned whether your feelings matter, you’re not alone. Today, I’m honoured to share Gillian’s story.

In this Grief Stories feature, Gillian de Silva opens up about pet loss - a form of grief that is often quietly held, and sometimes misunderstood. The love we have for animals is not lesser; it is simply different. And when they leave us, the space they occupied does not easily close.

If you have experienced the loss of a beloved animal and felt unseen in your grief, I hope this reminds you: your grief is a reflection of your love, and that love matters.

I’m deeply grateful to Gillian for her honesty and vulnerability. Her story is a powerful reminder that no form of grief is insignificant, and that even the most unspoken losses deserve space.

If you’ve ever loved and lost a pet, this story may resonate more than you expect. And if it does, I’d love to hear from you.

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‘The Loss of a Pet “Hamish”’ by Gillian de Silva

Grief Story #024

Many people experience terrible feelings of loss when their beloved pet dies, but don’t like to discuss it. They feel guilty that the death of a human being is much more important. They cannot express their emotions to others because of the thought that animals are less important than people. Therefore, it follows that their grief is also less important.

Importance isn’t relevant in such a situation. I am a Christian and am totally committed to the sanctity of Human life, so when I lost my pony, Hamish, I was confused by the depth of my emotions. I had this adorable Highland Pony for 30 years, and he was 38 when he passed away. I loved that pony with an indescribable love. I didn’t love him more or less than family and friends, but differently.

When I had a deeply personal problem, I shared it with Hamish. When life overwhelmed me, I cried into his mane. I hugged him, I kissed him, and when he was younger, I rode him for hours through the woods, across fields, and galloped him up hills. He was my best friend and also my therapist.

One early Spring morning last year, Hamish had a stroke in the field and died. I was distraught, and as he lay there, I threw myself on him and called out, “Stay with me, please stay. “ I was beyond comfort, and nobody could cope with my anguish.

As I write this, tears are welling up. I still have not yet come to terms with my grief. He was old. He had to leave me. I know these things, but there is no logic in my emotions, and as I cannot rationalise them, I cannot deal with the grief that overwhelms me when I remember that day.

Of course, it isn’t all the time, and I think that I am coping better now, but it is true to say that my heart is still broken. For those who have lost pets, I understand completely how you are feeling then, at the passing, and later on in your journey towards healing.

The day after he went, I wrote this poem: Perfect.

I would like to say that writing these words helped me because poetry allows us to delve into our deepest emotions, and there is healing in this. It also helped me accept the fact that death is a natural process and that I could not have cared for him more or better. These thoughts helped me then and help me now.

If you feel like me, please remember that “time is (indeed) the great healer”, but we don’t always know how long that time will be.

Inevitably, though, I believe my longing for him will gradually settle into a peaceful memory, and as I said in my poem, “a gentle sadness.” I will laugh at his unique character and share moments with my dear horsy friend. We already smile and gain comfort (she also lost her horse) from sharing our past adventures, as we rode out frequently together, and I know the pain will lessen. These memories will be a unique source of comfort to me.

Grief Story by Gillian de Silva

Friend, have you ever experienced a loss that others didn’t fully understand - and what did that love mean to you? If you’ve ever loved and lost an animal, what is one memory that still stays with you?

Leave a comment

Gillian de Silva is a mother of 3, a grandmother of 3 , a retired teacher , invigilator and poet who is also writing a children’s story. She is a Christian which is the most important part of her life. She writes poetry about deeply important moments in her life, the loss of her horse being one of them. Writing helped her come to terms with her grief after her pony died.

Gillian loves gardening, nature and animals. She lives in West Sussex, England, with her husband and 2 dogs and is sharing her thoughts and poetry on Substack.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Instagram Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Tuesday 28th april at 12 pm EDT / 5 pm BST (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Judy Lipson for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Judy is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about sibling loss and about the struggles of the forgotten grievers - siblings.

Tuesday 28th April

Instagram Live

12 pm EDT / 5 pm BST (UK)

If you have any questions for Judy, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

Welcome to the Grief Stories community! I hope you find this to be a welcoming place where you’ll be able to share experiences, get things off your chest, support one another, ask questions, and chat to people who truly ‘get it’. I invite you to read and share stories of hope and healing; giving a voice to loss and grief. This is a safe place helping us to feel less alone on our journey and providing comfort in hard times.

The more I sit with grief, the more I see one truth emerge: it doesn’t just change the trajectory of our lives, it changes us.

Recently, in a conversation with Linda Henderson, who previously shared her story in the Grief Stories series, I was reminded that while grief reshapes us, it also holds the potential to transform us. Not by erasing the pain, but by deepening our compassion, our understanding, and our connection to others.

I know this to be true in my own life. I see people differently now. I understand grief in a way I never could before I lived it. And perhaps that’s why I’ve been able to turn my pain into purpose. The pain doesn’t disappear - but having a “why” gives it direction. It becomes a quiet strength that allows me to move forward while still honouring my losses.

This month marks my mum’s heaveniversary, and I find myself reflecting on how much loss has shaped me. I’m not who I was fourteen years ago, nor am I the person I was before my accident five years ago. Each experience has left its mark. And while my life looks different from what I once imagined, I’ve found meaning through what I’ve lived.

I don’t know where you are in your grief journey, but I want to gently remind you of this: while no one can take your pain away, it won’t always feel this heavy. And although it may soften, your life will never look the same again - and neither will you.

If you’ve ever questioned who you are after loss, you are not alone, and today, I’m honoured to share Sharna’s story.

In this Grief Stories feature, Sharna Southan bravely opens up about pregnancy loss - a form of grief many carry quietly, often unseen, unacknowledged, and misunderstood. Through her experience, she has created space for others to feel validated, heard, and supported in their healing.

I’m deeply grateful to Sharna for her courage and vulnerability. Her story is not only about loss, but about identity, healing, and the possibility of finding light in the aftermath.

If you’ve ever carried grief in silence, this story may resonate more than you expect. And if her words speak to you, I’d love to hear from you.

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‘A Journey Through Loss, Healing, and Purpose’ by Sharna Southan

Grief Story #023

When I experienced pregnancy loss, it shook the very foundation of who I thought I was, what my capabilities were as a woman & what it meant for my future as a mum.

It wasn’t just the loss of my baby - it felt like a loss of myself. My sense of identity, purpose, and everything I believed to be true came into question. Why was I here? What was the point of all this?

Grief consumed me, but I had no idea how to express it. The silence around pregnancy loss was deafening. I felt isolated, despite having a supportive family. Nobody really knew how to help me navigate the weight of my loss.

To make things harder, my experience was traumatic in ways I didn’t fully understand until years later. It wasn’t until I began my healing journey that I recognised it as trauma - big T and little t trauma - something society rarely acknowledges when it comes to pregnancy loss. For me, life became a clear “before and after” my loss. It changed me to my core.

Finding Purpose Through Pain

The stigma surrounding pregnancy loss was something I couldn’t ignore. I began to share my story, not just to be heard but to educate others on how to support someone going through it. I realised so many women wanted to use their own experiences to create meaningful support for others, and that inspired me to do the same. My work became rooted in using my grief as a foundation to educate, advocate, and empower.

The Challenges of Healing

The silence was the hardest part. Society tells us to move on, to get over it, to go on with life as though nothing happened. Don’t cry. Don’t break down. Don’t make others uncomfortable. But I chose to do the opposite - I got loud. I started talking about my grief and my baby.

I told my story, and when I did, others felt permission to share theirs, too. In that, I found a spark of purpose: if I could help even one woman feel less alone, it would be worth it.

I also learned that healing isn’t linear. Some days felt impossible, like the weight of it all would crush me. But I was determined to heal. I gave myself permission to sit with the bigness of it all, to let it feel as consuming as it needed to be. Slowly, the weight began to lift. It didn’t happen all at once, but over time, I started to notice a shift.

Why This Matters

By sharing my story, I hope to normalise conversations about pregnancy loss and grief. I want to create a world where future generations feel safe expressing their emotions and sharing their experiences.

I also want to remind anyone reading this that their pain is valid. It’s okay to feel like it’s too much. It’s okay to feel consumed. But know this: it won’t last forever.

If you’re determined to move through it, healing is possible. One day, the heaviness will begin to lighten. And when it does, you’ll realize just how strong you truly are.

The Message I Wish I’d Heard

If I could go back to my darkest moments, I’d tell myself this:

It won’t always feel this way. You won’t feel like this forever. I know it’s consuming right now, and it’s so dark you can’t see a way out. But hold on. Breathe. If you’re willing to lean into the pain and determined to heal, you’ll make it through. One day, the weight will lift - even if you don’t notice it at first.

And if it feels big, it’s because it is big. Allow yourself to feel it all. Don’t let anyone dismiss what you’re experiencing or tell you how you should feel. Your grief is valid, and your healing is your own.

Moving Forward

For me, the healing came when I started to use my experience to make a difference.

I began advocating for better support, creating certifications for pregnancy loss practitioners, and mentoring women who wanted to make an impact in this space.

Together, by sharing our stories, we can start to break the silence around grief. We can create spaces of compassion, support, and understanding. And we can show the world that even in the darkest moments, there is light to be found.

Grief Story by Sharna Southan

Friend, have you ever experienced a loss that made you question who you are or your sense of purpose? Have you ever felt alone in your grief, even when others were around you? If you could say something to yourself in your hardest moment, what would it be?

Leave a comment

After losing her father at 19, Sharna Southan was introduced to grief long before she understood how to navigate it. Years later, a missed miscarriage at seven weeks brought another devastating loss and revealed how isolating pregnancy loss can be.

The lack of support she experienced inspired her to create change. She became a trauma-informed coach and developed specialised Pregnancy Loss certifications to equip healers, coaches, and practitioners with the tools to better support grieving women. Today, she mentors professionals to build impactful businesses supporting pregnancy loss and is committed to creating a network where women feel validated, heard, and understood in their grief.

Sharna has shared her story on the panel at the Australian Fertility Summit and has been recognised in the Australian Women’s Small Business Champion Awards and the Australian Mumpreneur Awards.

Outside of her work, she is home-schooling her rainbow daughter, enjoying life by the ocean with her husband, and dreaming of travelling Australia in a motorhome as a family.

You can connect with Sharna on Instagram or her website sharnasouthan.com and listen to her podcast ‘What I Wish I Knew About Pregnancy Loss’ here.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Instagram Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Tuesday 24th March at 1 pm EDT / 5 pm GMT (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Hadassah Treu for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Hadassah is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about how not only survive, but also thrive after loss - one day at a time.

Tuesday 24th March

Instagram Live

1 pm EDT / 5 pm GMT (UK)

If you have any questions for Hadassah, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

As I write my upcoming book about invisible losses and unrecognised grief, one theme keeps rising to the surface: loss doesn’t just break our hearts - it reshapes our identity. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes all at once.

When I look back over my life, I can see that it didn’t unfold in neat chapters or allow space to breathe before something else was taken away. The brother I never met.
The loss of my parents. The accident. Each loss changed not only my circumstances - but who I understood myself to be.

There have been mornings I wished I could return to the life before. But life doesn’t rewind. Beneath the grief, a question lingered: If I’m no longer who I was, then who am I now?

Loss hands us labels we never asked for - orphan, trauma survivor, chronic pain patient. Labels describe experiences, but over time they can begin to feel like identities. And there is no ceremony welcoming you into this new version of yourself. Just an unfamiliar space.

Perhaps this is why grief can feel like living between two worlds - the life before and the life after.

If you’ve ever questioned your identity after loss, you are not alone, and today, I’m honoured to share Judy’s story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Judy Lipson bravely shares about sibling loss - the deaths of her sisters, Jane and Margie - and the decades of delayed grief that followed. She became the strong one, the caretaker, the steady presence for everyone else. But grief has a habit of waiting.

Judy is the author of Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve, a story of love, grief, and moving forward, even years after the loss.

I’m deeply grateful to Judy for her courage and vulnerability. Her journey reminds us that sibling loss is often overshadowed, that delayed grief is still grief, and that healing is rarely linear. This is a story about identity after loss. About self-forgiveness and carrying love forward.

If you’ve ever wondered who you are now that someone who defined you is gone, Judy’s words may feel achingly familiar.

And if they do, I’d love to hear what resonates with you.

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‘Evolving Grief’ by Judy Lipson

Grief Story #022

There is no recipe for grief.

Many of us love home-baked chocolate chip cookies and follow the recipe on the back of the Nestlé Toll House package. Grief is not simple; one recipe does not fit all.

In 1981, a tragic automobile accident took the life of twenty-two-year-old Jane, the younger sister whom I adored. Nine years later, I experienced the loss of another sister, Margie, the eldest of the three Lipson sisters whom I idolized at age thirty-five after a twenty-year battle with anorexia/bulimia. The secure identity I recognized as the middle, squashed between two sisters, disappeared.

So, I thought for decades.

Jane’s death came as a total shock when I was twenty-five, on top of the world, living and working in New York City. When I answered the phone, my world changed in a flash, and the family I once had disappeared.

Margie’s death, although not unexpectedly, still came as a shock. Both are devastating. I suppressed the grief for thirty years, unable to comprehend the reality of the losses, the concept of grief, or the trauma of having a sister with a mental illness for twenty years.

In retrospect, I faced grief, though the repercussions were unknown. I became a caretaker and cheerleader. I took care of my parents, raised two daughters as a single mother, and attempted to bring some sunshine to my parents after the loss of two children.

Who am I? When Jane died, was I the youngest? When Margie died, was I an only child? I not only lost my sisters, but I also lost myself, my parents. For thirty years, I power walked on a treadmill of life, not stopping. The many dates approached with weeks of anxiety; the anniversaries, the Jewish calendar reminders, and the birthdays. I sensed a piece of me was incomplete.

With the death of my father, another devastating loss forced me to grieve for Margie and Jane. With intense therapy, brick by brick, I allowed the wall I built to tumble and opened myself to suppressed feelings of grief. Like a child learning to walk, sit up, stand up, crawl, one step, and multiple steps, I learned how to recognize emotions that were bottled up. Delving into grief, understanding, and navigating decades of behavior was difficult. Realigning my thoughts and emotions, forgiving myself for delaying grief work, and finding time for renewal.

How do I forgive myself for not mourning Margie and Jane earlier? How do I live with the thought that the last time I saw them was to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday? Why didn’t I spend more time with them? Why didn’t I do more to be a better sister to Margie throughout her challenging mental illness? The hamster wheel keeps turning. The heart and mind were not in sync.

Much as an athlete must train their mind and body, I tried to apply the principles of skating training to the grieving process. Part of the therapy called for restoration, taking time for me. A new concept I had to program into my brain. Skating provided me with an outlet, a lifeline, meditation, and peace.

Ice skating provided the chord that brought me full circle back to Margie and Jane. As young girls, we skated together and provided the happiest memories that I can recall. To channel the immense grief in November on their birthdays and the anniversary of Jane’s passing, I honored Margie and Jane with an annual ice-skating fundraiser to benefit Massachusetts General Hospital. I can hear my sisters cackling about the dress, or wearing the wrong color lipstick, but most of all, I sense their presence on my shoulders as I glide across the slick ice and the breeze blows through my hair.

The hardest question asked of me was, “How many siblings do you have?” Unable to breathe, my heart raced, stumbling over how to respond. The answer changed over time. I replied, “It’s just me.” Today I answer, “I am the middle of three who sadly lost both her sisters.” Margie and Jane are my past, present, and future.

Today my grief journey is evolving and will continue to do so. As an introvert, writing became a tool to express feelings and provide clarity and understanding of Judy as a person, warts and all. I never comprehended the impact of grief on my life. I hope grief does not define me; it is forever a part of me.

My memoir helped me share Margie and Jane and ignite some memories I feared lost. If another individual found solace in their sorrow, held onto hope, or laughed, I was thankful. Publishing the book led me to immerse myself in grief, sharing my experiences on podcasts, speaking, and attending grief conferences.

The birth of my three grandchildren in the past five years brought me immense joy, smiles, and laughter. I felt layers of emotions wishing my sisters were present to share the experiences with me. The common denominator is love. I watch my two daughters as sisters, the little cousins together, and my heart is a ping-pong, bursting with joy, and an ache of missing Margie and Jane. The legacies of Margie and Jane live on in Benji, Jake, and Madelyn, and in spirit. I can tell Margie and Jane are beaming.

Enjoy your chocolate chip cookies and change the recipe by mixing up the chips or adding M&M’s. The same is true for your grief. I tried many things–groups, reading, squashing my thoughts, writing, conferences. I hope that every individual who is grieving discovers what works for you, finds time to take care of you, and, as someone said to me, “I did the best I could at that time.”

Grief Story by Judy Lipson

Friend, have you ever felt that grief reshaped your identity? Who were you before the loss - and who are you now? How do you honour the person you lost in your everyday life? What has helped you process your grief — movement, writing, therapy, faith, community, creativity?

Leave a comment

Judy founded Celebration of Sisters, an ice-skating fundraiser to honor her beloved sisters, Margie and Jane, to benefit Massachusetts General Hospital’s Eating Disorders Clinical and Research Program. She is the recipient of the U.S. Figure Skating Association’s 2020 Get Up Award.

Judy Lipson is the author of Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve, which won the Literary Titan’s 2021 Silver Award. She was the keynote speaker for The Bereaved Parents National USA 2023 Conference, presented at The Compassionate Friends National Conference, a guest on The Open to Hope Cable television, and serves as a board member of the COPE Foundation.

You can connect with Judy on Instagram or Facebook, and find more about her work on her website judylipson.org.

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I’m so excited to share our next Live talk.

When?

Join my monthly Instagram Live series ‘What If This Is Grief?’ on Thursday 19th February at 2 pm EST / 7 pm GMT (UK) time.

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Linda Henderson for another ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Linda is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about navigating life after loss - and how to conquer pain one day at a time.

Thursday 19th February

Instagram Live

2 pm EST / 7 pm GMT (UK)

If you have any questions for Linda, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

Have you ever lost someone you loved and felt your world shift forever? Loss is a force that can shatter lives, leaving emptiness and pain in its wake. Yet, in the midst of grief, something unexpected can happen: connections that once felt ordinary can deepen, becoming lifelines when everything else feels broken.

In my own life, after the death of our mother, my brother and I discovered that we grew closer than ever. As children, we had taken our bond - and each other - for granted. I had often cared for my younger brother while mum was at work, but as we grew older, life pulled us in different directions: I moved abroad, and he left to study elsewhere. When we were both back home, we had our own routines and different circles of friends, our connection felt distant. After mum passed away, there were responsibilities that had to be faced and decisions that needed to be made. Although we each processed our grief in different ways, over time we found ways to reconnect, despite our very different personalities.

The shared sorrow gave us both an understanding, compassion, and a quiet strength we hadn’t known before. We learned to support each other, to navigate life’s challenges side by side, and to cherish the bond that grief had unexpectedly deepened.

Perhaps you’ve experienced a tragedy that reshaped your family or strengthened relationships, revealing the hidden resilience that emerges in the face of life’s hardest moments, just like Denisa.

In today’s Grief Storis, Denisa Herichova bravely opens up about resilience, connection, and how love endures even through profound loss. Denisa’s story tells of the devastating death of her young sister, Nikolka, struck by a car, and the journey through grief that followed. It is also a story of how family and love can guide us through the darkest times.

Originally from Slovakia, Denisa draws on her personal experiences in her book Keď mladá duša plače (When a Young Soul Weeps), delving into the profound emotional impact of losing a child sibling, and revealing how grief reshapes the bonds within a family.

I am deeply grateful to Denisa for her courage and vulnerability. Her story is a powerful reminder that even in tragedy, moments of hope and love endure.

If her story touches your heart, I would love to hear what resonates with you most.

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‘When a Young Soul Weeps’ by Denisa Herichova

Grief Story #021

When the angel of death knocks at your door and steals your love and happiness.

Just as the sun rises each morning, we too must wake and step into a life that brings unexpected moments. When those moments are filled with love and joy, life feels beautiful. But when tragedy suddenly crosses your path, and you lose someone dear to you, your world shifts, and darkness settles where light once lived.

My name is Denisa, and this is my story - a story shaped by the loss of one of my sisters.

At thirteen, the world is small and simple. What matters are friends, school, whispered secrets, and first crushes. But what happens when, one ordinary day, you say goodbye to your two-year-old sister as she leaves to go shopping with your mother and your other sister - and she never comes back? What does that do to a young mind already scarred by a parent’s divorce?

It was a summer morning. My two younger sisters were celebrating their birthdays and name day on the same day (in my home country, name days are also celebrated - each day in the calendar is linked to a name). That morning, they went out to buy presents while I stayed at home. I waved to them from the balcony, unaware that this would be the last time I would hear my youngest sister’s voice.

Later, I went for a walk with the dog and sat on a bench with friends, waiting for them to return. After some time, I saw my mother approaching. She moved like a ghost - her face empty, her steps slow - holding a T-shirt that belonged to my little sister, Nikolka. When I called out to her, she did not respond and walked straight past me into the building. Only then did I notice the dark red stains on the fabric. I knew something was terribly wrong.

At that moment, time stopped, and the fight for survival began. As I later learned, my little sister had been hit by a car. A single moment of inattention was enough - she ran onto the road at a bus stop, straight under the wheels of a passing vehicle. She died later during surgery in the hospital.

The shock was overwhelming - for me, and for my other sister, who was eleven at the time and had witnessed the accident. She withdrew into herself, fighting a silent battle with a reality no child should ever have to face.

An unbearable weight settled on my heart, as if a part of me had been torn away. I could not concentrate; my thoughts kept returning to my little sister - her tiny fingers, her innocent smile. In the days that followed, I tried to be strong, but our home became a place of mourning. My mother fell into deep depression, crying behind the closed door of her room. She stopped caring for herself - and for us. Overnight, my sister and I were forced to grow up.

At school, I told no one. Each day, I hid my grief behind a mask of strength. I pushed my feelings aside and became distant, even hostile towards adults. With friends, I sought escape, drifting into behaviour that only deepened the chaos inside me.

Home offered no refuge. My mother turned to alcohol and slowly lost herself. Her suffering was worsened by my stepfather, who became violent towards her. Bruises appeared - first hidden, then impossible to ignore. Yet she denied everything, refusing help, enduring her pain in silence.

Time passed, and we adapted. Each argument, each scream hardened us, but it also bound us together. Death had shattered our childhood, yet in time it shaped us - teaching us resilience, forcing us to endure what life demanded of us.

There were moments when the weight of everything felt unbearable. Sleep brought nightmares; waking brought fear. Dark thoughts crept in during the worst days, when alcohol and anger filled our home. What held me back was the thought of my family - my mother, already broken, and my sister, fragile yet brave, facing each day with quiet courage. She carried her pain silently, like a delicate daisy with blue eyes and an innocent smile, while screaming unheard on the inside.

Five years passed - five long years of fear and tension behind the closed door of our childhood bedroom. Each morning, we woke wondering what awaited us. Then, just before Christmas, life tested us once more. My stepfather attacked my mother so brutally that she was taken away by ambulance. That moment became the turning point. She did not allow him to return. Fearing for our safety, we sold the flat and started again elsewhere.

For my sister and me, it was a relief. New surroundings, new faces, and freedom from the man I feared. But my mother never recovered from the loss of her child. Seeking escape, she left to work abroad, leaving us to stand on our own. I was eighteen, my sister sixteen. I finished secondary school, and my dreams of university quietly disappeared. I found work so that my sister could continue her education, and together we stepped into adulthood.

It was hard - learning to survive without guidance, carrying responsibilities far too heavy for our age. Yet we endured, because life had already taught us how to withstand its harshest blows.

A year later, I fell in love and became a mother to two healthy sons. Even now, fear follows me whenever I walk near roads with them. The instinct born from my childhood never left me. I know how easily one moment can steal everything.

My sister and I lived together until fate tested us again. She was diagnosed with cancer, and so was my partner. Once more, we faced death. This time, it did not win. Both survived and now live fully. My sister gave birth to a beautiful daughter, our greatest joy.

Our mother remained abroad for ten years and returned only after falling ill. Two strokes and a brain tumour followed. She survived, but she needs care. In the end, she understood that she still had two daughters worth living for - and we found our way back to one another. She knows now that she can rely on us and that we will always be there for her.

Each of us has been grieving differently. And I know now that everything my mother did was born of pain.

Thirty-one years have passed since the accident. Only now can we sit together in quiet peace and remember little Nikolka without tears, our eyes softened by a gentle sheen of grief. We look at photographs, speak her name, and reflect on the moments that shaped us. We know we cannot change the past, and endless suffering brings no healing. Life must go on, and we must cherish the time we still have.

And in my heart, I will always keep a precious memory - one that warms me with endless love.

Grief Story by Denisa Herichova

Friend, have you ever lost someone you loved and felt your world shift forever? Have you ever had to grow up faster than expected? How did that affect you? Have you ever felt a moment of fear or helplessness in your life? How did you deal with it? Can you think of a time when a family bond helped you through a difficult moment?

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Denisa Herichová was born in Košice, Slovakia, where she graduated from a secondary medical school. In 2008, she moved to England with her family and now works in the healthcare sector. In her free time, she writes poetry and life-based stories in her mother tongue. She is the author of the poetry collection Básničky-Slzičky and the psychologically inspired autobiographical novel Keď mladá duša plače (When a Young Soul Weeps), which explores the emotional impact of losing a child on a family. She will soon be publishing her next book, Nádej spieva potichu (Hope Sings Quietly), which explores the lives of four women marked by trauma, the longing for a child, dysfunctional relationships, and domestic abuse. Denisa loves animals and the sound of the sea.

You can connect with Denisa on Facebook.

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I’m so excited to share something close to my heart.

Tomorrow, Tuesday 13th January, I’m launching a new monthly Instagram Live series called ‘What If This Is Grief?’

I’m honoured to be joined by my wonderful guest Evelyn Sherwood for my first ‘What If This Is Grief’ Live series. Evelyn is a Grief Stories contributor and you can read her story here.

We’ll be talking about finding rest for your weary heart - a conversation I believe many of us need as we begin this year.

Tuesday 13th January

Instagram Live

2 pm EST / 7 pm GMT (UK)

If you have any questions for Evelyn, please send me a message.

Set a reminder and join us live.

A few years ago, I was at a Christmas market with my husband and some friends when the song “It’s the most wonderful time of the year” started playing. Suddenly, a wave of grief hit me. My mum and I used to visit Christmas markets every year, and in that moment - surrounded by lights and laughter - I felt the ache of knowing I’d never share that tradition with her again.

Christmas can feel overwhelming when someone you love is missing. What helped me that day was simply allowing myself to feel it. As I cried, a friend quietly held my hand - no advice, just presence. It made the weight a little lighter.

Since losing my mum over a decade ago, I’ve learned that people often stay silent not because they don’t care, but because they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. Sometimes a hug says more than words. And as Christmas approaches, I’m reminded how important it is to share stories of our loved ones and keep them close.

Jessica Bourne, in her story ‘How to Love With Grief’ featured in the Grief Stories series, offers gentle ways to stay connected: “light a special candle, have photos of them hanging up, and visit their grave frequently with cards and gifts for their birthdays and Father’s/Mother’s Day.”

I’m always grateful to the brave grievers who share their hearts in the Grief Stories series. Today, we hear from Carmen.

In this month’s story, Carmen Grover shares her journey through heartbreak and a grief that often goes unseen. It’s a raw and honest reflection of a mother transforming profound loss into love, meaning, and hope - inviting the world to recognise the children who lived in her, shaped her, and continue to shine through her.

Carmen is a mother to twelve babies, one’s on the way, and an infant and pregnancy loss doula who advocates for bereaved parents to feel seen, heard, and validated.

I’m deeply grateful to Carmen for her courage and vulnerability. Her story reminds us that speaking our loved ones’ names keeps their memory alive in a powerful, meaningful way.

If her story speaks to your heart, I’d love to hear what resonated with you.

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‘Our 7 Babies Missing From the “Family Photo”, Never From Us’ by Carmen Grover

Grief Story #020

Hi, I’m Carmen, and I’m a mama to twelve babies, four beautiful living babies, with one on the way and seven that are not physically here. When I look at our family’s portrait and see six of us (plus a bump) something never feels right, especially when I say we have had eleven babies (plus the one within) without any further explanation.

The family photo is a reminder that our picture isn’t everything; there can be a deeper story behind it. Just as families can share their pictures of their living babies, I wish to share the lives of our dead babies who live on through us.

Pregnancy loss is a difficult topic in our society. Still, it’s not going away, it can’t be fixed, and that is hard and stumps us, but it can also be a gift if we are allowed to share our babies. I find that talking about it helps. People sometimes say they can’t imagine, and we know you can’t. I always want to tell them not to say, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” but instead say, “Thank you for sharing your story.” Yet when they say something, it is better than saying nothing, because in not saying anything, we feel like maybe our baby just vanished or evaporated. And I’m here to say that they haven’t been erased, nor will they ever be.

We don’t always have to talk about the sadness of our babies, because their lives were beautiful. And perhaps after such loss, we are now less numb to the little things, the signs in life. Like the bloom of a magnolia tree or a bird that won’t leave you alone, sweetly singing. These are irrational-sounding things, but they can be really real for a grieving parent. The signs aren’t nothing. I will always be looking for the signs and symbolism. Like how I saw a heart in a stone. Our babies and what they send us make me know we are not alone. Now I hold onto hope. And this is why our stories, our real thoughts, need to be shared, so others know they are not alone.

Feelings are often all we have, all we are left with, and when those feelings can be validated, so too can we be validated, and our babies, and it’s how we begin to heal. I’m different because of them, and I’m here because of them! It’s why I kept the letters I wrote to them, stories to each of the babies I’ve ever held, because their stories are so important. I actually want to share about my babies; that’s why I’ve written a whole book to honour them and their lives.

Some may say that they never lived, yet they lived in me. I know I “did everything right” with the babies I lost, but I do still wonder, was it that hot bath, that magnet bracelet I wore, the sandwich I ate? These are very real questions for a mom experiencing baby loss. We know deep down it’s nothing we did, but again, our minds can take over. We need to know the answers, we need to know the reasons, because we need hope.

Each baby gave me hope in my life. I needed each baby to keep me going and to get me where I am today. They all served a greater purpose. I can’t believe it, but I would say I’d do it all over again if it meant I got to have what I have now. Amity gave me friendship, Will gave me hope, Kaia gave me pure beauty, Baby G gave me more spirituality and letting go, Case gave me yoga, Maelie gave me meditation, Butterfly Baby allowed me to start seeing and believing in the signs, Jude gave me writing, Ayda gave me soul, Zach gave me connection, and Charlotte brought me slowing down and pure delight in the little things.

Over the years, I’ve asked so many times, why me and why so many times. But I’ve realized that maybe it’s now to offer hope. Maybe it’s to be here right now. I’m not here to educate pregnancy loss moms, because unfortunately, we all get it and share a language of deep love. I’m here to help others try to understand. Not to scare, not to worry, but to change our culture around babies dying and what it means to loss parents to be able to talk about our babies and to say their names. We still want to include them in our lives.

We live on in our kids, and that’s why my babies must be shared for the next generation. We can’t take away the pain, but we can learn to support each other, stand by, nurture, care for, and release the pain. The fear of loss never leaves, but as for the pain, we can let it rest when it gets too heavy and let it play when we need distraction. For there will be happiness and life again. And we will always be there for our forever babies.

So this is my hope…to change the darkness of pregnancy loss into light. To shine the light of my babies in the hopes that others can understand. And so we can meet each other with compassion. We can say, thank you for sharing your story and for sharing your baby with us. You won’t remind us of our pain. You will remind us of our own babies’ lives. And that will forever continue to mean the world to us.

Grief Story by Carmen Grover

Friend, have you ever felt unsure about what to say to someone experiencing loss? How might this story influence the way you show up for someone who is grieving? Have you ever felt comforted by symbolic signs or small moments during grief?

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Carmen Grover is a mother to 12 babies, nurse, yogi, farmer, infant & pregnancy loss doula and journal-keeper turned writer. She lives for her family, adventure, spiritual moments, and lakes. She is passionate about sharing her voice and comforting other families who have been down the difficult road of pregnancy loss, and feels that she has found her purpose, one given to her by all her babies. Carmen currently resides in Ontario, Canada with her husband and their children.

Her book, A Diary to My Babies: Journeying through Pregnancy Loss, brings light to the shadows of pregnancy loss and affirms that grief has no prescribed path. Through her story, Carmen hopes to offer solace and healing to those who share this path.

You can connect with Carmen on Instagram.

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If Christmas feels hard this year, I’ve created a free Gentle Guide for Grieving Hearts: When Christmas Looks Different that you can download here.

Recently, someone asked me how many siblings I have, and the question stirred emotions I didn’t expect. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked, but the timing made it land differently. My social media feed has been filled with posts marking Worldwide Bereaved Sibling Awareness Month - gentle reminders of a grief that often sits quietly in the background until something pulls it forward again.

So when I heard that innocent question, “How many siblings do you have?” I froze for a moment. I lost my brother before I was born. So… does that count? Do I say I have two brothers - one here and one in heaven? Being a rainbow baby comes with its own shadows. I still find myself wondering who he might have been. What his laugh would sound like. Whether he’d have children of his own. If I might be a double or even triple auntie by now.

As Kat Stano describes so beautifully in her story, siblings are often the forgotten grievers - children who tiptoe around their parents’ heartbreak, who get overlooked in the swirl of loss, who learn early how to hold their breath around pain. And this month, as the world pays a little more attention to sibling loss, many of us find ourselves revisiting the quiet corners of our own stories.

But what happens when the losses don’t stop there? When one grief folds into another, and then another? When the sibling you’ve mourned is followed by the loss of a parent, and suddenly the foundation beneath you shifts again?

How do we carry cumulative grief? Do we try to outrun it, hoping if we don’t look too closely, it might soften on its own? Do we imagine grief works like a checklist - tend to one loss, then another, and eventually “graduate” from the pain? But what if grief doesn’t work that way? What if each new loss tugs on the old ones, weaving them together into something heavier, but also something deeply human?

As we honour Bereaved Sibling Awareness Month and are remembering the siblings we lost, it feels just as important to acknowledge the layered, complex reality of losing again. Of navigating adulthood with old and new absences, of trying to make sense of who we are in the wake of everything we’ve lived through, just like Julie.

In today’s Grief Stories, Julie Budge bravely shares about the compounded weight of love and grief after the loss of her brother Richard and her mum Christine. Her story is a powerful reminder of the courage it takes to speak these intertwined truths and of the way grief shifts, evolves, and reshapes us over time.

Julie is a poet, storyteller, and founder of Feather & Ink, a fledgling nature-inspired letter subscription club that blends birdsong, wellbeing, and poetic reflection.

I’m deeply grateful to Julie for her courage and vulnerability. Her story reminds us of the importance of patience, self-compassion, and acknowledging grief as a lifelong, evolving process - one that can shape resilience, purpose, and meaning.

If her story speaks to your heart, I’d love to know what resonates with you.

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‘No Right Way to Do Grief’ by Julie Budge

Grief Story #019

In December 2016, my brother and his little family spent Christmas with my family. Richard asked if he could see the Women’s Centre I had founded in 2014, and we stood outside. He said he was so proud of me. That moment is etched in my brain because I felt that foreboding feeling at that moment. I couldn’t shake it.

Within a month, we heard he had collapsed in his local supermarket, and we were told it was a brain tumour. On April 4th, just 3 months after his diagnosis, he passed away, aged 54 years. There followed dark days, made so much worse because my Mum had vascular dementia. There was so much conflicting advice about telling her. Only a few weeks before, we had the dilemma of taking her to see Rich in the hospice.

Rich lived in Yorkshire; we were in West Sussex. We decided to take her as we thought our Mum needed to be there. It was a strange journey in my other brother’s van, and he and my Mum stayed in the van and had the same conversations repeatedly for six long hours’ drive. When we got there, she knew instantly what was going on. Her memory was clear as a bell. I won’t go into the details, but it was just what they both needed, although by then my brother was unconscious and never woke up again.

When we walked back to the van, she said, “Are you taking me home now – because I have no idea where I live?” There followed so many heart-breaking moments when she asked if someone had died, and it broke her and my hearts over and over again as she realised or heard the news like the first time.

As one can imagine, the next issue was his funeral. After much discussion, through hurt, pain, and different opinions - between us three siblings, we decided one of us would stay with Mum behind whilst the other sibling and I went back to Yorkshire. It was incredibly hard and filled me with so much doubt. Was it right that she was not present? We will never know. But the missing family at the funeral mattered, and it was an incredibly devastating day.

It was about to get much worse. In June, just two months later, my mom was rushed to the hospital and died on the eve of my birthday. Without a shadow of a doubt, they listed COPD (breathing condition) as the reason, but we felt it was a broken heart.

Now to the grief - I postponed it, really. At the time I was the founder of a women’s charity where I was the CEO. It was filled with staff and women in need; it was more than full-time. At that time, a fledgling organisation really needed constant attention. So, after three weeks’ leave, I threw myself into work.

Only rudely brought back to in terms of clearing my parents’ flat with my siblings – unbelievably painful and stark reminder of how different we all were, then ordering gravestone changes, then selling the flat, then sorting money. All the useful stuff in the midst of horror and us siblings, coping all so differently.

Despite this, the charity grew. It became so successful, even though underneath, I was an emotional wreck. However, every talk I gave was more emotive and raised thousands of pounds, went on national TV, won a major national award, and, of course, took the centre through Covid – but it was far from easy, and I felt so heavy most of the time. The body keeps the score, and my dormant psoriasis burst into life all over my body. I felt crap but carried on.

In 2021, our children left home, and we made the rather massive decision to relocate 400 miles away from West Sussex, where we had lived for 17.5 years. I resigned as founder and CEO, and we retreated to the country.

Then, and only then, slowly, with the habit of more life balance, time in nature, and morning pages writing, I have begun to grieve more, allow, surrender, and let go.
It has been far from easy, but sometimes, it’s the oddest thing that shifts me.

We watched Grey’s Anatomy endlessly. There was an acceptance speech, and they mentioned how, despite her grief and loss, the said member of staff put all her energy into something that turned out so well. It was like a light went on – I had felt so guilty about not grieving ‘as I should’ that I was ‘cold, uncaring’ and that I had put myself to work to block it. But listening to that, I reframed my critical thoughts on my own grief as I, too, turned that grief into something that changed and saved so many lives.

I have also recently had days of walking down the road sobbing. Feeling gigantic losses on birthdays and death days like most people do. The first half of the year is littered with their birthdays, death day, mother’s day etc. Over one decade, five members of our wider family have died. I find so much solace in endless reflections in my morning pages; finding my creativity again has been so delightful and transformative.

Another big moment was a recent meeting with my siblings - it was the first time since 2017 that we had a wonderful, comfortable get-together. We talked about our missing ones, but only with smiles and happy thoughts. We had moved past those intense days of grief when decisions had to be made, and compromises were so challenging.

We did the best we could, and I believe that’s all you can do. It is not over because they will always be missed. But, you know, I forgive myself. I have feelings, I am sensitive, and I know that now. I have survived to live another day, and for that, I am truly blessed. We get to have this day.

Grief Story by Julie Budge

Friend, when you look back on the hardest seasons of your life, what would it mean to honour the way you coped - with compassion instead of criticism - and to recognise the quiet strength that carried you through? How have the different ways your family members have grieved shaped your relationships? What part of your story still needs your forgiveness, and what would it mean to finally give that to yourself?

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Julie Budge is a poet and storyteller with deep roots in the voluntary and community sector. Now based in Goodwick, Pembrokeshire (the UK), she is joyfully weaving her creative and community passions into a vibrant new chapter -right at the front. At 59, she proudly achieved an MA in Creative Writing for Well-being, marking a return to her first love: writing.

Now 60, she is excited to be the founder of Feather & Ink, a fledgling nature-inspired letter subscription club that blends birdsong, wellbeing, and poetic reflection. Through her fictional character Maya - central to the novel she is currently writing - Julie curates monthly mailings that include illustrated letters, bird-themed postcards, journaling prompts, and collectible stickers. Each element is designed to nurture quiet connection and seasonal awareness.

With a background in non-profit leadership and emotionally intelligent governance, Julie now devotes her time to writing her debut fiction book alongside part-time work. Her creative practice is grounded in metaphor, sensory detail, and a deep reverence for nature’s rhythms.

You can connect with Julie on Instagram.

Last month marked 20 years since I moved to England. Can you believe I didn’t speak a word of English back then? What began as a small adventure turned into a new life.

Moving countries comes with its own kind of excitement. But what we don’t talk about enough is the grief that often hides beneath that adventure. We leave behind familiarity, family, and belonging. And often, guilt travels with that grief.

I felt that guilt deeply when my mum was diagnosed with cancer two years after I had arrived. I flew home immediately. Later, I returned to England, hoping it was just a hard chapter that would pass. But four years later, the cancer came back - and this time, I didn’t make it home to say goodbye.

That moment left a lasting ache: the missed last hug, the heavy “shoulds” — I should have known, I should have gone sooner, I should have done more.

But here’s what I’ve learned, albeit painfully slowly: We don’t get to see what the future holds. We make decisions with the information we have available at the time. And when we look back with regret, what we often need most isn’t clarity, but forgiveness.

So if you’re living with guilt or questioning whether you did enough, I want to say gently: be kind to yourself. There’s already enough pain - so don’t keep punishing yourself.

Today my heart goes out to parents who carry that invisible weight. And if you’re a parent grieving your child’s pain, wondering if you’ve somehow failed them, Dawn’s story is for you.

In today’s Grief Story, Dawn Ward shares her journey through heartbreak, guilt, and spiritual surrender as a mother of a child battling addiction. Her story is raw, honest, and full of grace - a reminder that God meets us right in the middle of our mess.

Dawn is also the author of From Guilt to Grace: Hope and Healing for Christian Moms of Addicted Children, a lifeline for any parent walking this painful path.

I’m deeply grateful to Dawn for her courage and faith. Her story reminds us that even in the hardest parts of our lives, God’s grace is still enough.

If her story speaks to your heart, I’d love to know what resonated with you.

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‘Hope When You’re Grieving’ by Dawn Ward

Grief Story #018

“my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, LORD, every day; I spread out my hands to you.” Psalms 88:9 NIV

“Our son is using drugs.” My husband spoke these words calmly and without emotion, as if underplaying the direness of the situation would somehow keep me from overreacting. His plan didn’t succeed. As my panic increased, so did the pounding in my head. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach warned me that our lives were about to change drastically, most likely for the worse.

The shocking news my husband shared with me that night was just the beginning of many moments when addiction would shake the very foundation of our family. As the years went by, the consequences and collateral damage on our family increased. Somewhere along the way, I grew to expect disappointment. Perhaps preparing myself for the inevitable would lessen the sting. Truthfully, it doesn’t work that way. There is no preparing oneself for a tsunami when you live in the desert.

As the days wore on, the constant anxiety and stress wore on both my mind and body. Fear gave way to dread, and as the initial shock subsided, grief took its place. Out of all the emotions I experienced, grief was the hardest to handle. Grief crept over me like gray clouds showing up out of nowhere on a sunny day. It washed my world of color and replaced its brightness with a filter of dull monochromatic undertones.

When a family member is still alive but no longer “with us” in presence or personality, we experience what’s known as “ambiguous loss.” This unexpected grief emerges as we watch helplessly while conditions like mental illness, addiction, dementia, or traumatic brain injury take their toll. Days, months, and years can pass as we live in a perpetual state of mourning, praying for relief but facing ongoing disappointments. To complicate matters, we may also experience an anticipatory grief—bracing ourselves for the worst, while still hoping for a miracle.

I experienced this. I grieved the normalcy of life before drugs hijacked our family. Caught up in a whirlwind of grief, pain, despair, and hopelessness, I also carried an overwhelming sense that I was to blame for my child’s addiction. Once I accepted it wasn’t my fault, I still wrestled with feelings of guilt for not being able to fix the problem. Grief had hijacked my hope for our family’s future. As the years passed and life inched its way back to normal, I would finally feel like I could breathe a sigh of relief. Then, as if out of nowhere, our lives would once again spiral out of control. Each time, the grief intensified as my hope diminished. It wasn’t long before I was afraid to hope at all for fear of disappointment.

“where then is my hope—who can see any hope for me?” Job 17:15 NIV

In my pain, I cried out to the Lord, “Is this as good as it gets, God? Will I live forever in a constant state of grief? I don’t know how to be happy when my child is suffering. Your word promises us joy, but all I feel is this intense sorrow!”

Jesus, in his grace, reminded me he was there with me. He cared deeply about me and about my hurting and struggling loved ones. He also assured me that grieving was an acceptable response to the challenges our family was enduring. Without realizing it, I was carrying around a tremendous amount of guilt for the feelings of grief, anxiety, and depression I was feeling. As a woman who professed her faith in the Lord, why was I doing such a lousy job of trusting him? It was then that he reminded me of this verse.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” Psalm 56:3 NIV

A flood of God’s mercy washed over me as I accepted that grief is a normal part of loss. Grief doesn’t have to be a barrier between us and the Lord. Instead, it invites us into his presence. As we pour out our brokenness to the Lord, we taste the sweetness of a comfort only he can provide. But how are we to handle feelings of grief that never leave us? Are we supposed to pretend it isn’t real, push it away, and fake a smile when we are around others? Not at all. But it doesn’t have to control or paralyze us either.

As I navigated the once uncharted waters of grieving the loss of a precious relationship, I came to learn that I was never alone, even in my loneliest moments. Jesus was with me, and he promised never to leave me. I found comfort in knowing he was walking me through the grieving process. These truths brought me great peace in some of the darkest moments of my life. I pray they will bring you comfort as well.

• Jesus also experienced grief (John 11:35-36).

• Jesus is close to those who are grieving (Ps. 34:18).

• Jesus comforts those who mourn (Matthew 5:4).

• Jesus heals the brokenhearted (Psalm 147:3).

• Jesus will someday set us free from our grief and sorrow (Rev. 21:4).

God does not ask us to release our grief, but to embrace it. Grieving the loss of someone we care for, whether it is by death or by separation, marks us for the rest of our lives. We will never be the same person we were before the loss. However, because Jesus is with us, we can trust him to heal, renew, and transform us. Even in our darkest times, the Lord vows to create something of beauty out of our ashes.

“and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Isaiah 61:3a

Grief Story by Dawn Ward

Friend, have you known a kind of grief others couldn’t see or understand? Have you ever felt guilty for struggling as a person of faith? How might trusting God with that pain look in the days ahead - and is there someone you can remind they’re not alone?

Leave a comment

Dawn Ward is an author, speaker, Bible teacher, and certified biblical life coach. She is the founder of The Faith to Flourish, a ministry offering support and encouragement to women with addicted loved ones. The ministry also equips all women of faith to live transformed lives through inspiring teachings, mentoring, and biblical resources. She is married to Steve and a mom to three adult children. Her book, From Guilt to Grace: Hope and Healing for Christian Moms of Addicted Children, is available on Amazon.

You can connect with Dawn on Facebook, Instagram, or LinkedIn and find more about her work on her website.

Loss comes with many questions. And in the early days of grief, those questions can echo louder than any answer, Why me? God, why has this happened to me? Sometimes, it’s not even about us - we ask on behalf of the ones we love.

When my mum was diagnosed with cancer, I remember whispering through tears, Why her? God, why my mum? It felt like betrayal - by life, by hope, even by God. That same aching question has returned in different forms throughout my life, especially in moments of quiet mourning for the life I thought I’d have.

Maybe you’ve asked those same questions — not just for yourself, but for your child. Why my child? Why this path?

This story isn’t here to give you answers to your questions. Most of us never get the answers we are searching for. Instead, it’s about learning what it means to hold grief in one hand and faith in the other. To wrestle with God, and sometimes, to find peace amongst the struggle.

Because grief doesn’t always begin with death. Sometimes it starts with a diagnosis — a single moment that divides life into before and after.

As Fern Buzsowski writes in her Grief Story, Heartbreak to Hope and the Power of Overcoming: Navigating Grief Through the Unexpected, a serious health diagnoses can be traumatic in ways that affect every part of us - body, mind, and soul. The same is true for parents receiving news they never expected to hear. There’s a name for that kind of loss, even if we don’t say it out loud - the loss of ‘normal’. The loss of imagined futures. The quiet grief that reshapes everything.

My heart is with every parent navigating this kind of loss - juggling therapy appointments, unanswered questions, medical bills, and a love so fierce it aches. The ones, like Jenn, who are learning to surrender the life they envisioned and embrace the one God has given.

In today’s Grief Story, Jenn Soehnlin shares her journey through the heartbreak, loneliness, and deep spiritual wrestling that so often accompanies special needs parenting. If you’ve ever felt the weight of a different-than-expected life, her story is for you.

Jenn’s journey is also the heart of her book, Embracing This Special Life: Learning to Flourish as a Mother of a Child with Special Needs. With tender wisdom and deep compassion, she walks alongside other mothers, offering scriptural truth and soul-deep encouragement, inviting them to fully embrace the unique life and calling God has placed in their hands.

I’m deeply grateful to Jenn for sharing her story with such courage and vulnerability. Her words are honest, raw, and full of grace - a powerful reminder that even in the most uncertain places, God is near.

If Jen’s story speaks to your heart, we’d love to hear what resonated with you in the comments.

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‘Embracing God Through the Grief of Special Needs Parenting’ by Jenn Soehnlin

Grief Story #017

When I learned I was going to become a mother, the excitement was indescribable. I imagined the things I would do with my child: the playdates, the art projects, the books we’d read, and the places we would go. When a sweet baby boy was placed in my arms, I was instantly in love and had found a new purpose for my life.

Two years later, we added another precious baby boy to our family. But before I’d even had a chance to get into the swing of being a mother of two, my two-year-old son received a devastating diagnosis that would require him to undergo years of speech, physical, and occupational therapy to learn the skills that come naturally to most children. Over the next two years, both boys would receive a few more diagnoses.

My daydreams of motherhood were shattered, replaced with endless therapy appointments, battles with insurance companies and doctors, and an overwhelming loneliness I didn’t know how to handle. My emotional, spiritual, and physical health were deteriorating under the stress. Grief, anxiety, and depression took turns settling in and making themselves cozy.

But what surprised me the most was the crisis of faith I experienced. Where was God in all of this? Why would He do this to me and my boys? Was He really a good God, like I had always believed? And scariest of all, was He even real? If He was real, He felt far away and silent when I needed Him the most.

One day, the never-ending mountain of laundry, dishes, appointments, and worries gave me a panic attack. Seriously. My chest felt tight, and my heart pounded. Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t catch my breath. My husband suggested I spend some time by myself. I went gladly, eager to process this overwhelming anxiety with God.

I sat in God’s creation, knowing I needed God desperately but not even knowing what to pray about. I had no words, only tears, and I poured them all out to God, my heart begging Him to speak to me and my anxiety.

I expected to hear more silence from God when I needed Him the most. Never have I been more thankful to be proven wrong. He whispered one word that banished the anxiety and grief that had gripped my heart for so long. Embrace.

Surely that word was from God, because what was there to embrace in my life with all that I was currently experiencing? So I asked Him. And for the next hour or so, God revealed area after area of my life that I needed to embrace. I wish I had written it all down at the time, but I don’t think my pen would have flown across the pages fast enough. I was convicted. Encouraged. Loved by the God of the universe.

God gently reminded me of various areas I needed to embrace fully in my life. My children and their hearts, their gifts, their personalities. This special needs journey. Myself. My husband and I were teammates together. And most importantly, God. My perspective was transformed to the biblical, rather than the worldly way of doing everything that I’d been trying to do unsuccessfully for years.

I don’t know how long I spent with God, tears rolling down my cheeks, while my anxious thoughts stilled and surrender and transformation unfolded in my heart. That precious time on the beach transformed my life, my faith, and my purpose. It gave me the strength to continue forward on the path God set for me and my children, trusting that God was faithful and had given all of us a life worth embracing.

It wasn’t until a few years after that encounter with God that I found a quote by John Piper that elegantly encapsulated what I had learned and experienced in that precious time with God and in the years that followed.

Honestly, the anxiety and grief still come and go at times. But thankfully, God doesn’t. He is always with us, faithful to us, whether we are weeping or embracing the life He has given us. And I’m so very thankful for that.

Grief Story by Jenn Soehnlin

Friend, does your reality look the way you imagined it would, or has it unfolded differently? In what ways has that shift been painful, and where have you found unexpected beauty along the way? Have you ever experienced a crisis of faith — a season where God felt silent or distant? As you reflect today, what do you need to release, and what might God be inviting you to embrace?

Leave a comment

Jenn Soehnlin is the author of Embracing This Special Life and On the Same Page with God. She enjoys writing about faith, praying Scripture, special needs parenting, and a wonder walk through nature. She loves spending time with her husband and two sons, curling up with a good book and a cup of coffee.

You can find more about Jenn on her website www.embracing.life or connect with her on Facebook and Instagram.

We rarely recognise grief for what it is - especially when it’s not tied to death. Often, we push our pain aside, unaware that unprocessed grief only deepens when life throws us another storm.

After my accident - a moment that split my life into ‘before’ and ‘after’ - I didn’t realise I was grieving. I only realised that what I was going through was grief at the time of losing my mother-in-law. A year later, I also lost my job.

One loss after another, I felt like I was drowning, reaching desperately for solid ground, hoping the waves would finally stop.

But grief doesn’t work that way. When it arrives - this uninvited guest - settles in. And no matter how much we wish it away, we have to learn to live with it.

That learning process is hard. It’s even harder when grief is layered - when one loss is followed by another, especially if the first hasn't been processed yet. And sometimes, the kind of grief we carry doesn’t even come from death at all. This kind of grief is invisible to many - but that doesn’t make it any less real.

As Kristen Neighbarger bravely writes in her Grief Story, Grieving the Loss of a Living Loved One, it's difficult - almost taboo - to talk about grieving someone who is still alive. But many of us are living that reality. Maybe you are, too. Perhaps a relationship has fractured. Or maybe mental illness, addiction, or dementia has taken someone you love, leaving behind someone you barely recognise.

My heart is with anyone who is grieving the living, just like Kathy Dye. Today, I’m honoured to share her story - a powerful reminder that this form of loss matters, too.

In today’s Grief Stories, Kathy opens up with raw honesty about her journey through this uniquely painful kind of grief when losing her mother, Mary Jo Dixon, to Alzheimer’s. Her vulnerability is a testament to resilience and a gentle invitation to others to name their pain, to seek help, and to know they are not alone.

If you are walking through layer upon layer of loss, please know this - learning to acknowledge and gently process layered losses, including those involving living loved ones, is essential for healing and finding resilience. And healing takes time. It requires support, patience, and self-compassion.

If Kathy’s story speaks to you, we’d love to hear what resonated in the comments.

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‘The Long Goodbye: A Journey Through Alzheimer’s’ by Kathy Dye

Grief Story #016

This is so true of one's journey with Alzheimer's.

No one can be prepared for what lies ahead when the prognosis comes in.

My mother started showing signs of memory loss a couple of years before she was diagnosed. There were the usual signs: forgetting recipes she had always done by heart, forgetting the names of people, and where she had put things. We all just laughed it off. Haven't we all forgotten those types of things?

Our family's first big 'Aha' moment came during Thanksgiving, just after my brother-in-law died. We knew it had been hard for her. It was hard for everyone because he passed so quickly. We decided that weekend to try to have our usual Thanksgiving meal, with several of us agreeing to pitch in. Thanksgiving was Mom's special time to cook and set a beautiful table. We were all busy in the kitchen when we noticed Mom just standing there, staring. She couldn't remember where anything was. We felt it was mostly because she was grieving, but in our hearts, we knew it was more.

My dad tried to keep my sister, brother, and me from saying exactly what we felt was happening. I think there was a part of him that felt if it wasn't said out loud, it wasn't real. He would make excuses for her, trying to protect both her dignity and his hope. It was hard to see our dad step into a different role - suddenly becoming her caregiver. We lived out of town, and our sister was navigating her own grief from the loss.

This marked the beginning of the long goodbye to the mother we had once known. We each began to see a difference in her every time we visited.

The next spring, I wanted my mother to visit her sister, who lived in Arizona. My mother's other sister also wanted to come. I knew it might not be easy, especially since we were flying, but part of my reasoning was that I wanted her sisters to see what was going on. Thankfully, the flight went well. It was the things we noticed while there that would begin the phase of what I now understand as compounded grief.

Compounded grief occurs when the progressive loss is continually layered with new losses. Mom knew something wasn't right. She had laughed off the early signs before, but now she was turning sullen. She had always been very outgoing and laughed often, but now she began to grow paranoid. She felt as if everyone was talking behind her back - something she never would have imagined before. She thought we were leaving her out of things. She would often just stare at us, as if trying to piece together a puzzle she couldn't solve.

I remember that on that trip, I was crying myself to sleep because I missed my mother - the one who played games and loved having fun, who filled rooms with laughter. I prayed and cried out to God to help us do what needed to be done, to give us wisdom for the path ahead.

Not too long after returning home, Dad decided it was time to visit the neurologist. They ran their tests and confirmed what we had begun to suspect: she did have Alzheimer's and was further along than any of us had thought.

Grief compounded - hearing the words spoken aloud. What comes next?

The Uncharted Territory

No two cases are alike. There might be similarities, but each person will experience different symptoms at different stages.

At this point, most of our visits involved sitting on the couch and holding her hand. The paranoia had lessened somewhat. We could take her out into the yard and let her look at the beautiful flowers she once tended with such care.

Grief raised its ugly head again when my mother could no longer remember the love of her life. She would say Dad was a nice man, but she couldn't remember his name. I can only imagine the grief my father must have felt, watching the woman who had loved him for decades look at him like a stranger.

Slowly, she began forgetting who any of us were. Grief upon grief. You find yourself trying to grasp any little semblance of how things used to be. You share old photos, you talk about the past, and you desperately want her to remember.

The Hardest Decision

Mother eventually had to go into a memory care facility. Dad had planned for such a time, but planning and living it are two different things. There is profound grief and guilt in making these types of decisions, even when you know it's necessary. But we realized it truly was for the best. It was a very nice place, and the staff was wonderful about letting us remain a part of Mother's daily life.

My brother and his wife would go there on Sundays and worship with her. She enjoyed it so much. One of the most beautiful things we discovered was that she could still remember the words to the old hymns. She would sing loud and proud, her voice carrying the melodies that had shaped her faith for decades. This brought such joy to all of us - a reminder that the core of who she was remained intact.

Finding Her Song

From this experience, I wrote a children's book entitled "A Song in Her Heart." Mother was still there, somewhere deep inside. I had been saying goodbye to her for almost five years, but she held on to the thing that made her who she was - her song. God, her Father, had been her guide throughout her entire life. That's what I wanted to remember, something to hold onto for both of us. I would remember those things for her through this book.

Words for the Journey

I don't wish this disease on anyone, but if you find yourself walking this difficult path, I want to leave you with some things to keep in mind as you navigate your own grief:

• Find people to talk to. You may not be the primary caregiver, but you still need support. And remember to support those who are serving as caregivers - they need your encouragement more than you know.

• Make lists of the life your loved one lived. Write down their stories, their favorite sayings, and their quirks that made you smile. Remember for them when they can no longer remember for themselves.

• Don't feel guilty for getting help. There comes a time when professional care really is the most loving thing you can provide. It doesn't mean you're giving up - it means you're giving them what they need.

• Pray to God to be your refuge. He loves and cares for your loved one even more than you do. Trust Him with what you cannot control and lean on His strength when yours runs out.

The journey with Alzheimer's is long and often lonely, but you don't have to walk it alone. Hold onto hope, cherish the moments of connection when they come, and remember that love transcends memory. Even when they can't remember your name, your presence still matters. Even when they can't say the words, your love still reaches them.

And sometimes, if you listen carefully, you might still hear their song.

Grief Story by Kathy Dye

Friend, what are some of the most painful ‘goodbyes’ you’ve had to say without words? What has been the most challenging aspect of watching someone you love become someone you no longer recognise? And what do you want others to know about Alzheimer’s that they might not understand?

Leave a comment

Kathy Dye is a retired teacher-turned-author and women's speaker who brings her passion for faith and storytelling to both children and adults. She has published two children's books, A Song in Her Heart: My Mom, Music and Alzheimer's and Kit Kat Camp (No Electronics), and is currently working on her first Bible study, The Song in Our Heart and a sequel to Kit Kat Camp. Through her writing and speaking, Kathy encourages readers to discover God's faithful presence in everyday moments.

You can learn more about her work at kathydyeauthor.com.

For years, I fought my pain. I didn’t want to accept that this was now my life - one without what I held most dear, and in its place, a hollow ache I couldn't bear. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I didn’t choose this life marked by loss, and I resisted everything it brought with it.

I still remember sitting in my psychologist’s office when she handed me a Chinese finger trap. I slipped my finger in and tried to pull it out. It was stuck. No matter how hard I pulled, I couldn’t get it free. Watching my frustration, she gently said, “Push in, instead of pulling out.”

It felt counterintuitive, but it worked. The resistance eased when I leaned into the trap instead of fighting it. That small moment held a profound truth: we can’t fight our way out of pain.

Maybe you’ve felt that same resistance. Maybe you’re still caught in the struggle, trying to push away what hurts. If so, today’s Grief Story is especially for you.

I’m honoured to share the story of Dr. Mekel Harris. With deep honesty and tenderness, she opens up about the heart-breaking loss of her mother, Patricia Anne Harris, who passed away just 30 days after a terminal cancer diagnosis. After years of supporting others through their grief, Dr. Harris suddenly found herself on the other side - grief has taken her on a long, winding path.

Her story is a powerful reminder that grief cannot be bypassed. It must be witnessed, held, and honoured. Even when we’ve walked alongside others in their pain, nothing truly prepares us for our own.

Dr. Harris shares more of her journey in her book, Relaxing Into the Pain: My Journey Into Grief & Beyond. There she invites readers into her raw and real process - one filled with heartbreak, deep questions, and ultimately, Christ-centred hope. Her message is not just about surviving grief - it’s about discovering how we can still embrace life and wholeness, even when everything changes.

I’m deeply grateful to Dr. Mekel Harris for sharing her heart with such vulnerability. Her words remind us that grief doesn’t end - it transforms us. It becomes part of us. And like the finger trap, the way to freedom isn’t resistance - it’s surrender.

Please take a moment to read and reflect on Dr. Mekel’s story. And if something in her words speaks to you, we’d love to hear from you in the comments.

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‘Relaxing Into the Pain of Loss’ by Dr. Mekel Harris

Grief Story #015

I didn't want to see a therapist, even though I’d worked as a mental health professional for over a decade and currently served my own clients as a licensed psychologist. I believed in the value of therapy, but couldn’t grasp the reality that I was the one who actually needed help. However, I gave in and made the phone call, scheduled an appointment, and embraced the biweekly rhythm of therapy sessions.

We talked about dating, career, making social connections in a new city, and faith.

However, when my therapist looked across the room and asked, “What would it look like if you relaxed into the pain of your mom’s death,” let’s just say I didn’t have the kindest of thoughts. What was she talking about? First, what did it even mean to relax into the pain of loss? Secondly, this wasn’t the reason I sought out therapy in the first place. How dare she touch this topic!

I couldn’t wrap my head around my therapist’s question in the moment, and months went by before I scheduled a follow-up session with her. She’d clearly struck the wrong chord, particularly given that I hadn’t offered her any invitation into that part of my world.

See… the beloved matriarch of our family, my mother, Patricia Anne Harris, succumbed to Stage IV pancreatic cancer on December 9, 2012 - just 30 days after receiving the diagnosis. And though I begrudgingly laid aside my desire to explore life-saving treatment on her behalf, I couldn’t fathom the thought of surrendering anymore. The mere idea of relaxing into the pain of her death angered me. My plan, on the other hand, included fighting my way out of and around grief at all costs.

But you see, that’s impossible.

Roughly 18 months into my fight and with resistance towards my therapist’s question, I began to realize how unsustainable my action plan actually was. My body began to send signals, in the form of aches, pains, and paralysis, at random times. Sleep evaded me. Emotionally, I began to experience more depressive thinking and anxiety about my own and others' deaths. The size of my social circle dwindled significantly, resulting in more time spent alone than with friends and family. Ultimately, I had no choice but to accept the reality that relaxing into the pain I felt so deeply was the only solution, and I surrendered to grief’s knock on my door. With humility - and a bit of embarrassment, if I’m honest - I made the call to resume therapy.

Deep within me, I knew my therapist’s approach would be beneficial, particularly as I recounted moments shared working with pediatric patients. As they fussed, screamed, and squirmed their way into medical procedures that involved needle injections, I recalled what I would gently share with them. “Take a slow, deep breath. Close your eyes if you need to. And gently breathe into the injection.” Relax into the pain.

See, when we hold our breath along grief’s path and attempt to circumvent all that comes along with grief - profound pain included, we actually exacerbate our suffering. We position ourselves to not only have to endure the inevitable heartache associated with loss, but also exert energy towards a futile endeavor, bypassing grief altogether. During a time when our emotional, physical, and mental reservoir is depleted, how much more could we lovingly serve ourselves by relaxing into the pain?

Practically, this looked like actually naming my deep sorrow and putting language to the vast array of emotions that arose minute-by-minute. It meant resuming sessions with a qualified grief therapist, allowing her to gently probe, hold space for, and compassionately soothe my grief. Relaxing into my pain meant allowing the tears to fall at the most inconvenient times - including the detergent aisle at COSTCO, abandoning apologies for uncontrollable waves of sorrow in social situations, and creating space for others to offer support (the last one is still hard for me).

Nearly 12 years into my grief journey thus far, I accept the reality that relaxing into the pain of grief isn’t a one-time event. It’s a lifelong process of surrendering, mid-course correcting, breathing, and moving through the dark valleys with hope. These days, I consider it essential, compassionate self-preservation.

Of course, relaxing into the pain of loss won’t erase all that you feel or carry. However, it does provide a moment of resolve, where the weighty inhalations lovingly meet the deep exhalations of life.

There, I’ve discovered pockets of peace.

Grief Story by Dr. Mekel Harris

Friend, what does "relaxing into the pain" mean to you, and how might that look in your own life? When have you experienced “pockets of peace” amid pain? What helped you find them? And how might your own experience with pain or grief help you hold space for others in theirs?

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Dr. Mekel Harris is a licensed psychologist and CEO of her practice, Harris Psychological Services, LLC. She also provides training and consultation to organizations around the globe and is co-founder of Bloomwell Partners, LLC, a consulting firm that equips corporate entities with skills to execute grief-informed leadership within the workplace.

Throughout the past decade, Dr. Harris has presented at numerous domestic and international conferences and has been interviewed on several podcasts, with topics ranging from grief and loss to community mental health and trauma. She has been featured as a mental health expert on FOX13 Memphis and has published articles in several major publications.

In her personal time, Dr. Harris enjoys spending time with her family, traveling the globe, writing, volunteering, and collecting all things butterflies.

You can connect with Dr. Mekel on Facebook, Instagram, or LinkedIn and find her book, Relaxing Into the Pain, here.

Lately, I’ve been having conversations with other grievers about one of the most difficult parts of loss — accepting that life doesn’t always unfold the way we imagined. When someone we love is gone too soon, we’re left with unanswered questions, unsaid words, and milestones they’ll never witness. Birthdays, weddings, everyday moments — all changed by their absence.

Loss reshapes everything - our world, our expectations, our identity (although we always will be God’s children). And we ask, “Who are we without them?” And struggle to answer innocent questions like, “How many children do you have” or “How many siblings do you have?”

I lost my brother before I was even born. So, does that count? Do I have two brothers — one here, and one in heaven? I was a rainbow baby, and I still wonder… what would life be like if he were still with us? What would he be doing? Where would he live? Would he have children? Would I be a double (or even triple) auntie by now?

Maybe you’ve asked these same questions, too. If so, my heart is with you — especially if you have known grief from an early age, or never got to say goodbye or even hello. With all of you who are wondering who their sibling might have grown up to be, just like Kat. Today, I’m honoured to share her story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Kat Stano, bravely shares about losing her brother John with honesty and tenderness. Her story reminds us that while sibling loss is often overlooked, it has a deep and lasting impact. It changes us. And it deserves to be seen, held, and honoured.

I met Kat through a blogging community, and from the beginning, she’s been a kind, empathetic presence — always encouraging with gentle wisdom and grace. Though we live an ocean apart, I’m proud to call her a friend. Grief brought us together, and that in itself is a reminder - even in the pain, connection is possible. We don’t have to walk this road alone.

I’m deeply grateful to Kat for sharing her story, and heart, with such vulnerability. Her words remind us that we can carry our loved ones with us, even as we keep moving forward — finding beauty, meaning, and connections along the way.

Please take a moment to read and reflect on Kat’s story. And if something speaks to you, we’d love to hear from you in the comments.

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‘What Sibling Loss Feels Like 30 Years Later’ by Kat Stano

Grief Story #014

2025 is the 30th anniversary of my brother's death and it really is hard to imagine all the time that's gone by. While I never could fathom losing my sibling when we were both so young, I know that it's shaped me in ways that only a loss like this one can do.

If you're grieving someone you lost when you were a child or young person, this piece is dedicated to you and the memory of your loved one. And for those of you who haven't, I hope my story might help you reach out to a friend who's learned grief earlier than most.

My brother, John, was unique. He had an amazing memory for facts, could make a descriptive drawing from just looking at a photograph, and had a wild and wondrous love for nature. Like me, John was an imaginative and introspective thinker, which made life hard for him sometimes. And because of my deeply sensitive sensibilities, my husband says the same thing about me:

"Kat you weren't made for this world." (Oh. Greeeaaattt.)

But as I get older, I really like hearing that. It makes me feel connected to my brother. I understand him more.

One of John's dreams was to travel the scenic west of the U.S., states like Colorado, Arizona, Idaho, Montana, and the Dakotas. The beauty of the landscape and the culture of its original people spoke to his inquisitive heart. He greatly respected its symbolism and peace.

John had bonded with a buddy from church who also was an outdoorsman and someone who was calm and kind to my brother when others would quickly dismiss him. Together, they planned a guys' trip to the west, a long drive from Tennessee to California's coast and back. But John never got to see the Pacific Ocean. And that still hurts.

As they drove deeper into the west, John and his buddy made a stop at the Grand Canyon to traverse the Bright Angel Trail, to stand by the shore of the extraordinary Colorado River, to just be in God's incredible creation.

After a sweltering June hike into the canyon, where John made it down to the bottom before his friend, he decided he would swim the Colorado River. Even knowing its grave dangers, John took the risk to get into the water, to challenge the roaring, raging currents. Up to this point, he'd struggled with depression and other obstacles that most people would never endure or try to comprehend. I believe John had been through so much that he didn't mind taking the chance; that this river wasn't the worst compared to painful torrents of growing up neurodivergent, when no one really knew what that was at the time, when others harshly judged his brilliant differences.

John had just turned 21 the week before he passed away. He went into the river that day and the river released his beautiful soul back into nature where he had always belonged.

That evening in Tennessee, my parents got a phone call that felt so ominous that I sat behind their bedroom door and cried. I knew something was wrong. Shortly after, a police officer came to our front door, confirming that my brother was missing.

Then, things started moving quickly and slowly all at once. Our dear pastor and his wife visited us that night to pray. My grandparents came into town. John appeared in my dreams to assure me everything was going to be okay.

But 21 days later, one for each year of his life, and after many helicopter and ground searches, a rafting tour group located my brother's body. We got a call. And everything we feared suddenly changed us forever.

I would regret not saying goodbye to him. I would regret not wishing him happy birthday while he was on the trip because, in 1995, cell phones were only for emergencies, if you even had one. I would shame myself for not being nicer to him when I had the chance. I would acknowledge that, years later, every 16-year-old kid fights with their siblings. I would still have a hard time forgiving myself even then.

When people say, "We'll all eventually join the grief club," I can generally agree. But, what's not factored in is the when. When you join this club as a child or teenager like I did, you're already in the throes of defining who you are and who you want to be. Adding in a significant loss rearranges everything.

I want others struggling with early loss to know that it's okay to give yourself extra grace. While you've watched your peers live long lives with their siblings or parents, you've had to keep going without that core person you needed and wanted to know for much longer. You've been through holidays and regular days just wishing you could share a story or a little bit of time with them. You've wondered what they would've been like today.

What others should know about those who've lost a brother or sister when they were young is, that most people don't think about the siblings. Everyone focuses on the parents, for obviously good reason, but the other kids sometimes fade into the background, helping to comfort their mom and/or dad, trying to tiptoe around emotions, and maybe getting overlooked in between. Sometimes, parents become overly cautious, limiting your activities for fear of losing you, too. Sometimes, they keep you frozen in time, at the age you were when your sibling died. Sometimes, you don't know your place in the order of the family anymore, and you don't know how to answer the question, "Do you have any siblings?"

But how I've grown, and how I hope others grow, too, is that loss has given me the ability to really feel, to care about others in ways I might not have if we were all still here. It's connected me with kindred spirits, like Katy, who's graciously given me the opportunity to write my story today. It's made me appreciate all the details of this life and the people and animals I love so much.

I'll never heal from losing my sibling. I'll never know why anything sad happens to any of us. But I'll continue and I'll bring my big brother, John, along with me, too.

Grief Story by Kat Stano

Friend, have you ever struggled to answer a question like “Do you have siblings?” or “How many children do you have?” because of a loss? What emotions come up for you in those moments? In what ways has grief reshaped your identity? If you’ve lost a sibling — or someone close to you early in life — what are some things you wonder about them now?

Leave a comment

Katherine "Kat" Stano is a writer with heart, a children's book author, and a passionate sustainability blogger.

Kat grew up on 40 acres in Tennessee, Nashville, where her imagination ran as wild as the dandelions. Even as a little girl, she cherished "paper hugs" — birthday and Christmas cards she lovingly stashed in her grandma's vintage kiss-lock purse. — a sign of the meaningful words she'd one day write for a living.

For over 20 years, Kat has been a Senior Writer at Hallmark Cards, best known for her compassionate voice in grief and sympathy messages. Her personal experience and research have helped her offer comfort through both cards and articles.

Kat recently teamed up with her husband and co-authored Bear Strong, a children's book based on a real rescue pup named Bear, with all proceeds going to the non-profit ThisIsHouston to help neglected street dogs. It's a beautiful story of hope, healing, and second chances.

Kat holds a BA in Music from the University of Mississippi (Hotty Toddy!). She is also a musician, nature lover, and devoted dog mom to a Schnoodle, Cosette (aka "the best girl in the world") — whose charming schnoodnanigans you can follow here.

Want to know more? Visit Kat's blog and sign up for her upcoming newsletter, The Stanomaly, or connect with her on Instagram, Pinterest, or Facebook.

We live in a world that is, in so many ways, grief illiterate - especially when it comes to grief that doesn’t stem from death. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t initially realise that what I was experiencing after a life changing accident was actually grief. It might not have been the type that can easily be named or neatly explained. But it was still grief.

Over the past year, through the Grief Stories series, I’ve had the privilege of holding a space for people to share their hardest truths. I'm so grateful to every single griever who has opened their heart and spoke of their pain aloud. Thanks to them, we’ve been able to shine a light on the many faces of grief - from the loss of a parent or child, to the less quieter, but often more complicated kinds - the living losses.

Lea Turner’s story, “When You Experience Grief Without Closure,” captures this beautifully. She shares a quote, that has stayed with me, which reveals that some of the most painful losses we carry are for people who are still alive.

And maybe that’s where you find yourself, too. Perhaps a relationship has broken down. Or maybe mental illness, addiction, or dementia has slowly taken someone you love and left a version you hardly recognise. This kind of grief doesn’t always make sense to others and it can feel deeply, unbearably lonely. But just because a loss isn’t final, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

It’s a strange kind of mourning—grieving someone who is still here, yet no longer present in the way they once were. There’s no funeral. No flowers. No cards in the post. No one says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” But the loss lives on. It shows up in birthdays not celebrated, in calls not answered, in the ache of remembering who they once were.

There’s no timeline for this kind of grief - there’s no timeline for any type of grief. No map, no script, no clean-cut answers. There’s just your way - one breath, one tear, one small act of self-kindness at a time. My heart goes out to everyone who finds themselves sitting in the silence of such loss, just like Kristen. Today, I’m honoured to share her grief story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Kristen Neighbarger bravely shares her experience of this very kind of grief. Her words are a gentle reminder that missing someone who is still alive doesn’t make you weak - it makes you human. And if you’re walking that quiet path of ambiguous loss, I want you to know that your pain matters. Your grief is valid, and you are not alone. There is space for you here.

I’m deeply grateful to Kristen for sharing her story with such honesty and vulnerability. Her words are a testament to resilience and a source of comfort for anyone grieving a presence that’s no longer here in the way it once was. If her words speak to you, please let us know what you found meaningful in the comments.

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‘Grieving the Loss of a Living Loved One’ by Kristen Neighbarger

Grief Story #013

I came back from lunch and plopped down at my desk to finish up my day when I heard my cell phone buzzing from a desk drawer. It was 2009–a time before the iPhone infiltrated my world. I had several missed calls, a voicemail, and a slew of texts from my brother. "That's strange," I thought, as he lives in a different state and isn't in the habit of calling me and texting me often.

I listened to his voicemail first. Instantly, my heart sank. His message was a frantic, panicked plea for me to call him immediately, and something about my parents being in a motorcycle accident. I called him back and listened as he recounted the few details he had from the paramedic on the scene.

• My parents were in a hit-and-run accident.

• My mom was up and walking around, but was transported to a local hospital.

• My dad was unconscious at the scene and was life-flighted to a level-one trauma unit.

• The paramedic found a random Emergency Contact card in my mom's wallet, on which my brother had obnoxiously written "Favorite Child" and his number.

Immediately, I jumped into problem-solving mode and started asking my brother questions he had no answers to. We called every level 1 trauma unit in the area around where their accident happened until we found our parents. They were in two different hospitals in a city two hours away from me, and the outlook was bleak for my dad, according to the nurse I talked to in the trauma unit.

I left immediately with the clothes on my back and my printed-out MapQuest directions.

Midway through my drive, I received a call from the hospital where my mom was requesting my permission to perform brain surgery. Immediately, I called my aunt, who gave me updated directions to the hospital where my mom was, and headed there. I couldn't even wrap my head around everything that was happening as I sped to the hospital in an attempt to see my mom before they took her to surgery, while praying my dad was going to be okay for a little while longer without me.

I sat in the hall of the surgery waiting room into the wee hours of the morning and prayed and prayed and prayed until I didn't have any words.

My mind went down every rabbit hole it could find:

• What would we do if she died?

• Had I called everyone who needed to know what was happening?

• How could I live without my mom?

• What would happen to my dad?

• How could Kate grow up without her grandma?

• Who did I need to call at her school?

• What would happen to our family without my mom holding us together?

• Why was this happening?

• What do I do now?

After the surgery, the neurosurgeon came out to talk to me. I was exhausted, and his accent was heavy. Despite both details, I knew the outlook wasn't promising, and if she did make it, her recovery was going to be grueling.

Acceptance, Grief, and Healing

For the next 6 months, my mom was jostled around to various rehabilitation facilities focused on therapy for patients with Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI). Looking back, it feels like a complete whirlwind of balancing visits to different hospitals, organizing babysitters for my daughter, managing my own life, trying to manage my parents' lives, and figuring out how to be a caretaker.

Finally, the week of Thanksgiving, she came home. While she looked completely healthy from the outside, her language and cognition still suffered immensely. Along with those struggles came the frustration of not being understood or understanding others. That frustration turned my mom into a different person when she was interacting with me and my dad. We've all heard how we're the hardest on the people who are closest to us, and that was most definitely the case for us.

The first twelve years after the accident were a giant roller coaster for all of us–never knowing what would set my mom off, what we do that would make her belligerent, or how our actions might be misunderstood. In the last few years, something has shifted in her, thankfully. She isn't as mean, doesn't get as frustrated, and is more at peace. Because she doesn't understand language well, it's impossible to reason with her, and she hates it when we explain things repeatedly. Consequently, even now, it feels like we're on a tightrope trying to keep our balance as we walk over Niagara Falls.

As we struggled through her recovery, I hated the looks of pity and well-meaning comments that started with "Well, at least..." I've learned over the years that any statement that begins with "At least" should probably not be finished! As I struggled to process all these feelings, I started to understand that what I was feeling was grief.

It took me years to reconcile this and even longer to be able to say it out loud to my closest friends. I was so afraid people would judge me and look down their noses at me for not appreciating that my mom had lived and was thriving despite her injuries.

Finally, though, I understood that to begin healing, I had to acknowledge what I had lost, and what I had lost was the mom I had known and loved for the first 30 years of my life. It wasn't that this new mom and this new relationship weren't good, important, and worthy. It was that the old relationship, the one I knew and cherished, was dead.

And, I had to grieve that.

Grieving the loss of a living person isn't something I'd ever heard anyone talk about. It feels a little taboo to say it and admit it, even. Unfortunately, though, for some of us, it is our reality–likely a reality we never would have chosen.

If you find yourself in that reality today, know I see you. I understand the complex emotions you are experiencing, and I pray that you, too, find your way toward healing.

Grief Story by Kristen Neighbarger

Friend, are you missing someone who is still alive? What does that kind of grief feel like for you? Have you found community or connection with those who understand? How do you honour the love or connection that still exists, even in absence? Share in the comments.

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Kristen Neighbarger: Faith-Rebuilder, Word-Wrangler, and Social Media Sage
She's the woman who can turn spiritual rubble into resurrection and help you craft an Instagram caption that actually gets comments.

A published author, author coach, and launch strategist with a heart that beats for healing and justice, Kristen helps survivors of spiritual abuse reconstruct their faith without the guilt trip. Whether she's unpacking theological tension, guiding writers through imposter syndrome, or flexing her Canva muscle, she does it all with grit, grace, and just enough sass to keep it interesting.

She's not here for fluff, hustle culture, or branding BS—but she is here to help you get unstuck, start sharing your message, and build a sustainable platform that doesn't suck the life out of your soul.

Coffee-fueled, cardio-committed, and always a few steps ahead—Kristen's the coach you didn't know you needed, but now can't imagine navigating writing or faith without.

You can find more about Kristen on her website or connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, or Pinterest.

I knew I was missing my life from before the accident—there was a longing, a quiet ache that I couldn’t quite name. But it wasn’t until I watched my husband experience the raw, turbulent emotions of finding out that his mum had terminal cancer that I realised I was grieving. I didn’t recognize it at first. After all, no one had died in my accident—so how could I possibly be grieving? Grief is supposed to come with a clear story, right? A death, a finality. Or so I thought.

The truth is, losses that don’t come with caskets often go unrecognised. We don’t always realise what we’re going through is grief if it doesn’t follow the traditional narrative of death. I’m, therefore, so grateful for another story that illuminates this invisible pain and the hidden grief of what I’ve come to call living loss.

As someone who became a chronic pain warrior after my traumatic accident, my heart truly goes out to everyone who finds themselves grieving the life they once knew. I’ve walked through this too. I’ve felt the weight of what was lost, the subtle ache for the version of me that existed before everything shifted. And I know I’m not alone. There are so many of us moving through the world with silent pain and grief. Today, I’m deeply honoured to share one of those stories.

In today’s Grief Stories, Fern Buszowski courageously shares her own experience of this kind of loss. She encourages us to make space for the subtle yet profound grief that follows a life-changing health diagnosis that requires us to find peace with a new reality. From Fern’s journey, we learn that while grief is undeniably painful, it can also serve as a powerful teacher and catalyst for healing, offering us opportunities for growth, resilience, and a deeper understanding of both life and loss.

Fern’s journey is also the heart of her book, Embrace Life, Embrace Hope: Cultivating Wholeness and Resilience through the Unexpected. In it, she invites readers to explore how we can embrace both life and hope—even when the unexpected arrives, whether it be in the form of illness, loss, or an unwanted change. Her story is not just about surviving—it’s about thriving in the face of adversity, finding a way forward, and embracing wholeness.

I’m deeply grateful to Fern for sharing her story with such courage and vulnerability. Her words are a powerful reminder of resilience and offer inspiration to all of us who find ourselves navigating challenging and uncertain times. Please join me in celebrating her journey and share what resonated with you in the comments below.

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‘Heartbreak to Hope and the Power of Overcoming: Navigating Grief Through the Unexpected’ by Fern Buszowski

Grief Story #012

Some of the most devastating news we can receive is an unexpected health diagnosis. It brings unwanted change dragging us into a cycle of grief that isn’t often spoken about or acknowledged.

In 2020, I was diagnosed with stage III oral cancer where I underwent an 8-hour surgery, removal of a saliva gland, a neck dissection, removal of 33 lymph nodes, reconstruction of my tongue, and 30 days of radiation treatment. Hospitalized during pandemic restrictions meant no family or visitors for 11 days whilst in the hospital. A tracheostomy rendered me unable to speak for the first 5 days. I had no choice but to survive the best I could.

Recovery, I quickly realized, was going to be more challenging than anticipated. Then, within a few short months, I was diagnosed with pre-melanoma skin cancer and a serious autoimmune disease requiring medication to keep it in remission.

Serious health diagnoses can be traumatic bringing grief that impacts every part of us – body, soul, and spirit.

It’s filled with losses from expecting a pain-free life, relationship changes, activities, energy, freedom, and more. Discouragement, helplessness, and loneliness can befriend this grief.

There is also anticipatory grief that can arise because diseases often deteriorate over time resulting in more losses causing some to self-isolate to minimize the impact of experiencing future grief.

Choosing to be an Overcomer

After a couple of years of coping with health issues, I realized it was time to make a choice – and asked myself “Who do I want to be?” – An overcomer who can accept challenging health situations, learn new ways of coping, and live from a place of hope or a victim who lets suffering throw shame and grief over my health conditions bringing resentment and bitterness into my heart?

I chose to be an overcomer. My definition of an overcomer is "One who has risen above, surmounted, or had a positive influence over a difficult experience by prevailing, trusting, hoping, and doing some very hard inner work.”

As we cultivate the practice of building resilience while facing difficulties, we are practicing being an overcomer. It doesn’t mean that our pain or suffering magically goes away. It means we draw from a toolkit of soul care resources that can strengthen us like praying, walking, journalling, talking, reading, playing music, art activities, or reaching out for help from trusted others – God, friends, family, spiritual leaders, or professionals for support.

Overcomers develop regular practices that help build resilience.

Our stories need to be witnessed. First by God, and then our family and friends who are part of our safe community. As we courageously express our grief to God, He welcomes our prayers of lament because He can help us heal along the way. He also created us for community. When we are able to share our journeys within safe community we can welcome in even more healing.

We must trust the healing process because healing physically, emotionally, and spiritually takes time.

Overcomers don’t ignore the pain, sadness, or the grief illness brings.

With gentle kindness, we attend to our pain by being patient and compassionate with ourselves. We work at recognizing the signs of grief, acknowledging the losses and the difficulties of coping with it, naming the emotions experienced, uncovering a need that might help in that moment, and reaching out to God or a trusted other who can help us attend to the pain.

Overcomers take things day by day cultivating resilient habits.

We attempt to do our best to:

• Manage expectations realizing plans can change at any given moment.

• Accept the changes in our body, energy levels, and abilities recognizing that they may fluctuate but our value as human beings does not!

• Listen and watch for clues that we’re grieving and create a healthy space to express our grief.

• Recognize that being vulnerable and asking for help is an act of courage and trust.

• Remember that we are designed to heal and that it may come in surprising ways – body, soul, and spirit.

• Look for the good around us and intentionally express gratitude for it.

• Remember God is faithful. He sees us, sees our pain, and is with us in the journey.

God has a way of taking our suffering and our sorrows and turning them into something good and beautiful – we must hang on to this truth.

God Brings Good Things

As I regularly release my expectations and my old ways of living, I still uncover moments where I feel a bit stuck and need to lament– often through tears, prayers, and journalling because it creates room in my heart to see the good, new opportunities lying ahead. There are times where I see God’s goodness coming through the making of a new friend, a meaningful conversation, a quiet walk, unexpected invitations to speak, or time to write or paint, bake, read, or rest.

There’s always something good to see if we take the time to look because God is a good God. God sees us, hears us, and draws close to comfort us. Even if we aren’t aware of it.

Illness is the sacred journey I am on, where in God’s goodness, He is walking with me and continues to transform my heart because He is a good and faithful God.

Affirmations help me say along this path of hope and bring me the gift of remembering that cultivates daily perseverance:

• God hears us and is aware of our sorrows (Psalm 56:8). He collects our tears and is close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18)

• It’s good to shift our attention from what we can’t get, accomplish or acquire to uncovering new ways to give to others and to honour God’s call on our lives (Micah 6:8)

• Enjoy being present, in the here and now, because sometimes tomorrow’s plans may not materialize. (Psalm 90:12))

• Cultivate a deepening trust in God in ways that will strengthen us, help us persevere, and bring us peace. (Isaiah 26:3)

• Place our treasures in God, His character, His purposes, and His ways and they will always bring great hope, peace, and gratitude.

A few years ago, my son-in-law penned these insightful words :

“You write your life with the words you tell yourself, words you believe are true. Learn to rewrite your life with God’s truth.” Rev. T Truong

God is still writing each of our stories, and I think He invites us into that journey of writing our stories by the way in which we respond to life’s experiences.

Grief will always be with me but so will great joy, as well as God and His goodness.

Not by choice but by design!

Grief Story by Fern Buszowski

Friend, have you ever grieved a living loss? What did you wish others understood more deeply about your pain and loss? What is helping you to navigate it? Share in the comments.

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Fern Buszowski, MALM, MA Counseling, is an award-winning author, public speaker, thriving cancer survivor, and autoimmune warrior. She has spent most of her career equipping others to grow, develop, and find hope through counseling, workshops, programs, and training, locally and internationally. She is passionate about encouraging others to cultivate curiosity, choose hope, seek wholeness, and develop life practices that nurture their soul uncovering all that God has in store for them and shares stories of hope at events, podcasts, and more recently on the TV show Legacy Makers.

Her award-winning book “Embrace Life, Embrace Hope: Cultivating Wholeness and Resilience through the Unexpected” grew out of her experience with tongue cancer during Covid restrictions. She established the “Embrace Life, Embrace Hope” foundation through the Canadian National Christian Foundation (CNCF) to raise funds for cancer research and support groups for cancer patients and their families. Fern lives with her husband Steve in Alberta. They have two grown married daughters, two sons-in-law, and five grandchildren.

You can find more about Fern on her website: Hope Blooming or on her blog: Cultivating Wholeness Along the Way or connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, or Linked-in.

Loss takes many forms, and while each one may feel different, they are all equally valid. However, whilst all losses matter, because you matter, it may not always feel so. We often fall into the comparison trap, labelling some losses as ‘worse’ than others. As already mentioned in previous Grief Stories, our society tends to downplay certain types of losses, leaving grievers feeling like their grief isn’t as significant as others - pregnancy loss being an example of this.

This is despite the fact that pregnancy loss is a heart-breaking experience that affects many, and no matter how early or late in the pregnancy, the pain is real and valid. Yet it often doesn’t get the acknowledgement it deserves. My heart goes out to every woman and family who experienced pregnancy loss, just like Anna. Today I’m sharing her story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Anna Kettle bravely shares her experience of multiple pregnancy losses. Her story reminds us that every pregnancy loss is not the same. The emotional, physical, and psychological impacts can vary greatly not only from person to person but also from loss to loss.

Her deeply personal journey led her to co-create SPACE, a miscarriage and infertility peer support network. It is a unique space where those wrestling with questions about pregnancy or baby loss, infertility or faith can connect and support each other. Whether you’ve experienced a miscarriage in the early weeks, a stillbirth, or the loss of a pregnancy at any stage, each one carries its own unique grief.

I’m deeply grateful to Anna for sharing her story with such honesty and vulnerability. Anna’s words are an important reminder to honour your feelings, whatever they may be, and give yourself the grace to grieve in your own way and time. Please let us know what you found meaningful in the comments.

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‘Healing After Recurrent Miscarriage’ by Anna Kettle

Grief Story #011

It was December 2017 when my family plans were first turned upside down by a sudden and unexpected miscarriage. As we left the hospital, after the scan that had confirmed my worst fears, I was devastated, and so was my husband Andy.

My son was two and a half at the time, and we had just lost our second baby. So we spent most of the run-up to that holiday season in a fog of sadness, just going through the festive motions and feigning half smiles, but unable to summon any genuine kind of joy.

I never expected a miscarriage to happen to me until it did, even though I knew that the experience was pretty common. It was such a shock initially, and I couldn’t stop wondering, Why me? What had I done wrong to deserve this, I kept asking, even though rationally I already knew that the answer was nothing.

It was such a confusing, emotional time – and it left me with lots of questions about my body. What had gone wrong, and why had it let me down? But once I got over my initial disappointment and sadness, I reasoned that I would just take a few months to physically recover and then try again.

Five months later I found myself pregnant again, and in an instant, my disappointment shifted back to hope for the future. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place. Our rainbow baby (a baby after loss) was on its way, my son was finally going to be a big brother, and I would be a mum again.

But my excitement was quickly shattered again when I suffered a second miscarriage. This second loss hit me really hard. Experiencing two losses within six months felt so unfair and it left me feeling angry, anxious, and undone. I spent a lot of time in tears.

And I had so many questions whirling in my head. What if something serious was wrong with me? What if it happens again and again? How many times were we willing to put ourselves through this pain? Suddenly I found myself in conversations with doctors about recurring loss, and nothing felt certain anymore.

In the months that followed, we were advised by our medical team to take a pause on trying to conceive while we had some tests at the local hospital’s recurrent miscarriage clinic. That was a hard decision because, in the emptiness of loss, it can feel like the only ‘fix’ for your pain is getting pregnant again.

But although it went against everything I wanted at that time, in the end, the invitation to stop trying for a season of time was a small mercy as it gave us some time to heal emotionally and get into a healthier mindset before trying again.

That autumn, after a summer of various tests and screenings, we got the ‘all clear’. All of our results came back normal, with no medical issues found and so we were advised to try again.

So we did – feeling greatly reassured by this news, and hopeful after our break. Perhaps it would be third time lucky, we thought. And for a while, it felt so perfect. I conceived again on my birthday weekend, which was surely a sign. A gift from God?

But it was not to be as soon after, I miscarried again. And this time, it was a silent miscarriage, which meant we didn’t have any indication of anything being wrong until we were told that there was no heartbeat during a routine scan.

Nothing. Just stillness and silence. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing or seeing, even though I was looking at the screen with my own eyes. Less than two weeks earlier we had seen our baby girl with a healthy heartbeat. Everything was fine, but now suddenly we were being ushered into a quiet side room by some nurses and offered surgery options.

We were both in total shock and couldn’t quite take it in. How could this be happening to us again? This wasn’t supposed to happen again! The experience left me completely crushed. We really felt that this pregnancy was going to be okay. We had prayed hard, trusted God, and even felt God giving us specific promises about our child. We also believed medical staff when they said that things looked good this time.

Discovering that they weren’t, left us feeling incredibly let down by God. But perhaps what hurt most was the loss of our hope for future pregnancies. We were both almost 40 by then, and time was no longer on our side. What’s more, our miscarriages remained ‘unexplained’ which meant no real medical diagnosis or treatment could be offered.

Why was this happening to us? Where was God? Why wasn’t he answering our prayers? Did he care about us at all? I had no answers. But in the end, what else could I do except cry out to God in my brokenness?

So that’s what I did. I shut my bedroom door and just cried, shouted, and screamed at God. In fact, in the weeks that followed, I did this over and over again. The Bible is full of prayers of lament like this. Just look at the book of Psalms, Lamentations or Job for some good examples.

And what I discovered there in the Bible, as well as in my own journey was not a God who always instantly takes away our pain and makes everything right again, but a God who walks with us through our grief. The God of all comfort, who extends his hope, his peace, and his comfort to us in the darkest of times.

It was a huge comfort to know that I wasn’t alone in my grief, and also to be able to hold onto the hope of heaven and know that even if I never had any more children, one day I would hold my babies again. As a Christian, I know that I have a hope which extends beyond the grave.

But our story hasn’t concluded neatly, or with a happy ending. Instead, what followed was three years of infertility spanning through Covid when all of our hospital care shut down, and into our early 40s where fertility naturally wanes.

Gradually, we began making our peace with being a one-child family, even though we never stopped wanting a larger family, only to experience an unexpected fourth pregnancy and miscarriage last year, which took us through this whole cycle of shock, disappointment, anger, confusion and grief again.

Recurrent miscarriage is without a doubt the greatest heartbreak I have ever faced in life. It is grief layered on top of grief, but it’s also a fairly invisible form of loss too as it often happens before many people even know that you’re pregnant.

Perhaps that’s been part of the reason why I launched SPACE, which is an online support community for people experiencing miscarriage or infertility.

It feels good to channel my grief into something positive that can support others facing a similar journey, and help reassure them that they are not alone.

Grief Story by Anna Kettle

Friend, have you walked through the heart-breaking journey of pregnancy loss? How did that experience shape your heart, and what did you wish others understood more deeply about the pain of loss and the grief that comes with it? In those tender moments of sorrow, what did you find to be the most comforting or healing? Share in the comments.

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Anna Kettle is a published author, podcaster, speaker, and an award-winning marketing professional. Her first book, ‘Sand Between Your Toes: Inspirations for a Slower, Simpler, More Soulful Life’ is out under Tyndale House.

She is the co-founder of SPACE, a miscarriage and infertility peer support network and can also be found regularly writing and speaking about healing from grief and holding onto hope when things are hard – including on her blog Notes on Life and on What’s the Story? podcast which she co-hosts.

Anna is married to her husband Andy, and mum to Ben (aged 10). They live in the beautiful waterfront city of Liverpool.

You can find more about Anna and her work on her website annakettle.com or connect with her on Facebook or Instagram.

Change is hard, especially if it is one we didn't want. And loss is an unwanted change. We didn't ask for it, yet someone or something precious has been taken from us. Loss changes everything, some losses can rearrange our world, and the subsequent grief can change the trajectory of our lives forever.

Change is never easy, and sometimes, it can feel like it’s an endless tug-of-war inside us. When closure is absent, it’s as if we’re left standing on the edge of something we never quite understood, desperately searching for an answer that refuses to come. There’s a certain weight to those unfinished chapters, a heaviness that lingers.

This is what I felt after my traumatic accident, when I have not lost only my health, but also my dreams, ambitions, aspirations, hopes… I had to mourn not only the past, but also the future I had previously imagined.

Grieving the loss of a life you expected is a quiet, often invisible kind of pain. It’s not the sharp, obvious sorrow of losing something tangible—it’s the ache of all the dreams, plans, and expectations that never had the chance to unfold. I think of Michelle, who so bravely shared her grief story, shedding light on this invisible pain and the hidden grief of lost expectations. My heart goes out to everyone who finds themselves grieving this silent, internal loss - the mourning of the life they thought they would live and the future they once imagined, just like Lea. Today, I’m honoured to share her grief story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Lea Turner bravely shares her experience of loss, encouraging us to make space for the subtle grief that comes from life taking an unexpected turn, meaning we must learn to find peace with a new reality.

Her deeply personal journey became the foundation for her book The Freedom to Feel: Finding God in the Midst of Grief and Trauma. In it, Lea invites readers to see pain not as a problem to fix, but as an opportunity to connect with God. She offers no formula for coping with loss, but instead encourages embracing emotions and finding comfort in a God who understands.

I’m deeply grateful to Lea for sharing her story with such honesty and vulnerability. Her words are a testament to resilience, providing comfort and hope for when life feels unfamiliar, as if the ground beneath us has shifted and we’re left trying to find our footing again. Please let us know what you found meaningful in the comments.

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‘When You Experience Grief Without Closure’ by Lea Turner

Grief Stories #010

My grief started with an unexpected call from my mom saying my dad fell and then followed by eight months of him battling brain cancer. The eighth-month period seemed like an eternity, yet also a blink of an eye. And then suddenly, during our collective prayers and fervent longing for a miracle, he's gone. The loss cut through us like a jagged blade, leaving behind an indelible void. It is a devastating blow, shattering our dreams and leaving us in a sea of grief.

In the coming years, I received five devastating phone calls, each ushering in a new and unique wave of pain and suffering. There were unexpected moments of grief, each different from the other. First, my father’s death, then my mom’s unexpected cancer diagnosis, our complete house fire, my son’s heart surgery, and finally, my oldest son’s addiction. It all caused grief to bubble to the surface, demanding attention, but the grief from my son’s addiction felt different.

I remember cleaning my son’s room after he left for rehab, crying, and feeling the weight of the reality of his addiction. My heart aches from missing him and wondering if I’ve done everything I could for him. I thought I could love him to wholeness. I tried to be there for him every time he reached out. How can I fill the emptiness I feel? How can I love him through this when nothing I do seems to be enough? Isn’t a mother supposed to protect her children from something like this happening?

Grief often comes from an unexpected chain of events: a job loss, a divorce, shattered dreams, a sudden diagnosis, or infertility, and you are left trying to make sense of it all. We often scratch our heads, wondering what went wrong. How on earth can this be my reality? Do I trust God to make everything right? We don’t know what to do with unmet dreams and prayers.

The reality is, we can do it all right and still be sitting here grieving the unexpected. We never think life will take such a drastic turn—not in a million years. So here we are, grieving the loss of what we expected life to look like.

I had to grieve what I thought life should look like for my son: all the unfulfilled expectations—the clear path through college, the vacations without arguing, and then, there is the unknown. Will he ever be clean and whole? What will the future look like for our family? I longed to tie a bow around our story, but sometimes life isn’t neat and pretty. I wish for a red bow to neatly wrap around it all, assuring me that life is nothing but a collection of fairy-tale endings, but it’s not, and I don’t.

Over the years, I’ve realized I’m not alone. After loss or trauma, many people navigate a wilderness of emotions and can’t make sense of the grief that has no closure. We find ourselves sweeping up broken pieces of our shattered lives despite trying to avoid the pain.

I don’t know what your unexpected loss that brings on grief without closure is. It could be a divorce, an unexpected diagnosis, infertility, a wayward child making poor choices, a sudden accident that causes life to turn upside down, a job loss, or even unmet dreams. No matter what, God is there, right there in the mess of it.

There seem to be more questions than answers, and you continue to ask yourself if you’ve done something wrong to deserve this. You sit in disbelief and wonder if God will ever intervene. However, when we strip away the layers of hurt and pain, we realize we are grieving what we thought life should look like—grieving the change in plans because this isn’t what we expected. So, it really isn’t about the closure—it’s the loss of what life should have been. It’s the loss of what you thought life should look like.

I know the deep ache of that pain all too well. Allow the tears to flow and the praises to arise because God is still God. He hasn’t changed just because life has. He never leaves us, and He’s always working even when He seems silent.

Resist the urge to bypass your emotions. It can take some time. While others may stop in the darkness, we can allow ourselves to pause because we know He walks us through the darkness (Psalm 23:4).

Healing comes in the moments of silence, where we acknowledge the grief and pain. An Austrian pianist and composer, Artur Schnabel, once said, “The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pause between the notes—ah, that is where the art resides.” Like the music, silence is not a void but an opportunity to recognize our feelings and grieve those unmet expectations.

I leave you with these words: “If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there; if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath” (Psalm 24:18 MSG).

Grief Story by Lea Turner

Friend, are you craving rest? Are you feeling weary, your soul thirsting for something more? In this season of grief, how can you nurture your spirit and find the refreshment you deeply need? Share in the comments.

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Lea Turner is a heartfelt, empathetic writer and speaker who longs to meet and encourage us in our pain. Joyfully broken through three years of her family struggling with trauma and loss, including death, cancer, losing everything to a house fire, drug addiction, loss of a dream, and heart surgery, has made her a reluctant expert on grief. Lea is a soulful listener and wisdom seeker passionate about walking with grieving people through trauma, pain, and loss. She lives in Mississippi with her husband and five kids, making her a northern girl stuck in a southern world.

She is the author of the book, The Freedom to Feel: Finding God in the Midst of Grief and Trauma. Lea’s book gently guides readers to face their pain with kindness, seek hope in God’s promises, and learn how to support each other through suffering. It’s a heartfelt resource for both those grieving and those who want to better support them.

You can find more about Lea and her work on her website leaturner.com or connect with her on Facebook or Instagram.

There are countless types of loss, and some may feel heavier than others. But grief is never a competition, and our losses should never be compared. While every loss is unique, grief is a universal experience. When we're in the midst of that turmoil, it all hurts, and the only way to heal is to walk through the pain.

Today, I want to acknowledge a type of loss that often goes unnoticed—yet is far from uncommon—and deserves more attention. Unacknowledged losses can be some of the most difficult to carry. These are the losses that often go unnoticed by others, the ones we may even feel pressured to push aside ourselves. This hidden grief or sorrow, called disenfranchised grief, is the kind of grief that goes unrecognised or unacknowledged by society.

Whether it’s the loss of an expectation, identity, a dream, or a sense of safety, these losses don’t always fit into the neat boxes of what others expect us to grieve. Because it’s often minimized or misunderstood, it can be especially difficult to navigate and heal from. This grief, though invisible to many, is just as real and painful as any other, and it deserves the space to be seen and felt. My heart is with all who experience this hidden grief, just like Michelle. Today, I’m honoured to share her grief story.

In today’s Grief Stories, Michelle Habrych courageously shares her journey of processing the profound losses tied to her pregnancy and the birth of her daughter, Anastasia. This deeply personal experience became the foundation for her book You Are Not Alone: My Experience with Postpartum Depression. Through her memoir, Michelle offers a lifeline to women facing the challenges of postpartum depression, sharing the kind of support and understanding she longed for during her darkest days.

I’m deeply grateful to Michelle for sharing her story with such honesty and vulnerability. Her words are a testament to resilience, providing comfort and hope to those who need it most. Please let us know what you found meaningful in the comments.

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‘The Hidden Grief of Postpartum Depression: Navigating Lost Expectations’ by Michelle Habrych

Grief Stories #009

Grief is a natural reaction to a deep loss, a loss of any kind. Typically, grief is associated with death. In my story, it accompanied a birth.

My son was born in early June 2001, happy and healthy. My husband and I were in love with this cute little boy who completed our family. I took him everywhere, enjoying my new life as a mother. I also started to get healthy and lose weight for the first time in my life.

Just before his first birthday, I discovered I was pregnant again. While we had not been doing anything to prevent such a possibility, we had hoped for a little more of an age gap between the two. Also, since I had been losing weight, I was discouraged that I would suddenly gain it all back as a result of the pregnancy. Though disappointed about the potential loss of my health success, my husband and I were pleased to welcome another child into our happy little family.

My first pregnancy had been complicated as a result of my pre-existing high blood pressure. The weight loss had helped somewhat, but I was still considered high risk. With this second pregnancy, my gynecologist ordered me to come in for weekly non-stress tests in the later months of my pregnancy to check the baby's well-being. He told me to be on bed rest as much as I could, knowing how impractical that would be with a toddler at home. Instead of enjoying our outings, we spent a lot of time in our living room, lying in front of a video on the television or something similar. Gone were the fun adventures we had been enjoying together; the playgroups and park dates ceased. This loss of freedom became another thing to lament.

The weather began to turn cold as fall turned into winter in Chicagoland where we lived, so staying home was not the worst thing for us. A mom friend watched my son for me so I could attend the weekly appointments on my own. Then, unexpectedly, at one early January appointment in 2003, my doctor turned to me and asked if I wanted to have a baby that evening. I was ready to be done with the pregnancy for sure, but I worried about my little boy who was still at my friend's house. His grandmother was able to pick him up and take care of him while my husband met me at the hospital.

This birth would be the second time I was induced due to my high blood pressure. Again, my doctor wanted to monitor the entire event so I was unable to experience what it was like to go into labor on my own. That loss was the first of many I would grieve in relation to my daughter's birth. Unlike all of the other moms I knew, I would not have an entertaining story to share about feeling contractions and speeding to the hospital or water breaking at an inconvenient location and going into labor. My story would be different: "They hooked me up to the pitocin and then hours and hours later, I gave birth."

While this loss was frustrating, I still looked forward to meeting my daughter. The fact that I had not had a chance to inform my toddler that I would not be home as planned heaped guilt upon me. However, I reasoned that he was still young enough so he would not remember. He had always had a cheerful disposition and never really experienced separation anxiety, willingly going with whoever would help watch him. As I waited for the medication to bring on the contractions, I thought about introducing them to each other and what fun we would all have together.

Then as morning dawned, my contractions grew stronger and more painful. I requested the epidural to numb my lower half for the delivery. There was some delay in having the medication administered. As they gave me the shot, I continued to contract so much that suddenly I was at 10 centimeters, fully ready for delivery. My doctor said to push. I felt every painful moment of that delivery. About half an hour after her delivery, I finally felt the epidural take effect, too late to be of any assistance. This numbness foreshadowed the incredible emotional difference between my postpartum experiences.

As soon as possible, I convinced the doctor that we were fine and to let us go home to our son. We were released the day after her birth. Later that week my newborn was discovered to be jaundiced. Then I began having horrible abdominal pain. It turned out that there was an infection in my uterus and I was admitted to the hospital without my newborn. I began to grieve another loss as I was alone in a hospital, unable to cuddle and nurse my daughter, our bonding was disrupted. When I returned home, it was to a fussy newborn, an exhausted husband, and a needy toddler. Without realizing it, I slowly began to mentally distance myself from them. It would be a couple of months before I was diagnosed with postpartum depression, and even longer until I was able to get the help I needed to work through it.

Through my journal and in counseling, I saw all of the losses I had experienced and needed to grieve. Until I acknowledged them, I would not be able to work through the feelings of anger, depression, inadequacy, sadness, and isolation I had suffered. I loved my daughter, yet her birth was the opposite of what I had expected. I was unprepared for such a departure from the blissful birth and following months I enjoyed with my son. Much of what I went through during that time was lost to my memory as a result of the extreme emotional stress I felt. I had to grieve the loss of those months with my newborn and toddler. I am grateful that the traumatic time eventually came to an end while still saddened that I can never get it back or even fully remember it.

Postpartum depression and other maternal mental health mood disorders affect 1 in 5 women. I was completely blindsided by my experience, partly because it was not openly discussed as it is today. Yet, there is still much to do to raise awareness of what can affect a mom during the months leading up to the birth of her child and after. I have written my memoir You are Not Alone: My Experience with Postpartum Depression to help those who are going through their own unexpected challenges. Additionally, I speak to groups to raise awareness and encourage women to seek help. There are moments I still grieve the losses related to my second pregnancy, yet I have found a way to turn them into something good by helping others.

Grief Story by Michelle Habrych

Friend, have you ever grieved an invisible loss? What does it look like for you and what is helping you to navigate it? Share in the comments.

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Illinois native Michelle Habrych lives with her college-age children, Jesse and Anastasia, and her husband, Brent, of 28 years. Her first book, You are Not Alone: My Experience with Postpartum Depression, is a memoir and self-help book. She is a hope*writer and speaks to groups around Chicagoland to raise awareness about postpartum depression.

When she is not writing, she enjoys reading, discussing books, and playing board games, as well as cheering for the Chicago Bears and dancing at local concerts.

You can find more about Michelle and her work on her website michellehabrych.com or you can connect with her on Facebook or Instagram.