Loss changes you. It’s natural to feel lonely and unsure when someone important is no longer there. When depression that follows loss is part of the picture, everything can feel heavier and harder to move through.

For a long time, that weight can feel constant – like you’re moving through fog. Separation can also create a space you don’t recognize, but it can also help you see yourself without old patterns or expectations. That distance can feel uncomfortable at first, but it is often where something begins to shift. You start to notice what you no longer need to carry.

It has been three years since I lost my twin, and I’ve chosen to step back so that I can find clarity. Removing myself from old dynamics means I am not reopening the same wounds every day. There is autonomy in that, and sometimes even peace. Rebuilding becomes about choosing what supports your well-being, rather than holding on to what no longer works.

But healing has its costs. When you are used to being on your own, it is easy to keep putting others first while carrying the emotional weight. Patterns do not simply disappear just because we step away – they can follow us if we do not learn to notice them.

Loss is hard. The same care you give to others is something you deserve too, especially as you work to rebuild your life after loss. That is what I have had to learn.

The post The Quiet Work of Healing After Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

Scientists tell us that time can be measured in two ways. One is by a unit of measurement such as seconds, days, years. For example, how old are you? Virtually everybody answers this question in years. But, did you ever consider how many days old you are? If you are near the age of 27 years you have lived approximately 10,000 days. For example, if your child, sibling, spouse, or parent died at age 40, this was around 15,000 days. How many of those days do you remember? If you consider life in terms of seconds, the average American lives about two billion, 500 million seconds (75 years). For most bereaved people, one of the long-term sources of grief is the fact that their loved one was deprived of more years of living.

Another way to measure time is by events. For example, how many summers of your loved one’s life do you remember? How vivid are they? What are the triggers for these memories? As the months and years pass, many people fear forgetting events in the life of their loved one.

I have a suggestion to help you call up positive memories of your child, sibling, spouse or parent whenever you wish.

1. First, take out a pen and paper and write every memory that immediately comes to mind. Don’t worry about details for now. Just write.
2. Next, find a label for each of the memories. For example, a mother whose seven-year-old daughter died writes four memories that immediately come to mind: her daughter’s first day of school; hunting for Easter eggs in her new dress; riding her bike on her sixth birthday; and sand castles they built on their trip to the ocean. She creates the following labels: First Day at School; Easter Dress; New Bike; Sand Castles.
3. Next, go through each memory and create as much detail as possible for each memory. Describe the setting, what was said, colors, temperature, smells, sounds, touches. Make a story out of the event.
4. Next, I want you to associate each memory with a different finger on your hands. For the woman above, she would grab the forefinger of her right hand, close her eyes and re-experience First Day at School. Next, she would grab her middle finger and associate it with the Easter Dress story, and so on. Then she would practice by associating each of ten stories with a different finger, bringing up the full detailed memory of each event.
5. Practicing this for a few days can create a very powerful list of quite wonderful memories that you can access at will.

Picture a 22-year-old man standing in line at the grocery store. His 18-year-old brother had died two years ago and he has recently put together a list of ten of his favorite memories. As he stands in line, he says to himself, “I’m going to grab my little finger and, for a few seconds, think about the time we went windsurfing.”  As he grabs his finger, he sees his brother being shown the fundamentals by the instructor, practicing on land, bending his knees, shifting his weight, getting into the water, climbing on the board, and attempting to stand.

He smiles as he sees both his brother and himself fall off their boards again and again. He nods as he next has a picturesque scene in his mind of his brother proudly standing and gliding across the water with the sun and blue sky in the background. He reaches the check-stand, pays his bill and walks out of the store somewhat comforted by a memory he knows he can bring up whenever he wants.

Give this technique a try, but make sure you create crystal clear memories of events in your mind.

Our brain functions in such a way that, as we are aware of the passage of time, we understand that some memories are “older” and more distant than others. However, if we practice like this on bringing up memories from time to time, we can reinforce the images and transcend the time gap between then and now. As you know, memories are all you have. Why not use them?

Visit him on Instagram: bobbaugher96 and www.bobbaugher.com

The post Keeping Memories Fresh Despite the Passage of Time appeared first on Open to Hope.

This is true for the families of fallen service members, for whom Memorial Day was made. It is also true for anyone grieving any kind of loss who finds that the public mood of remembrance brings their own private grief rushing back to the surface.

Whatever Memorial Day means to you this year, please know: there is no “right” way to do this day. There is only what helps your heart, and what doesn’t.

For more than two decades, my mother, Dr. Gloria Horsley, and I have walked with bereaved families through Open to Hope. After my brother Scott and cousin Matthew died in a car accident at 17, our family learned, year by year, how to navigate the holidays that show up on the calendar whether we feel ready or not. Below are the strategies that have helped my clients, my listeners, and my own family through navigate their way through Memorial Day.

Why Memorial Day Hits Differently After Loss

Holidays magnify grief. We know this from the research on bereavement and we know it from lived experience. Memorial Day in particular carries a layered emotional charge. The flags, the speeches, the somber news coverage, the ceremonies at cemeteries — all of it is designed to bring loss to the surface. For grievers, that surfacing can be powerful and sacred, or overwhelming and exhausting, sometimes all at the same time.

If you are a Gold Star family member, a surviving spouse, a bereaved sibling, or a parent who has lost a service member, Memorial Day is the day the nation finally turns toward the loss you carry every other day of the year. The intensity of that can be both a comfort and a burden. The Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS) has been a leading resource for military bereaved families for over thirty years, and they have a deep library of Memorial Day support if that is your community.

If your loved one was not a service member, your grief is no less real on this day. Many bereaved people are surprised by how strongly Memorial Day pulls on grief that has nothing to do with the military. Remembrance is remembrance.

8 Compassionate Ways to Cope with Grief on Memorial Day

1. Decide Whether to Lean In or Lean Back

Some grievers find healing in fully participating in Memorial Day rituals — visiting the cemetery, attending a ceremony, watching the parade, calling another bereaved family. Others find those same rituals retraumatizing. Neither response is wrong. Decide in advance which version of the day will serve you, and give yourself permission to plan accordingly.

2. Create a Personal Ritual

A ritual can be as small as lighting a candle in the morning, saying your loved one’s name, and sitting quietly for a few minutes. It can also be larger: visiting a place that mattered to them, displaying their photograph and military or service memorabilia, sharing their story with someone who never met them.

The point is not the size of the ritual. The point is that you marked the day on purpose.

3. Plan the Hard Hours, Not Just the Day

The full day can feel impossible to think about, but the hours often turn out to be the real challenge. The morning. The mid-afternoon when everyone else is at a barbecue. The slow drift toward evening. Plan something soft for each hard window — a walk, a phone call, a movie, a nap. (For more on this, see our practical strategies for holiday survival — the principles apply to Memorial Day too.)

4. Say Yes to Connection, Even If It Feels Hard

Bereaved people often pull inward on holidays because it feels safer. Sometimes that’s exactly what you need. But if you have someone in your life who “gets it” — a fellow surviving family member, a grief group, a faith community — let them know you’d like to be in touch on Memorial Day. A single message that says, “Thinking of you and [their name] today” can be enough to anchor a hard hour.

5. Be Selective About Social Media

Memorial Day social media is a complicated landscape for grievers. There are beautiful tributes, and there are also cookout photos that can feel jarring. Curate hard. Mute, scroll less, log off. Or share your own remembrance — many grievers tell me that posting about their loved one on Memorial Day was one of the most meaningful things they did all year.

6. Honor Yourself, Not Just the Loss

You are doing harder work this Memorial Day than most people realize. Eat the meal you actually want. Cancel the plans that drain you. Take the nap. Self-compassion is not selfish on a day of remembrance — it is part of the remembrance. (For more on hope as a survival skill, see How Grief Becomes Your Greatest Superpower.)

7. Do Something in Their Honor

Acts of kindness in your loved one’s name are one of the most healing rituals I know. Donate to a cause they cared about. Buy a stranger’s coffee. Volunteer at a veterans’ organization. Mentor a young person. Memorial Day is a beautiful day to translate love that has nowhere else to go into love that goes back into the world.

8. Anticipate the Aftershock

Many grievers find that the day after Memorial Day is harder than the day itself. The adrenaline of getting through the holiday wears off, and the grief settles back in. Plan something for Tuesday too — a slow morning, a check-in with a friend, a walk. (For more on this kind of pacing, see anticipate the anniversary years.)

A Word for Gold Star and Surviving Military Families

If you are grieving a service member, please accept this gesture of care from someone who has spent a career walking beside the bereaved: thank you. Thank you for the love you carried, and the love you keep carrying. Memorial Day belongs to you in a way it belongs to almost no one else, and you do not owe anyone a particular face on this day. Grief, pride, anger, exhaustion, love — all of it is sacred. Lean on the communities that understand, and let the rest of us hold space.

A Word for Anyone Grieving Any Loss

If your person was not a service member but Memorial Day still pulls hard on your heart, that is normal. Loss talks to loss. The country is in an act of public remembrance, and your private remembrance can ride those waves. You are allowed to grieve your loved one on a day that was technically built for someone else’s. Honor them however you wish.

Hope on the Other Side of This Day

Memorial Day will not always feel this heavy. It can soften. It can become a day where pride, gratitude, sorrow, and tenderness sit at the same table without crowding each other out. It can become a day you no longer dread, even if you never stop missing the person you love.

Whatever this Memorial Day looks like for you, please remember to give yourself grace.  You are grieving someone you loved with your whole heart on a day designed for remembering.

We are with you. The Open to Hope community is with you. And on the other side of this day, hope is still waiting.

The post Memorial Day After Loss: How to Honor Your Loved One Without Being Overwhelmed appeared first on Open to Hope.

And yet, when a sibling dies, the world tends to ask, “How are your parents holding up?”

I lost my brother Scott when I was 20 and he was 17. He died in a car accident, and our family was changed forever in the space of a single phone call. In the weeks and months that followed, I learned firsthand what it means to be a surviving sibling: a griever whose pain is real, whose loss is profound, and whose role in the story is too often misunderstood.

This post is for every brother and sister out there who has been told, gently or not so gently, that their grief is the side note. It isn’t. Sibling grief is its own grief. It deserves its own language, its own rituals, and its own care.

Why Sibling Loss Is Uniquely Complicated

Bereavement researchers have spent decades studying parental grief and spousal grief in detail. The grief of surviving siblings has, until relatively recently, received far less attention. As organizations like The Compassionate Friends have advocated for years, this gap has real consequences for surviving siblings.

The truth is, sibling loss carries some unique features that other griefs do not.

You Lose Your Longest Relationship

For most people, your sibling is the person you have known the longest in your life. Not your parents (who knew the world before you arrived), not your friends, not your spouse — your brother or sister. Losing the person who has been there since childhood is a particular kind of disorientation. The horizon line of your life shifts.

You Lose a Witness to Your Childhood

Siblings are often the only other people who remember the small details of your shared upbringing — the inside jokes, the family pets, the way the kitchen smelled at Christmas. When a sibling dies, those memories suddenly become solitary. You become the only one who remembers.

You Often Lose a Version of Your Parents, Too

When a parent loses a child, the parent you grew up with is usually changed forever. As a surviving sibling, you can find yourself grieving your sibling and quietly grieving the parent your sibling’s death took from you. (We’ve written about this layered loss in our piece on secondary loss after a brother’s death.)

You’re Often Treated as Support Staff

The worst-kept secret in sibling grief is how often surviving siblings become the unofficial caregivers of grieving parents while their own grief gets shelved. People ask how Mom is doing. People ask how Dad is doing. They forget to ask how you are. Sometimes for years.

Your Grief Doesn’t Fit a Tidy Story

Sibling relationships are complicated. Your brother might have been your best friend. Your sister might have been your rival. You might have been close, distant, estranged, or rebuilding when they died. All of those configurations make sibling grief layered and unique. There is no single template.

You Are Not the Forgotten Griever Anymore

Awareness of sibling grief is growing. Researchers, clinicians, and survivor-led organizations have been steadily building the language and resources that surviving siblings deserve. The American Psychological Association now acknowledges sibling loss as one of the most underrecognized adult bereavement experiences. The Compassionate Friends offers dedicated programming for surviving siblings of all ages, including resources specifically for adult siblings.

You are part of a community that is increasingly visible, and increasingly vocal. You are not alone, and you are not invisible — even on the days the rest of the world acts like you should be.

7 Ways to Honor Your Grief as a Surviving Sibling

1. Name What You’ve Lost — Out Loud

The first step is often refusing the cultural script that says sibling grief is smaller. Out loud, on paper, in therapy, to your partner: name what you actually lost. The future birthdays. The someday-uncle status. The text thread that ended. The shared memory of a childhood. Specific naming makes the grief real enough to grieve.

2. Find Other Surviving Siblings

This is the single most healing thing I tell sibling grievers to do. Other surviving siblings speak the language. They understand that you are grieving your brother or sister, and they understand that you are also navigating the rest of your changed family. (For more on this kind of community, see Caring for Surviving Siblings.)

3. Refuse to Be Just “the Strong One”

Many surviving siblings, especially the oldest or the most stoic-seeming, are quietly cast as “the strong one” by their families. You can love your parents fiercely and still need someone to hold you. Both can be true. Tell at least one trusted person — a partner, a therapist, a fellow surviving sibling — what you are actually feeling. You are not required to perform okay.

4. Mark Their Birthday and the Anniversary

Birthdays and death anniversaries can hit surviving siblings harder than the rest of the family expects. Plan for them. Light a candle. Visit a place that mattered. Watch the movie they loved. Reach out to someone who will say their name. (For more on this, see anticipate the anniversary years.)

5. Create Rituals That Are Yours

Family rituals are important. Sibling rituals are important too. Some of my clients have started private rituals for themselves: a yearly hike on their sister’s birthday, a tradition of buying their brother’s favorite candy and sharing it with strangers, a journal kept just for letters to their lost sibling. ( An Open to Hope Author found one in skating — see Skating for My Beloved Sisters for one bereaved sister’s beautiful example.)

6. Take Care of Your Body

Sibling grief, like all grief, lives in the body. Sleep, water, sunlight, gentle movement, and food that’s actually nourishing all matter. You do not have to “exercise.” You do have to honor that grief is physical, and your body needs care while it metabolizes the loss.

7. Accept That This Is a Lifelong Relationship, Not a Lifelong Wound

Your relationship with your sibling did not end when they died. It changed shape. They are still part of who you are, who your children will know about, who you will mention casually decades from now. Grieving a sibling is, ultimately, learning to keep loving them across a different kind of distance.

A Word for Younger Surviving Siblings

If you are the surviving younger sibling, you may carry an extra weight: the loss of the person who was supposed to be the trailblazer ahead of you. The person you were going to follow into adulthood. Please know that the path ahead is still yours. You are allowed to live a full, joyful life. They would want it for you. (For more, see Some Souls Weren’t Meant to Stay Long.)

A Word for Older Surviving Siblings

If you are the older surviving sibling, you may carry the weight of having been the protector who couldn’t protect them this time. There is nothing you should have done differently. Their death was not the failure of your love. Letting that go is some of the hardest work of sibling grief, and one of the most important.

Hope on the Other Side

Sibling loss does not end. It does, however, change. The sharpness softens. Joy returns in pieces, then in chapters. You will laugh again, fall in love again, find new versions of yourself again — and your sibling will be threaded through all of it. That is not a betrayal. That is the love continuing.

You are not the forgotten griever. You are a brother. You are a sister. You loved someone with the longest relationship of your life, and you are still standing. That is not a small thing.

We see you. Open to Hope sees you. And on the other side of this day, this year, this whole long aching journey — hope is still waiting.

The post Sibling Loss: Why Surviving Brothers and Sisters Are the Forgotten Grievers appeared first on Open to Hope.

A  year ago, in a support group meeting,  I shared the story of how the ®Wings organization began…in Memory after the death of our son, Chad. After the group, a man who was present came forward and said, “I remember your son, Chad.” I was his football coach.  He was number 79. He was truly a great young man.” There is no greater music to one’s soul than to have someone remember your loved one and tell you about them, even 30 years later. Chad was just a team player, not a football hero. However, Chad was always a hero to me.

I wasn’t a devoted football fan, the kind that follows every game faithfully.  But of course, we attended every game throughout his high school years. We watched his games with hearty bravos for his team.  Chad considered himself a pure, through-and-through Vikings fan. So, we humored him with a little Packer rivalry, for the fun of it. When Chad died, we had a teddy bear made with a Viking T-shirt, because it just felt right. For a period of time, the Vikings were his heroes.

I believe that our heroes in life change over time. We don’t cling to those who impressed us with their status. Instead, we align our vision with those who are authentic, reliable and role models. On a talk show, several years ago, the host asked his celebrity guest who his heroes were in his life. For a moment, the guest hesitated, trying to decide how to answer that question. He went on to name a few childhood super heroes—mostly cowboys and a couple fictional characters. Then he commented that he acknowledged that his heroes in his life changed as he grew older…to be more realistic people like his dad and uncle. When he became a dad, his heroes changed again as he tried to model himself after people he thought were super-dads.

I agree that this is true. A few “heroes” may stay forever constant. Some of our heroes are living and some may have died. The heroes that remain in our  mind are the ones that impacted our life.

Who is the Hero that Influenced Your Life? What Makes Them Important?

Characteristically, classic heroes are those who have achieved against incredible odds or risked their lives to help someone. They demonstrate courage and bravery by facing fears and adversity. They are “symbols”  of qualities we desire. We stand in awe of their actions and resilience.

Most public heroes enter our lives only briefly. They may walk quietly into our lives and gently fade away. Perhaps he or she is the athlete, the humanitarian, the pop star, the soldier, the actor (actress), or someone who made an impression on us that we might never meet in person. We may follow their lives and personal successes faithfully and idealize what it must feel like to be in their shoes.

There is also the unlikely hero who doesn’t appear to be anyone other than an ordinary person. The unlikely hero doesn’t ask to be a hero and probably prefers anonymity. He or she may seem like the underdog, the forgotten, or the impromptu hero who was in the right place at the right time. His or her choice to do something resulted in a heroic or noteworthy effort that came from a sense of duty, values, or compassion.

Ultimately, there is the influential hero who alters the course of someone’s life accidentally or unintentionally. Such a hero is not perfect. In life, they’ve faced obstacles and chose to focus on understanding other people’s struggles.  Often, without realizing it, their actions indirectly motivated, inspired, and promoted positive change or transformation.

The influential hero may be our most important hero. We may reshape our identity by following them as a role model. Some are mentors who empower us to become the best that we can be. Others  inspire us with strength and courage in times of adversity to rise above our difficulties, fears, and insecurity to do something totally unexpected or extraordinary.

My son, Chad, is that kind of hero to me. Chad’s life and his death changed me. The impact of his death forever changed my perspective and values. It gave me the courage to speak out about suicide. It inspired my husband and I to create a ministry of hope for anyone who experienced loss. I wrote The Memory of a Darkest Moment Can Change a Life describing that time.

What I choose to remember is how Chad lived, and what he valued. Chad loved sports, fishing, hunting, cars (mainly mustangs), and pizza (a whole one for himself). At 18 years old, he joined the Army National Guard while still in high school. He came home from basic training that summer and was proud of the panther tattoo on his arm before heading to football training. He was fiercely patriotic and felt most comfortable in army fatigues bloused over his combat boots. He was training to be an EMT. He valued true love that could last a lifetime, and when that daydream failed, he took his life. Beyond his death, we knew, he loved his family unconditionally, and we loved him. The sacrifice of losing Chad challenged our purpose. Ironically, God placed in our path a different kind of dream: a purpose greater than we could ever imagine.  Everyone needs a hero who can define their meaning and purpose.

And now I have two heroes in the same family. When my husband, Gary, died three years ago, I lost a soulmate whose strength and fortitude carried us through three decades of healing grief. I couldn’t help but think how fortunate I was to have two men in my life who not only shone when they were living but continue to fuel the “wind beneath my wings” in death. Our family was challenged and blessed at the same time. It‘s with sincere gratitude that I continue this journey as I begin the 33^rd year of the ®Wings ministry.
“Because you lived, I remember. Because I remember, you will never die.”

In Loving Memory of:

Chad E. Zastrow 12-4-1971  to 4-16-1993-

Gary Lee Zastrow 6-15-1946—1.15.2023

The post Who Is Your Hero?  How Has Your Hero Influenced Your Life? appeared first on Open to Hope.

If you have lost your mother, this day can feel like an annual reminder of the empty chair at the table. If you have lost a child, Mother’s Day can feel like a holiday designed to highlight what you no longer have. If you have [lost a sibling](https://www.opentohope.com/caring-for-surviving-siblings/), a spouse, a grandmother, or anyone you loved deeply, the second Sunday in May can stir up grief you thought you had finally tucked away.

I want you to know something right at the start: whatever you are feeling about Mother’s Day this year is allowed. You do not have to perform happiness. You do not have to “get over it.” And you are not alone.

For more than two decades, my mother, Dr. Gloria Horsley, and I have walked alongside thousands of bereaved people through our work at Open to Hope. After my 17-year-old brother Scott died in a car accident, our family learned, slowly and imperfectly, that grief and love are not opposites. They are partners. The days that hurt the most are often the days that hold the most love. Mother’s Day is one of those days.

Here are nine compassionate, therapist-tested ways to cope with grief on Mother’s Day, honor the person you are missing, and protect your heart on a holiday that can feel impossibly tender.

## Why Mother’s Day Hits Differently After Loss

Holidays magnify grief. We know this from the [research on bereavement](https://www.apa.org/topics/grief) published by the American Psychological Association, and we know it from lived experience. Mother’s Day in particular carries a unique emotional weight because it touches so many kinds of love at once: the love we received from our mothers, the love we gave to our children, the love we shared with sisters and brothers and partners who knew our mothers in ways no one else did.

Grief on Mother’s Day can show up as sadness, but it can also arrive as irritability, exhaustion, anxiety, anger, or a flat numbness that surprises you. Some grievers describe a kind of dread that begins to build in late April. Others are blindsided on the morning of the holiday itself. Both reactions are normal. There is no “right” way to feel on Mother’s Day after loss.

What helps is to stop fighting the day and start preparing for it. (For more on this, see our guide on how to [anticipate the anniversary years](https://www.opentohope.com/anticipate-the-anniversary-years/) — much of that wisdom applies to holidays, too.)

## 1. Acknowledge the Day Instead of Pretending It Isn’t Coming

One of the most common pieces of advice I give grieving clients is this: do not try to wake up on Mother’s Day morning and “see how you feel.” Avoidance almost always makes grief louder, not quieter.

Instead, gently acknowledge the day on the calendar in advance. Mark it. Notice it. Tell the people closest to you, “Mother’s Day is going to be hard for me this year.” Naming the day takes some of its power away. It also gives the people who love you a chance to show up for you in the ways you actually need.

## 2. Plan Something. Anything.

Grievers often tell me they want Mother’s Day to “just pass.” In my experience, an unplanned Mother’s Day is the hardest kind. The hours stretch. The silence grows. Grief fills the empty space.

You do not need to plan a big day. You just need a plan. Maybe it is a morning walk in a place your mother loved. Maybe it is a quiet brunch with one trusted friend. Maybe it is a movie marathon in your pajamas with the dog on your lap. Whatever it is, decide in advance. A simple plan is a soft container for a hard day. (Many of these same principles work for any holiday — see our [practical strategies for holiday survival](https://www.opentohope.com/practical-strategies-for-holiday-survival/) for more.)

## 3. Create a Ritual of Remembrance

Rituals are one of the most powerful grief tools we have, and Mother’s Day is a beautiful day to lean on them. A ritual can be as simple as lighting a candle in the morning, saying your loved one’s name out loud, and sitting with their photograph for a few minutes.

Some other Mother’s Day rituals my clients have found meaningful:

– Visiting the cemetery or a place that felt sacred to your loved one.
– Cooking your mother’s signature recipe and sharing it with someone.
– Writing a letter to the person you are missing and reading it aloud.
– Planting flowers, an herb, or a tree in their honor.
– Donating to a cause that mattered to them.

The point is not the size of the ritual. The point is that you marked the day on purpose, with love.

## 4. Curate Your Social Media (or Step Away Completely)

Social media on Mother’s Day can feel like walking through a minefield in bare feet. Photo after photo of brunches and bouquets and “best mom in the world” posts can be deeply triggering for grieving hearts.

Give yourself permission to step away. Mute, unfollow, or simply log out for the weekend. If stepping away completely feels too isolating, consider curating instead: follow grief support pages, bereavement communities, and accounts that hold space for the harder side of the holiday. The Open to Hope community shares posts every Mother’s Day for those who are grieving, and many readers tell us those posts feel like a lifeline.

## 5. Reach Out to Someone Who “Gets It”

Grief is much harder to carry alone. One of the most healing things you can do on Mother’s Day is reach out to someone who shares your kind of loss. A bereaved sibling. A bereaved parent. A friend who has also lost their mother. A grief group from your community or a faith tradition.

If you do not yet have someone in your life who understands, know that grief support is closer than you think. Bereavement organizations, hospice programs, online groups, and grief-focused podcasts can all become part of your circle. (If you are looking for trusted listening on a hard day, our [Open to Hope podcast](https://www.opentohope.com/category/open-to-hope/) library has hundreds of free episodes for every kind of loss.) You are not weak for needing other people on this day. You are wise.

## 6. Honor Yourself, Not Just the Person You Lost

Here is a truth I wish someone had told me earlier in my own grief: on Mother’s Day after loss, you are not only honoring the person who died. You are also honoring the version of you who loved them, who lost them, and who is still standing.

Take a moment to acknowledge the strength it has taken to get here. Speak to yourself the way you would speak to a dear friend who was hurting. Eat the meal you actually want. Wear the soft clothes. Cancel the plans that drain you. Self-compassion is not selfish. On Mother’s Day, it is a survival skill.

## 7. Allow Grief and Joy to Sit at the Same Table

A common worry I hear from grieving clients is, “If I laugh today, am I betraying them?” The answer, every time, is no.

Grief is not a measure of love. Joy in the middle of grief is not a betrayal. It is evidence that you are still alive, still capable of feeling, still carrying the love your person poured into you. If a memory makes you smile on Mother’s Day, smile. If the next memory makes you cry, cry. Both can be true in the same hour. Both honor your loved one.

This is what we sometimes call “growing around grief.” The grief does not shrink, but your life slowly grows larger around it. Mother’s Day can hold that paradox beautifully.

## 8. Do Something Kind in Their Honor

One of the most healing rituals I know is the act of doing something kind in your loved one’s name. Buy a stranger’s coffee. Drop flowers at the doorstep of another bereaved mother. Volunteer for an hour. Send a card to a friend whose grief is fresh. Mentor a young person.

When we channel love that has nowhere else to go into an act of kindness, two things happen at once. The world becomes a little softer. And our grief, for a brief moment, becomes a force for good.

## 9. Look for Hope, Even in Small Doses

Open to Hope is named the way it is for a reason. Hope is not the opposite of grief. Hope is what grows quietly underneath grief, often without our permission. On Mother’s Day after loss, hope can look like a single sunbeam through the kitchen window. A song on the radio that feels like a wink from your person. A moment of laughter with a friend. A sense, however faint, that you will survive this day. (For more on this, see [How Grief Becomes Your Greatest Superpower](https://www.opentohope.com/how-grief-becomes-your-greatest-superpower/).)

You do not have to feel hopeful to be open to hope. You only have to leave the door cracked.

## A Word for Those Who Lost a Mother

If Mother’s Day arrives this year without your mother, please know that the bond between a daughter or son and their mother does not end at death. As I wrote in [The Eternal Bond: Daughters Honor Their Mothers On The Other Side](https://www.opentohope.com/the-eternal-bond-daughters-honor-their-mothers-on-the-other-side/), the relationship continues — quieter, different, but still real. Light a candle. Wear something of hers. Tell her about your year. Mother’s Day can become a sacred day to keep the conversation going.

If complicated grief is part of your story, you are not alone, and you are not failing. The [Center for Prolonged Grief at Columbia University](https://prolongedgrief.columbia.edu/) offers excellent, science-based information for those whose grief feels stuck. Reaching out for support is a brave and ordinary thing to do.

## A Word for Those Who Lost a Child

For bereaved mothers, Mother’s Day can carry a sorrow that words cannot fully reach. You are still a mother. You will always be their mother. The love that bound you to your child did not end at their last breath, and it is not measured by who is sitting at brunch on Sunday.

If you are a bereaved mother reading this, please be gentle with yourself this Mother’s Day. Surround yourself with people who say your child’s name out loud. Do exactly as much as you can do, and not a single thing more. We see you. Your motherhood is sacred.

## A Word for Those Who Lost a Sibling

Surviving siblings are sometimes called the forgotten mourners on Mother’s Day. You are grieving your brother or sister, and you are also grieving the version of your mother that existed before her child died. That is a layered, complicated kind of loss, and it deserves to be named.

If your mother is also grieving this Mother’s Day, consider creating a small shared ritual together. Light a candle. Share a memory. Say your sibling’s name. As surviving siblings, we have the gift and the burden of holding our parents’ grief alongside our own. You are doing harder work than most people will ever understand.

## Hope on the Other Side of This Day

I cannot promise that Mother’s Day will ever feel easy again. But I can tell you, after walking with thousands of grievers and walking through my own family’s loss, that this day can change. It can soften. It can become a day where grief and gratitude live side by side. It can become a day you no longer dread, even if you never stop missing the person you love.

Whatever Mother’s Day looks like for you this year, please remember: you are not behind. You are not broken. You are grieving someone you loved with your whole heart. That is not a problem to be solved. It is a love story that is still being written.

We are with you. The Open to Hope community is with you. And on the other side of this tender day, hope is still waiting.

If you need extra support this Mother’s Day, please consider listening to an episode of the Open to Hope podcast, joining one of our community conversations, or reaching out to a local bereavement professional. You do not have to walk this day alone.

*Dr. Heidi Horsley is a licensed psychologist, adjunct professor at Columbia University, and co-host of the Open to Hope podcast. After losing her 17-year-old brother Scott in a car accident, she has dedicated her career to helping bereaved families find hope after loss.*

The post Mother’s Day After Loss: 9 Compassionate Ways to Cope with Grief on a Tender Holiday appeared first on Open to Hope.

of celebration for so many, yet for so many others, this day comes packed with a punch to the gut and heart.

Mother’s Day is about Sunday brunch, flowers, cards and family gatherings. It’s a day that’s filled with the celebration of life, love, happiness, gratitude, hugs and joy.

But for some of you…it’s just another day living with a broken heart.

There are so many different reasons (way too many for me to list in this blog) why this one day of the year comes with heartache instead of happiness. But, regardless of the reason, Mother’s Day can stir up so many different emotions, even for those of you that have lost a child, so I can totally understand if it’s a day you would rather skip.

The problem is…it’s so tough to completely ignore a day that gets so much attention.

It’s okay to wish that your circumstances could be different.

Here’s the thing…you don’t have to pretend you’re happy if today is filled with sorrow and pain.

That’s your right, and you get to have a bad day even though other people may not understand that.

If you’re grieving today…it’s most likely because you’re missing someone that mattered. Your broken heart makes perfect sense. You don’t owe an explanation or apology to anybody. You just owe it to yourself to honor your feelings and your grief.

If you have moments of joy…that’s okay too. Finding a balance is possible and your heart can eventually create space to hold it all.

Sometimes, there are things to celebrate at the same time you’re missing someone you love.

I sincerely hope that your day will somehow be filled with love, compassion, kindness and grace.

Mother’s Day may always be hard but finding a way to be okay with that may be all you have to do today.

Your grief matters…and you’re not alone.

Regardless of your reason for hurting on this Mother’s Day, remember, we’re all just walking each other home.

The post Missing Mom On Mother’s Day appeared first on Open to Hope.

Nothing said I Love You like delivering fresh flowers to her (right out of her garden).

This year, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about my dear new friend, Marlene, who will be navigating her first Mother’s Day since the shocking death of her beloved son, BJ. 

Marlene shared the heart shattering news on social media last year, “No words can express how utterly devastated we are feeling right now. Our baby boy is gone after only 32 years. If you knew him, you loved him. His smile, his eyes, his handsome face. He was so smart, and talented, and gifted…” 

When I reached out to check on Marlene last week, her response was inspiring. “I don’t want to sound cliche’ but, I’ve given myself to God. I have allowed Him to carry me. I miss BJ with my whole heart, but can honestly say I’m surviving… and thriving. That does not mean I love him less, or that I’m forgetting him. I want to share with other Moms how I’m surviving this journey.”

I had to know more.

Before sharing this precious Mom’s thoughts, I want to acknowledge that not everyone will understand Marlene’s deep and unshakable faith; but my prayer is that her words will speak hope to anyone who’s feeling crushed, forgotten or alone this Mother’s Day.  

A few ways Marlene is surviving and thriving, in her own words: 

• I let people do things for me. 
• I sought counseling; and stayed busy on purpose. (Marlene has returned her job as a nurse caring for US Veterans) 
• I do not receive negative words that people try to speak to me. Things like, “you will never get over it,” or “you’ll hurt like this for the rest of your life,” because I know that all things are possible for those who love and serve the Lord.
• I talk about BJ all the time, and encourage others to do the same. On my birthday I asked FaceBook friends to please flood my post with memories and pictures of BJ. That would mean the world to me.
• I prayed that God would not allow my son’s death to be in vain. He has heard my prayers.

“None of us Moms can get through the loss of a child alone. We don’t even need to try. We don’t have to. The Lord will carry us through if we will let HIm. He is doing it for me, and He will do it for you, too.” – Marlene

If you’re feeling hopeless and overwhelmed this Mother’s day, tell somebody. 

If you’ve never asked God to help you, you don’t have to use eloquent words. Just whisper something like, “Lord I need you. I can’t do this by myself anymore.” He hears every word we pray, and He really is close to the brokenhearted. He will rescue us when our spirits are crushed. 

Thank you, Marlene, for honoring your beloved BJ, and for touching others with your story. 

 Grace and peace, friends.

Beth Marshall, Author of Uncrushed and Grief Survivor 

BethGMarshall.com

• If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts please share this with them. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline-  (dial 988)

The post A Different Kind of Mother’s Day for My Friend  appeared first on Open to Hope.

I meet people years after a loss who share, “I know it has been a long time, but it still feels like yesterday.” Their lives have continued. They work. They parent. They show up. Yet their bodies remain braced, as if the moment of loss is still unfolding.

This is where the conversation about psychedelic-assisted grief therapy begins. Not because someone wants spectacle. Not because they want to escape grief. But because their limbic system has not completed what began on the day everything changed.

Let me begin with Luna.

Luna lost her partner three years ago. She attended therapy. She joined support groups. She exercised. She read the books. From the outside, she appeared resilient. Inside, her body told another story.

When she spoke her partner’s name, her chest tightened. Her breath shortened. Her heart raced. Her nervous system shifted into alarm. She was not constantly crying. She was frozen.

This is not weakness. It is physiology.

Acute loss activates survival circuitry. The amygdala signals threat. The hypothalamic pituitary adrenal axis mobilizes stress hormones. The body prepares for danger. In sudden or traumatic loss, that activation may not fully resolve. The organism remains partially locked in shock. In simpler terms, the body and the brain long for some relief from the prolonged grief symptoms and sometimes it is through altering the mind that people find a way to find meaning and a new somatic baseline.  

From a neuroscience perspective, certain psychedelic compounds temporarily decrease activity in the default mode network, the system associated with self referential rumination and rigid narrative loops. Grief loops often sound like this: If only I had. This should not have happened. I cannot live without them.

When these networks soften, neural connectivity becomes more flexible. Brain regions that do not usually communicate begin exchanging information. Emotional memory can surface without triggering immediate defensive shutdown. The nervous system may finally complete a response that was interrupted.

Still, the medicine is not the therapy. The therapy is the container. And the time before and after the journey are very important parts of the whole process. 

Preparation includes medical screening, medication review, nervous system regulation, breath practices, and clear intention. Research increasingly shows that therapeutic outcome correlates strongly with relational safety, set and setting, and integration support.

Luna’s intention was simple: Help my body release the pain and let my heart remember my mate.

During her session, there were no Hollywood-style fireworks. There was tightening in her chest. There were tears. But something different happened. The sensation did not escalate into panic. Her breath remained present. The grief moved through her like an ancient lament, a keening older than language.

From my Celtic lens, I recognized it immediately. In old Ireland, grief was voiced through keening. It was sung. It was primal. It was allowed to move. Luna’s body was doing what culture once supported, but modern society often suppresses.

Afterward, she said, “It did not scare me.”

That is often the turning point. Grief itself is not what freezes us. It is the fear of being overwhelmed by it.

There are times, however, when grief remains deeply embedded. Prolonged Grief Disorder is now recognized as a clinical condition marked by persistent yearning, difficulty accepting the death, identity disruption, and functional impairment beyond cultural norms. It is mourning that cannot metabolize.

And, then there is David. 

David lost his son unexpectedly. Two years later, he still woke each morning in disbelief. He avoided reminders. He felt detached from his living family. He described himself as half alive.

In cases like David’s, I sometimes consider whether plant medicine such as ayahuasca could be effective. Ayahuasca is a traditional Amazonian brew that combines DMT with monoamine oxidase inhibitors. It alters serotonergic signaling and profoundly shifts perception, emotion, and autobiographical memory. It also carries medical risks and requires strict screening and preparation.

My humble clinical opinion is that psychedelic-assisted therapy may help some individuals access what psychiatrist Dr. Stan Grof described as the perinatal matrices.

Grof proposed that certain layers of psychological distress are rooted not only in personal biography but in deep pre-verbal imprints related to birth and existential threat. He described four basic matrices ranging from oceanic unity to entrapment, struggle, and eventual release.

While his framework remains theoretical and debated, many clinicians observe that profound grief can reactivate these preverbal and instinctual layers. Sudden loss can feel like suffocation. Like being trapped. Like annihilation. The body responds not only to the event of loss but to something archetypal and preverbal.

In carefully prepared ayahuasca ceremonies, some individuals report moving through intense phases of constriction, struggle, and release that mirror these patterns. Whether interpreted psychologically or spiritually, the experience can culminate in a sense of renewed connection or rebirth.

In David’s case, after extensive screening and collaboration with his physicians, his ceremony was deeply somatic. He experienced waves of pressure and grief that felt unbearable, followed by profound release. During integration, he said, “My love for him does not have to destroy me.”

That shift matters, and David self-reported a significant alleviation of prolonged grief symptoms. 

Ayahuasca does not ‘cure’  grief. It can expand grief capacity. It can allow a continuing bond with the deceased to feel stabilizing rather than shattering. Emerging research suggests that mystical-type experiences and feelings of connectedness are associated with improvements in depression, trauma, and complicated grief. The common denominator appears to be increased psychological flexibility and decreased experiential avoidance.

As the late Terence McKenna and all modern PAT researchers remind us, psychedelics are not a panacea. They are tools. Tools require discernment, humility, and skilled guidance.

Luna could speak her partner’s name without panic.
David could remember his son without collapsing.

Their grief remained. But it moved.

In Celtic spirituality, there is a concept of thin places, where the veil between worlds feels permeable. Psychedelic states can create a temporary inner thin place where memory, sorrow, love, and presence coexist without tearing the psyche apart.

This modality is not easy, and in most places it is still illegal and inaccessible to many.  It is not glamorous. It is not for everyone. It requires medical oversight, psychological readiness, and careful integration.

But for some whose grief has turned to stone, whose limbic systems remain locked in shock, or whose sorrow has activated something deeper and more primal, psychedelic-assisted therapy may open a door.

Not to treat grief like there is something ‘wrong,’ but instead to remind us, like Pema Chodron stated: “Remember, you are the sky and everything else is the weather.”  

The post When Grief Gets Stuck: Psychedelic Assisted Therapy, Ayahuasca, and the Ancient Work of the Soul appeared first on Open to Hope.

Here is what I have learned, both as a psychologist who specializes in grief and loss, and as a sibling who lost my 17-year-old brother Scott and cousin Matthew, together in a car accident: grieving people do not need you to fix it. They need you to stay. And staying is a skill that almost anyone can learn.

This guide is for the people who care enough to ask, “What do I say?” That question alone tells me you are already doing this right.

Why Helping a Grieving Friend Feels So Hard

There is a reason you feel awkward, tongue-tied, or paralyzed when someone you love is grieving. Grief is one of the few human experiences that our culture still treats as private, brief, and contagious. Most adults have had very little practice sitting beside loss. So we say nothing, or we say too much, or we wait for someone else to send the first text.

Research from organizations like the Hospice Foundation of America consistently shows that one of the deepest secondary wounds bereaved people carry is the silence of friends and family who didn’t know what to do. The good news: that silence is fixable. You don’t need the perfect words. You only need to be willing to be imperfectly present.

12 Things to Say to a Grieving Friend

1. “I’m so sorry.”

It is not a cliche. It is the foundation. Said with eye contact and meant with your whole heart, “I’m so sorry” is one of the most healing sentences you can say.

2. “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here for you”

When you are stuck, say that. The honesty itself is a gift. Bereaved people don’t need eloquence; they need to feel less alone.

3. “Tell me about them.”

Most grievers desperately want to talk about the person who died. The world quickly moves on, and our loved one can start to feel erased. Asking for a memory, a laugh, a favorite quirk is one of the kindest things you can do.

4. “What do you need today?”

Not “let me know if you need anything” — which puts the work on the griever. “What do you need today?” is concrete and small enough to answer.

5. “I can drop off dinner Tuesday — soup or pasta?”

Specific offers are real offers. Vague ones rarely get accepted. Pick a day, pick a thing, and just show up.

6. “Their name was [name]. I was thinking about them today.”

Saying the name of the person who died is a profound, sacred act for many bereaved people. It tells them their loved one is still real, still remembered, still mattering in the world. (We’ve written more about this kind of remembrance in The Eternal Bond.)

7. “There is no timeline for this.”

So many grievers feel quietly judged for “still” being sad at six weeks, six months, six years. Your friend needs to hear that you are not on a schedule with them.

8. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Most acute support disappears within weeks of a death. The casseroles stop. The cards stop. The check-ins stop. The people who say “I’m not going anywhere” — and then prove it three months later — become a lifeline.

9. “What you’re feeling makes sense.”

Grief looks like sadness, anger, numbness, panic, jealousy, exhaustion, even occasional relief. All of it is normal. All of it is the work of love. Telling a griever that their messy emotions make sense is enormously healing.

10. “Do you want company, or do you want me to leave you alone right now?”

Grievers swing wildly between needing presence and needing solitude, sometimes hour to hour. Asking, instead of assuming, is a form of respect.

11. “Let’s talk about something else for a while, if you’d like.”

Permission to step away from grief — to laugh, to gossip, to watch a stupid movie — is its own kind of help. Grievers don’t only want to talk about their loss. They also want to feel like a whole person again.

12. “I remember when [their loved one] did [specific thing].”

A specific, real memory of the person who died is gold. It tells the bereaved that their loved one made an actual mark on the world, on you, on the story.

5 Things to Avoid Saying

1. “They’re in a better place.”

Even if your friend shares your faith, this can feel dismissive in the rawness of early grief. There is no better place than alive and here.

2. “Everything happens for a reason.”

This is one of the most painful sentences a bereaved person can hear. There is no reason that justifies a child dying, a young brother dying in a car, a partner dying suddenly. Skip it.

3. “At least…”

“At least they lived a long life.” “At least it was quick.” “At least you have other children or siblings.” Any sentence that begins with “at least” is a sentence trying to minimize a grief that cannot be minimized.

4. “I know exactly how you feel.”

You may have lost someone. You may understand something. But you do not know exactly how this person feels about this loss. “I can only imagine, and I’m here” lands so much better.

5. “You should…”

Avoid prescriptions. “You should get out more.” “You should try yoga.” “You should be over this by now.” Bereaved people don’t need advice. They need company.

The Most Powerful Thing You Can Do

If you remember nothing else from this article, remember this: presence beats words. Almost every griever I have worked with has eventually said some version of, “It wasn’t what they said. It was that they kept showing up.”

Send the text even when you don’t know what to say. Mark the anniversary on your calendar. Show up at the cemetery on their birthday. Bring the coffee. Sit in the silence. Say the name. Stay.

You will get some of it wrong. That’s fine. Grievers are far more forgiving of clumsy presence than they are of polished absence. (For more on the long arc of supporting someone, see our piece on the second year of grieving — the year most people forget to keep showing up.)

A Final Word

If you are reading this because you love someone who is hurting, take a breath. The fact that you are here, looking up the right way to help, means your friend is luckier than they know. There are no perfect words. There is only your willingness to keep showing up. That is more than enough.

Your friend is going to make it through this. And one day, they will tell someone else about you — about the friend who didn’t run.

Dr. Heidi Horsley is a licensed psychologist, adjunct professor at Columbia University, and co-host of the Open to Hope podcast and cable television show. After losing her 17-year-old brother Scott and cousin Matthew together in a car accident, she has dedicated her career to helping bereaved families find hope after loss.

The post How to Help a Grieving Friend: 12 Things to Say (and 5 to Avoid) appeared first on Open to Hope.

Since losing several of my closest and favorite family members- my beloved Mom, Dad, Nana, sister-in-love, Kay, and most recently, my “splendiferous” (his word) brother Mike, I’ve been trying to dig deep and remember exactly what it was that made each of their lives so memorable and magnificent.

                        What if you could be the things you loved most

                                  about the person you’re missing?

For my Mom, “Beazy,” and Dad, “Big John,” no matter what shenanigans their five kids were up to, there was really nothing you could ever do to make them stop loving you.

Even things like:

• carving “I LOVE MOMY,” on their mahogany dining room table with kindergarten scissors.
• crashing their Chevy station wagon into a Chrysler New Yorker.
• replacing the tobacco in our dad’s pipe with bubbles.
• ordering burgers, fries and ice cream (without permission) from the Howard Johnson’s room service menu, while our parents slept soundly next door.

Regardless of the crime, Mom and Dad somehow kept smiling, forgiving, and loving their mischievous crew.

My grandmother, Nana, had a unique way of convincing each of her eleven grandchildren that we were her favorite. There was nothing like a solo sleepover at Nana’s- watching the Atlanta Braves together on TV, then getting tucked snuggly into crisp pink sheets on the twin bed next to hers. And, on your solo sleepover date with Nana, you could pick whatever you wanted for breakfast- even golden brown biscuits, cracked open from a can. Could life get any better?

Nana graduated to Heaven over twenty years ago, but even now some of my favorite moments with our five grand kids are one-on-one dates, forever inspired by Nana.

Our sister-in-love, Kay had an uncanny ability, no matter what colossal curveball came her way, to keep going and never give up. Kay’s “no fear” attitude still shines brightly through her three adult kids, and their kids, whether they’re courageously Irish dancing on a big scary stage, or facing a fierce opponent on the tennis court or soccer field.

And last, but certainly not least, my brother Mike (photo above) was one of the most optimistic humans ever created. He never got over the wonder of God’s creation– a majestic oak tree, brilliant sunset, or the miracle of a tiny grandbaby coming into the world. At Mike’s celebration of life, one family member put like this,

                                                “Like Papa,

I pray we always have the eyes to see the best,

a heart to forgive the worst,

a mind that forgets the bad,

and a soul that never loses faith.”  

Remembering each of these dear ones has encouraged me to intentionally be more like them- to love unconditionally, face life fearlessly, and never lose the wonder of God’s creation.

                                              How about you?

How could you honor your loved one by carrying on something you cherish about them? I invite you to grab a journal or notebook and brainstorm some of your favorite things that are coming to mind. My hope is that remembering what you loved most about them will bring a smile to your face and comfort to your heart.

Beth Marshall

Uncrushed and Grief Survivor Author

bethgmarshall.com

The post The Things You Loved Most appeared first on Open to Hope.

It doesn’t seem fair, and how can it be fair that the second year of grieving can feel more challenging than the first? If and when that happens for us, it can feel rather crazy-making. Did I do something wrong? Is this normal? How can this even make sense?

Good questions, and the answers to the first two are likely “no” (you did not do anything wrong) and “yes” (this is unfortunately not unusual). For the third question, here are some thoughts:

When someone important to us dies, we usually feel some amount of shock and numbness. This can be true even when the death is anticipated as the reality of the experience is different than the reality of anticipating and imagining. Shock and numbness can especially be present if we didn’t see the death coming. The impact of the death of a family member or friend can be so big, so heavy, and so upsetting that shock and numbness rush in to protect us from the full awareness of what has been lost. And we need that protection.

This protection also includes a sense of disbelief. We may know very well what happened in our heads, but our hearts cannot fully take it in. We may know it but not fully believe it. This dynamic is sometimes called “denial,” and for much of our experience of grief, it is a blessing. We need denial to give us time to get used to this new reality and to keep us from feeling even more overwhelmed than we are.

When denial does its job well, it gradually steps back to allow us to more fully come to grips with all that we have lost. It necessarily fades, and as it does, we more deeply understand how much our world has changed. Mostly, denial is not a problem but a help, and it only becomes problematic if it overstays its welcome and interferes with decisions that need to be made and the incremental adjusting to this new chapter in our lives.

In some ways, the first year is one of discovery that someone is truly dead and absent from the ways they were present when alive.

February comes and it’s Valentine’s Day—a hard day for missing those we love, and they’re still dead. Here in the northern hemisphere, spring comes with the world coming alive again and there are evidences all around of resurrection. But our dear ones are still dead. In May it’s Mother’s Day and graduation season. June brings Father’s Day and the pleasures of summer. But when those we lost continue to be dead, nothing and no season feels the same.

Late summer and fall bring “back to school” thoughts and memories—salt in our wounds, especially for grieving parents and grandparents. The beauties of autumn don’t look or feel the same when we are grieving and experiencing them for the first time without our special person. Halloween with its spooky fun is not the same. Thanksgiving can leave us feeling more absence than gratitude, and the year-end holidays accentuate who is not at the table. Even at Christmas, they’re still dead? Then the calendar flips and it’s a brand-new year without our person in it, at least not in the way they were before. Not in the way that we want and need them to be.

We understandably often focus on survival that first year of grief, and when we find ourselves still standing, or maybe “standing” feels a bit of an overstatement, perhaps still alive and breathing, it’s an accomplishment. We made it through a year of those painful firsts. We will never have a year like that again.

But now it’s another year without our person, and it’s still hard. We don’t feel prepared for how hard. Perhaps no one told us this was possible, and if they didn’t, they were probably trying to be kind. In the first year, getting through each day felt daunting enough.

For the second year, comforts of denial are more rarely found. This new reality feels more real than ever. Still a bad dream, perhaps, but also one for which there will be no escaping. We know that more deeply now.

The supports from others often have decreased, too. The meals and offers for help, cards, calls, and supportive texts happen less often if they happen at all. Well-meaning friends and family may avoid the subject of the one we are missing out of kindness or discomfort, and it can feel like they are acting as if nothing happened and our special person didn’t even have a life. This diminished support can leave us feeling isolated and lonely as the world keeps turning and life marches on with or without us.

No wonder the second year can be so difficult. We didn’t expect it, we’re receiving less support, and the awareness of what we have lost is higher than ever before.

There are no quick or easy answers for lessening the strain of our own personal “sophomore slump” in grieving. But as much as any time in our experience of grief, kindness is in order.

For all of us who are supporters of grieving friends and family, our kindness and attention is needed in this challenging second year for those left behind after someone has died. Supportive messages, invitations for companionship, sharing memories, a hand on the shoulder or a hug—you know the nature of your relationship—are expressions of the kindness needed for those facing what can be a lonely second year.

And for those of us doing the grieving, kindness towards ourselves is in order, too. We know better what comforts us and we know how we would extend comfort to others, so we can extend some back to ourselves. We are learning to live with memories, absence, and presence within absence as our traveling companions, and we are still very much in practice-mode. Grace and kindness are certainly needed.

It’s helpful, too, to recognize that we have resources in the second year that we didn’t have in that first year. We better understand how different our lives and seasons are and will be. We have more insights into what is helpful and what it not (and maybe who is helpful and who is not). It is not a small thing that we are still here with the opportunity for a second year.

As we go through the second year of grief and beyond, we, like writer Frances Weller, know more what it means to take one hand holding our grief and the other hand holding our gratitude and put them together in the “prayer of life”–the particular prayer of life only possible after we have experienced that strenuous and unrepeatable year of firsts.

goodmourning@archildrens.org

The post The Second Year of Grieving appeared first on Open to Hope.

Loving Andrea so fully then did not prepare me for the life I would have to live without her. Grief has taught me that it is not a single emotion; it is a spectrum of sorrow, anger, longing, confusion, and fear, all woven together by love. It is a complex landscape of emotions that shifts over time. I am still learning to walk through the shadows of grief, healing, and continuing to be her mother. I live in a space of what once was and what is. It remains an unwanted life of what might have been and the moments that will never come. One thing is sure: our love is unchanged and eternal.

When I explore the space I live in now, I often feel overwhelmed. I find myself yearning for my daughter to be here — for life to be as it was before losing her. With loss comes so much change: some of those changes have become more noticeable to me lately. The way love once flowed, the relationships that are gone forever, the bonds that could no longer continue, leaving an ache for what was.

There was a time when we sat at the same holiday table, when joy was absolute, and my heart was whole. When Andrea left, her little boy was only two. Too young to remember her laughter, her gentle touch, or how she cherished him. He doesn’t know her love the way I do — not the warmth of her smile, the sound of her voice, or the way she would have filled his life with joy.

Over the years, I’ve tried to give him what memory could not. I tell him stories about his mother’s kindness and love for animals, especially horses, and about how her presence lit up a room. Each year, as her son decorates the Christmas tree that honours her, my heart feels the weight of her absence but the warmth of her love. A sacred moment that reminds me grief and love are intertwined. I want him to know that even in her absence, love still surrounds him. I give him her love; he knows now that the extra hug or kiss is always from mommy. Watching him grow is a gift, but one that is both bitter and sweet, because he is a reminder of what was lost. Sometimes, I see Andrea in his smile, the sparkle in his eyes, and his quiet, intelligent personality. I appreciate the time spent with him, but I find myself grieving for him because he will never know her touch, what it felt like to be in her arms, or hear her say his name. He is the bridge between what once was and what is now, and through him, I hold the past close while slowly learning to live and move forward.

Yet even as love continues to be my beacon, the vacancy remains. There are days when the void feels endless, a space where laughter once lived. The silence can be deafening, and sometimes the pain overpowers any logic. I know in my heart that the emptiness will stay for the rest of my life. Fourteen years have passed, and I have learned to grow around the void. Feeling the joy of my family, the laughter of my grandchildren, and the gentle sunlight are gentle reminders that life, though changed, must be appreciated.

Still, there are times when the ache of what used to be returns in full force. On these days,  her absence overshadows the present, and the weight of grief weighs so heavily that I am weak with pain and endless tears. It is exhausting, yet I have learned these are grief days; letting grief have its space is a vital part of the healing process.

Oh, my sweet Andrea — life is divided between the before, when you were here, and the after of losing you. I miss the closeness we shared: the laughter, the stories, your physical presence that filled the space between us. I miss your heartfelt hugs, your cheeks to kiss,  the simple joy of admiring you—just everything.

Grief is a journey woven with longing, love, and quiet hope. I have learned it is about choosing to allow the whispers of joy, hope, and peace to enter the brokenness. I know the pain of losing you is forever, but our love is eternal, and your presence continues to shape my life. I am sure that our golden thread of love ties the past to the present, bridging heaven and earth. I will always be Andreas’ mom, and our bond continues to be the beacon lighting my way and connecting the two worlds.

The post Between What Was and What Is appeared first on Open to Hope.

And I don’t say that lightly.

It’s not something I understand in any earthly way, because truthfully, I don’t.

There’s no logic that can explain why someone we love so deeply could be here one day and gone the next. If there’s a reason, I wish I knew it.

But I don’t.

What I do believe is that we’re each sent here to touch certain lives. To love certain people. To leave imprints that carry on long after we’re gone.

Maybe our time, no matter how painfully short or unexpectedly brief, isn’t measured in years but in the depth of love we give and the connections we make.

I’ve seen how a single person, even one who has left this world far too soon, can change everything for those they loved. The ripple of their kindness, their laughter, their very presence, it never really disappears. It lingers in every person they touched, in quiet moments of memory, in the ways we love others because of how they loved us.

Here’s the thing…maybe that was their purpose.

Maybe that was their gift.

Still…knowing that doesn’t erase the pain I still feel every day. It doesn’t fill the space they left behind. Because the missing never fully goes away.

But sometimes, I can still feel the love. Like they’re whispering to me, “I did what I came here to do and I left my love with you.”

And that’s enough for me now. To hold onto the idea that their time, no matter how brief, was important and special. That the love wasn’t taken away, it only transformed.

That even though they couldn’t stay, that gift of love they gave me will continue to grow for as long as I live.

In many ways, I feel like that love is still here, because love isn’t something you can touch and hold in your hand. It’s a feeling.

And it’s still here…moving through my heart.

Gary is the author of: SURVIVING GRIEF – 365 Days A Year

https://tinyurl.com/SG365GSturgis

The post Some Souls Weren’t Meant To Stay Long  appeared first on Open to Hope.

After my mother passed away, I was brokenhearted. Soon after, I had a conversation with a daughter whose mother had passed away years earlier. At the time, I did not believe a word she said, but I now realize that what she told me was true. “Janet, although the gap in your heart will never completely heal, you will survive and flourish—but it will take time.” The time factor is notable because it took me years to feel whole again. Everyone’s grief is deeply personal, and no one can tell you how long it will take for you to not feel ripped with pain and anguish. Grief is not a one-size-fits-all prescription.

Grief is often a taboo topic, and many women in mourning are not only distraught but feel alone and disconnected.  I assure you that you will regain your stability. Constructing a life with meaning, that is psychologically sound, is empowering, especially when daughters feel abandoned and hopeless after their mother’s death. Your unique experiences of mother loss speak to the unwavering connection you have with your mother that crosses the spiritual realms and continues after death.  This eternal bond is boundless, infinite, and everlasting because it is the energy of love, and love cannot be destroyed or lost. Although her physical presence is removed, the bond between you can never be taken away. When I speak to skeptics, I often cite Dr. Albert Einstein’s theory that “energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only be changed from one form to another.”  Love is the best example of these energies.

You cannot force any type of metaphysical connection to occur. They arrive when they arrive. However, they can occur through ritual, meditation, sacred ceremony, or even when you are doing mundane activities, such as walking, cooking, or gardening. These spiritual insights are a nes, which is a Hebrew word for a miracle. A nes can also be signs of a higher reality. I believe that there is a purpose to these insights to not only help us to heal but to transform our consciousness because they serve as a mystical initiation.

This sacred domain is beyond normal analysis because this realm is not in the “normal” range of our everyday lives. I have experienced visions of, excuse the words, “dead people”  including family members, friends, and clients’ loved ones. It was not out of the ordinary for me to see or hear them, and I wrestle with the fact that I have not “seen” her. But I have dreamt about her, felt her energies, and received what psychotherapist Carl Jung would describe as big dreams, or dreams that have qualities of authenticity that transcend normal dreaming. The messages I have received telepathically I have written down in countless journals, and the drawings I have created from my light visions never cease to amaze. Maybe that is how my mother chooses to communicate with me.

You may have experienced metaphysical connections with your mother—an image out of the corner of your eye, a song that is suddenly on the radio, lights switching off and on, or the smell of her fragrance. I wish I knew the exact mechanism for why or how this takes place, but I do not. However, these experiences validate that she is with you, and those magic moments are therapeutic. Although you may know people who dismiss supernatural phenomena because they have never had those experiences themselves, their beliefs do not negate the power of those experiences.

Your grief process provides opportunities for both emotional and spiritual growth, and inside of your pain, you can also find insight. You may receive messages from your mother when you least expect them. Trust that these communications are your grief wisdom. I am referring to the wisdom of telepathic impulses, inner promptings to go through a file of letters, drive to a memory-filled landscape, turn on the radio, or other urges. Your mother is part of this magical process. Let her lead you to take initial steps.

You may sense that everything in your life is “unright.” Everything in your life has changed after her departure and your belief that things are not as they should be is real. However, this truth is mutable. The “unright” feeling will fluctuate throughout your process of grief and will gain momentum, recede, and gain momentum again. Recognize that this is a process of commitment for you to honor those changes and feelings of uncertainty and certainty. It is part of the path of grief, and you will learn how to move through all of it.

Related reading on Open to Hope: Mother’s Day After Loss: 9 Compassionate Ways to Cope with Grief by Dr. Heidi Horsley.

From The Eternal Bond by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD.  © 2025 by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD. Used by permission from Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd., www.Llewellyn.com.

The post The Eternal Bond: Daughters Honor Their Mothers On The Other Side appeared first on Open to Hope.

Bouncing back after a significant loss is not only daunting but often shatters one’s self-confidence. I wanted to prove to myself that my grief was not going to control me and force me to surrender just because certain tasks were tedious and the work was hard.

Since my husband’s death, I began to question my desire to handle all the maintenance tasks and other things “we “used to do. So, I didn’t plant flower pots overflowing with flourishing blossoms. My perennial garden wasn’t weeded as meticulously as it would have been. I ignored the tradition of placing pumpkins, corn stalks, and bales of hay at my front door to welcome fall. These and many other tasks my husband, Gary,  and I always shared. That’s what made them manageable and fun because we worked together.

Since Gary died, these tasks cluttered my “To Do List”. In preparation for the winter ahead,  I pulled out my list and began checking off the tasks one by one (such as furnace and AC maintenance, outside water off). I gathered up the 8 patio chairs that were barely used to move them into the garage. Then, I cringed at the heavy concrete garden ornaments in the garden which now reminded me that it was time to cut back the plants and haul the debris away. I was tempted to let the plants just wither through the Wisconsin weather like I did the year before. I definitely dropped the ball and ignored a few of the more difficult tasks.

As I struggled with my list, the words “let go of things that no longer serve you” kept popping up in my head.” I can’t count the number of times I’ve repeated those words to myself. Yet, I continued to hang on to or do  certain things “just because”.

I confess, last year was just one of those years that I procrastinated and avoided all the good intentions on my list. I self-blamed it on everything except the real reason …my negative thinking suggested there was always tomorrow. And “why am I really doing this?”  This is not typical for me, but the year slipped away, and some life setbacks definitely played a part in my procrastination. So, I decided it was time to  get my priorities straight and reset my attitude. Projects on my list will not be ignored. I committed to reinstatement with these three Intentions and some simple changes to “things that no longer served a purpose” for me.

INTENTIONS ARE NOT RESOLUTIONS

To be clear, there is a difference between intentions and resolutions. Intentions mean you want to do things differently. Intentions are self-motivated.  A resolution is a firm commitment to do or not do something. They are usually measurable and straightforward. Resolutions often fail because they aren’t realistic, or you aren’t ready to make the change. Therefore, my goal was to make intentional changes that would make the tasks I chose to continue easier, simpler, and align with my current circumstances and desires. However, it was also important for me to remember the sentimental connection with the past. This will extend to all the things on my “to-do” list this coming year, and they will be treated respectfully with my new attitude.

INTENTION #1:   MAKE PEACE WITH MY PAST.

The past is a memory, but the present is where I am living now. Accepting that life would never be the way it was before was a bitter “pill to swallow.” One never realizes how much the loss of a significant loved one changes your world until you are living it. Memories from the past and the things you enjoyed together motivated you to keep moving forward.

Regarding keeping the flowers, perennials, and decorating, I accepted that in the past, what Gary and I created together was space to beautify our surroundings, entertain, and that fulfilled our enthusiasm for decorating for all seasons. It will never have the sentimental value it once created, but doing anything or everything I can to maintain some of the previous awe is my choice. Past memories are worthy of preservation and reminders of love. Some things will always be on my “to-do” list. Inner peace comes through doing the things that still make me smile and give me joy. This is my intention.

INTENTION #2  CHANGE SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED INTO SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO

Growing through grief is a part of the healing process. It’s notably named “transformation”. LOSS is something that happened to me. Because loss happened and because I wanted to heal, I knew there was something I had to do. ACTION is what heals. Action requires CHANGE. This meant making decisions and choices that feel “right” for me. I conceded that others may not agree or may question my judgment, but my heart knows what’s best for me.

I also accepted that I needed to “fix” what might be holding me back.  Those choices fell under the “something I have to do list”. First and hardest is surrendering to the loss of my dreams and building new ones (maybe not as big, but comfortable). Additionally, I needed to replace my old routines that no longer work and try something new that makes me want to face each day. I’ve already done some of this, but I needed to do more things that give me pleasure, peace, and contentment.  I added these actions to my list. Laugh again. Be creative. Practice self-love. Challenge myself. Take reasonable risks. It’s not grief preventing me from changing; it’s the fear of losing control over my life. And frankly, adversity reminds me that I never had that in the first place!

INTENTION #3:  CHANGE YOUR CANTS INTO CANS AND YOUR CANS INTO PLANS
When you believe something is possible, your chances of achieving it are greater. There will always be challenges and obstacles to overcome. I know if you believe you can’t,  you won’t. Gary would come to my defense with this challenge. With his calm and coaching demeanor, he could convince me that I had the capability to achieve things I never felt comfortable doing. I still struggle with that today, but since his death, I’ve found the courage to face many challenges I wanted to ignore. So I know it’s possible. Sometimes I start with a “maybe” mindset. When you are trying to be independent after loss, it’s easy to say, “I can’t,” or  “I don’t want to”. But the fact remains that we are all capable of much more than we ever thought possible. Now my “cant’s will start with a “maybe plan” and grow.

I am confident that I will be able to manage more than last year –not just maintenance and chores– because I created an ACTION plan. I pondered my words once again, “let go of the things that no longer serve you,” and realized I could make the choice to do or not to do. I really can’t say that eliminating some things would serve a huge purpose in my life.  Maybe it would create a “hole” by missing something familiar. For those things that still matter to me, I plan to change my can’t into can. I accept that simplifying the process with “I can do this” attitude was my answer. I started a list with a name and phone number for specific tasks that I could hire someone to do.  And what I can handle, I’ll continue to do for as long as it serves me.

MAKING THE BALL BOUNCE THIS YEAR

It doesn’t need to be New Year’s to establish some worthwhile intentions. Pick any season of the year and visualize your fresh start by taking one small step at a time. If you fail the first time, give it a rest and try again. When you finally accomplish your “goal”, you will be proud of your accomplishments and breathe a sigh of contented relief.

Dropping the ball at Times Square is a ritual that represents a welcome to the new year and new beginnings…the passage from old to new. And I dropped the ball last year. I didn’t feel good about that, so I wanted to avoid that feeling this year. Planning ahead is essential. Recognizing that it’s okay to surrender to some things is perfectly acceptable. When the ball dropped at Times Square this New Year’s Eve…I proudly had to say, “This year I have a plan, and I’m ready,  I thought: “Gary and Chad. I do this  in memory of you.”  And this time, I believe the ball bounced!

The post Dropping the Ball Again This Year? 3 Easy Intentions for Bouncing Back appeared first on Open to Hope.

Today I got a text from his wife, in a group chat with my other brother and his wife. Asking  “Is the plan still on for Monday?” I was personally unaware of any plans for Monday. So, I had just planned my usual not much but space time and baking his favorite cupcakes with my two kids. I replied, “Was there a plan for Monday?” I was ignored in the first response, just replying to her. The second response was brief: “Going to a mountain to ski and snowboard.” And had tickets for. So, I replied, “Oh, nice, enjoy!” I wasn’t really sure if this was a mistaken text or the invite, but it wasn’t very much of either. Also, with the pre-ticket purchases, I wouldn’t think they were meant for me. My husband works away, so it’s just me with a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old. So, bringing them by myself skiing isn’t exactly an easy option. But if I had known beforehand, maybe we could have made arrangements for my son to go with them. He deserves that time with them; he absolutely adores them all.

This just reminds me again of the major changes death brings to your life. I just cried, because it made me say, ” Of course, sure, but I’m a big girl, I can move on. I’ve made leaps and bounds growing, especially here, in that I can’t do it all, trying to keep these relationships alive. But it breaks my heart for my children on so many different levels. So many life altering changes have happened for them, before they were born or without them knowing. But I see it! I feel it! I carry it!

We lost my mother, their Meme, while I was about 12 weeks pregnant with my son who is now 5. And my brother passed when my son was 2 and my daughter not yet born. I grieve the relationships I don’t have, they don’t get to have. The secondary losses of relationships with their aunts, uncles, and cousins. Or at least in the hands on closeness level that we all had before these deaths. Or the close nit cousins I got to grow up with.

I guess the moral here is you truly never get over the loss of your loved one, just when and how the grief shows up, it creeps up on you. But grief isn’t just about the people that have died, you grieve the people you love while watching them still live. Secondary losses are just as intense. These people change as much as you do from these losses

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Many daughters discover that while caregiving, their bonds deepen with their mothers; this closeness also influences the intensity of loss when their mothers die. Losing a mother at any time is life-altering, but losing a mother when you have become her “mother,” and especially if you were forced to take care of her at the end of life, is particularly poignant and heart-wrenching. If you had a close bond with your mother, as I did, and were her caregiver at the end of her life, it is not uncommon to have metaphysical experiences, and often these experiences are more profound because of your closeness. However, because of that devoted connection and the intensity of that spiritual link, daughters have a more challenging time in bereavement. Caregivers are also more susceptible to experiencing psychological issues, including trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), remembering the pain and suffering of their mother. Caregiving can easily lead to compassion fatigue, which is most often associated with healthcare professionals. Many caregivers experience this fatigue at some point but don’t recognize it as such. They may dismiss their anger, anxiety, stomach issues, inability to focus, lack of patience, and sleeplessness as normal when in fact they are signs of the need for self-care. What they forget is that you cannot be expected to serve from an empty vessel.

What is often missing from current and past literature, however, is information about the spiritual and metaphysical components of mother loss. Women are often fearful about sharing these experiences with others, especially their health care providers, because they don’t want to be labeled as crazy. They frequently conceal how they really feel from therapists and physicians and even family members and friends for this reason. Although, there was an enormous amount of research on grief in general and parental loss, what was missing were studies examining mother loss for adult daughters that included this dimension.

I created my own study. My goal was to learn more about how daughters coped after their mothers passed away. I was especially interested in knowing more about the visions, dreams, and signs they received. I knew that I was not the only daughter to have these potent experiences. The survey I designed asked questions about all the components of grief that daughters may experience physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I sent the anonymous survey to some of the essayists in this book, as well as women who expressed interest in participating. It bears repeating that daughters are fearful and reluctant about sharing their metaphysical experiences with health care providers and sometimes with their family or friends for fear of being ridiculed. I want to lift that taboo. I believe this initial supporting data proves that spiritual experiences are valid and meaningful. One of the hallmarks of grief empowerment for daughters is their disclosure of this phenomenon. This study can help clinicians understand how women experienced mother loss and, more importantly, how they regained their equilibrium. The survey also includes questions about what or who helped daughters during their grief process, and their responses offer practical advice.

I have identified key results[1] from the survey, and this information is insightful and profound, and can assist health care professionals as well as daughters in understanding mother loss. I have included some of the results with the actual words written by participants.

Results from the Survey

What keywords would describe your grief process?

#1.  Lifelong adjustment.

# 2: Carnal, visceral, indescribable, immobilizing, never-ending.

#3. Horrific, agonizing, terrifying, gut-wrenching, painful

#4. Anger, relief, guilt.

#5. Some comfort in knowing she was with my sister.

# 6. Denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance, depression.

# 7.  Where was she?

# 8: Painful, sad.

# 9: Angry.

# 10: Scattered like sprinkles on a banana split sundae. Sprinkles are the surprises of the impact of her loss on each decade. 

Does the grief process ever end?

#1. Do not know if it ends. Adjust your life.

#2.  No.

#3. I’ve learned how to manage it.

#4. Never ends. I still miss her every day.

#5. No.

#6. It softens.

#7. The void of a mother’s love is always there. Just got better at coping

# 8:  Never ends, the pain does dull.

#9.  Mourning a death never ends.

# 10. Sorrow can quietly find its way into special moments.

What did you experience during your grief process?

#1. Horrible nightmares. Could not eat or sleep. GI problems, depression.

#2. GI problems, depression, inability to function, lack of interest in life.

#3.  GI problems, depression, inability to function, lack of interest in life.

#4.  No physical symptoms.

#5.  GI problems, depression, inability to function, lack of interest in life.

#6.  GI problems, depression.

#7.GI problems, appetite [issues], depression.

#8. Appetite [issues], depression, not having time to grieve.

# 9: No.

#10.  GI upset.

What or who helped you during your grief process?

#1. My son. I had to function for him.

#2. Nothing, no one understands.

#3. Family, friends, therapist, grief therapy, acupuncture.

#4. Friends.

#5. Nothing.

#6. Family, friends, aromatherapy, being in nature.

#7. Energy healing.

#8. Friends.

#9. Grief therapist.

#10. Friends, my dad, my friends’ moms.  Nature, acupuncture, psychotherapy, and the family I created.

Have you experienced mystical experiences after your mother passed away?

#1.  Dreams of my mom, and when I am in nature, I can feel her with me.

#2. Dreams and I often call out to her in my sleep.

#3.  My radio went off, and when I asked for a sign a year later, the radio went off again. I believe it was her.

#4. Had a vision and she told me she was taken, and she was not ready.

#5. I feel her presence and a warmth comes over me.  I have her walking stick, and I can feel her energy in my hand when I touch it.

#6.  My daughter spoke with her when she was two years old.

#7.  I felt her presence when I went to a religious park with my daughter.

#8. She shows up in dreams, and I pay close attention to nature, and I can feel her all around me.

#9. She had a near-death experience and said she was blissfully happy.

#10: Songs on the radio would magically come on like clockwork. Recurring dreams.

What advice would you offer other women who have experienced mother loss?

#1. Grieve any way you find possible. This process can last a lifetime.

#2.  Seek help immediately.  Do things that remind you of her and make them part of your life. – #3. Get all the help you can, and tell her how you feel every day.

#4. Cherish the memories.

#5. Talk about her often.

#6.  Allow grief, give yourself the grace to go through all the feelings. We all walk the path of grief differently.

#7.  Only others who have experienced this loss can relate to your pain.

#8. I wear her earrings, chain necklace, and wedding band every day.

#9. I do not feel qualified to give advice to anyone.

#10. Losing a mother is like losing the keys to who you are, and it can be lonely to navigate life. My best advice would be to ask yourself a lot of questions, questions you might otherwise ask your mothers, and to find the resources that you resonate with for joy and comfort.

What has brought you the most peace with her death?

#1.  I  feel communion with her when I contemplate the important turning point in her life, the decisions she made, and the legacy she left.

#2.  I have a marker in my backyard, and it has this description after her name: “radiating love, devotion, and kindness for all eternity.”

#3.  Make her live on through creating traditions associated with memories and things she did, and talking about her so other people can get to know her.

#4. I do not know if I will ever be at peace. I do know she was suffering, and that is the only solace I have, knowing that although she is not here, I would never want to see her suffer, so God called her home.

#5. Knowing that she lives on in me, seeing her in me.

#6. Talking about her.

#7.  I go to the beach often, which was my mother’s happy place.

#8. Learning more about my faith, I believe that I will see her again and that she can somehow see my daughters and me.

#9. As you enter my home, you will find one of my favorite photographs of her, which I enlarged, and I have many videos of her and my children.

#10. Her love (memories) and seeing my kids resemble parts of her. It makes my heart swell.

  I am grateful to the women who agreed to participate in this study, and I hope to conduct more extensive studies in the future to assist healthcare professionals in their knowledge of mother loss.

From The Eternal Bond by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD.  © 2025 by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD. Used by permission from Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd., www.Llewellyn.com.

[1] The comments included in this article are abbreviated since the study was lengthy in scope. For more information contact Dr. Roseman, jroseman@nova.edu.

The post What Does The Research Tell Us About Grief? appeared first on Open to Hope.

Grieving Who We Were Before the World Changed

I didn’t need another reason to mentally and emotionally struggle. It’s what I have always known, what continues for me. There is a quiet kind of grief that doesn’t always come with a clear ending. It’s the grief for the version of ourselves that existed before Covid struck, before uncertainty became the norm, and before we were reshaped by it.

We not only lost loved ones, but we lost ourselves. We were quietly expected to continue, to move forward, but not everyone has been able to do that. Long-Covid is something many people live with – life simply hasn’t gone back to normal for everyone.  We are not the same people. Many of us are still learning how to live as the people we became in a world since Covid.

There is grief in that.

Loss of Confidence and Rising Social Anxiety

For some, this change shows up as a loss of confidence – hesitation where certainty once lived. For others, it appears as social anxiety since Covid, quietly formed during isolation, an isolation that never really left.

Conversations take more effort. Social situations that once felt natural may now feel draining. These are common experiences linked to mental health after Covid, yet many people still feel alone in them.

Emotional Fatigue and Reduced Resilience

The energy feels different – not just a physical tiredness, but a deep emotional fatigue. Years of uncertainty, fear, and constant adjustment have stretched our emotional resilience. Small stresses linger.

Everyday life feels heavier than it used to. People are still invisible.

This ongoing exhaustion reflects the broader impact of long-term mental health effects of Covid – even for those who were never physically ill.

Unprocessed Emotions Beneath the Surface

Many people experience emotions that don’t always make sense: sudden anger, bitterness, emotional numbness, or a quiet undercurrent of fear. These reactions are often part of post-pandemic mental health challenges, shaped by prolonged stress rather than immediate events.

Because these feelings aren’t always visible or easily explained, they’re dismissed – even by ourselves.

Moving On Isn’t the Same as Moving Past

As societies re-opened, productivity and routine returned. But emotionally, many people didn’t “move on” in the same way. Brexit and Covid didn’t just disrupt timelines – they altered trust, identity and our sense of security.

For many, coping with life after Covid doesn’t mean fixing everything. It means adapting to a world that no longer feels the same, while carrying changes that haven’t been acknowledged.

Naming the Change Is the First Step

Healing doesn’t begin with solutions or understanding. It starts with honesty. With naming the grief, the fatigue, the fear, the changed confidence. With admitting that we are all different now – and still choosing to support.

When we begin talking openly about mental health in a world where Covid hasn’t gone, and we know it’s still there, but we stop carrying it alone. And perhaps that’s where healing from grief truly begins: not in pretending we’re unchanged, but in learning how to live truthfully as we are now.

The post Grief, Identity, Change, and Post Pandemic Mental Health appeared first on Open to Hope.

Before Erika died, time felt like a friend. After, it became my tormentor—each day dragging on, the months ahead looking like endless miles to endure without her. When I imagined the future, it no longer held the excitement of possibility. It felt like a long, empty road.

Heartbreak hits like a sudden tsunami. It leaves us gasping, disoriented, trying to survive what has just happened. I remember thinking, What an unfair price to pay for loving my daughter so deeply. I wondered how life could feel so cruel.

In those early years, my greatest fear wasn’t only the pain—it was that there would be no end to it. I worried I’d never feel real joy again, that life would never hold meaning or purpose, and that all my grief would be in vain. I needed to believe that what I was going through could lead somewhere meaningful—and that I had at least some control over where that might be.

We often hear that healthy grieving matters so we can “get on with life,” and that grief needs a voice so it doesn’t damage us long-term. I knew that was true, and research supports it. But I also sensed there had to be more than simply releasing pain. I kept thinking, This has to be creating something meaningful. I had poured my love into raising Erika and building our bond. Could the only outcome be a life of endurance? I refused to believe it.

So I became determined to find what else was possible. I watched, listened, researched, and tried everything I could. Over time, I began to understand something that changed me: I was not powerless against grief. My life would never be the same—how could it be?—but it also didn’t have to be absent of meaning, joy, or purpose.

I started to notice “guideposts” along my path—moments and choices that helped shape the life I was rebuilding. I discovered tools that truly helped, including scientifically supported practices like mindfulness, along with many others you can find on our website.

Then came a turning point. I looked at the time stretching ahead and thought: I want more meaning and joy in my life, and I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get there. Determination took over. I said out loud, “I’m going to get there because I deserve it.” I didn’t know how, but I made the commitment. I had done deep grief work by then, and I was ready for the next step.

One truth surprised me: a life that includes joy, happiness, and meaning is worth the work it takes to rebuild it. My life wasn’t going to become lighter simply because time passed. That’s why I don’t like the phrase “Time heals all wounds.” What matters is what we do with time.

In other painful periods of my life, I eventually returned to “normal” with time and tears, almost naturally. But Erika’s death was different. I couldn’t approach it the way I had other hardships. I needed to look at life differently and actively find my way forward. I wanted it, I deserved it, and I was passionate about it. And I imagine that if Erika could have spoken to me then, she would have said, “You go, Mom!”

One practice that has stayed with me—and will for the rest of my life—is mindfulness. Today, mindfulness is supported by growing research, including studies using brain imaging to explore its effects. And it works. If I had known earlier what I know now, I would have focused on the step in front of me instead of the whole staircase: baby steps. One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. Not the panic of How will I survive all the time ahead?

I often hear people say they feel guilty enjoying life or feeling happy after a loved one dies—like they have no right to happiness if their loved one can’t be here. But I believe living fully is exactly what we are here to do, and it’s what our loved ones did when they were alive. Life is not meant to be only endured. It is meant to be lived—embraced in its highs and lows, even when the lows are unbearable. Fully embracing life is often what leads us to the answers we seek.

It has been many years since Erika died, and I am still rebuilding. That rebuilding includes creating a life that holds her—her memory, my love for her, and what matters most. I think of it like a home destroyed by a storm. Much may be lost, but not love. Not memory. Not what truly matters. So wherever I go, whatever I build, Erika comes with me.

As I rebuild, I also see much of what I create as being in her honor—griefHaven, and the community of people who have come into our lives through it. How fitting that we call this organization a “foundation,” because that is what loss requires: creating a new foundation on which to build the rest of our lives.

If you are early in grief, this may be hard to imagine. But hold on to the truth of it. Little by little, life begins to return. You start to enjoy what you never believed you would enjoy again. One day you will look ahead and not dread it.

And if you doubt that’s possible, hear this: if I can do it, and if all the parents, siblings, spouses, children, grandparents, and friends who came before you have done it, then so can you. Yes, you will. That is our promise to you.

My hope for you is that you begin to feel even a small easing of the pain. I hope you sense the thawing of your heart. I hope you can see that, little by little, you are planting seeds of a future you cannot yet imagine.

They say rain is nature’s tears. I believe our tears are the raindrops of the soul. And one day, you will see what your tears have watered: small sprouts pushing through the soil of your life, buds forming, and then blossoms.

I call it the spring of your heart—the moment you realize you have created something new from sorrow: a life of meaning, purpose, and love that still includes your person.

Because you deserve it.

The post What Are Our Choices? A Personal Story By Susan Whitmore, Founder and CEO, griefHaven appeared first on Open to Hope.

I wrote The Eternal Bond: Daughters Honor their Mothers on the Otherside to help empower grievers and to share potent narratives that daughters have shared with me.  It takes courage to talk about these occurrences, and I urge you to consider before you discuss your experiences to choose to share these miracles with people that you trust. It doesn’t make a difference if they believe you or not, since you are the expert in your own grief journey.  I believe that this metaphysical dimension is more available after the passing of a loved one, however, I have had visions, dreams and signs from my mother over a decade after she has passed away.  If more people shared their stories, then I believe that a taboo can be lifted and these magical occurrences can be validated.  In fact, it is very common to have these visions according to research, yet the belief that somehow if you shared this information, you might be labeled ‘crazy’, persists.  Of course, if you feel that you cannot function, or that these experiences are upsetting to you, please seek out a trusted therapist or physician for help.

I would also like to remind you that the metaphysical dimension does not always arrive because you want it too and it is not something you can command.  These dreams, signs, and inner knowing are present when they are present and although you can cultivate a dream healing process, to help curry a dream of your loved, one, it may not show up immediately but in my experience, these signs and dreams do take place, and often when you least expect it.

Often, after a loved one has died, there is a yearning of course to reconnect with your loved one and you may be tempted to seek out a medium or a psychic for further information.  If you do decide to have a reading with someone, I would urge you to wait at least six months after your loved one has passed away when you are feeling less vulnerable.  Although, there are many mediums and psychics who only have the best of intentions, some people take advantage of their clients by promising that only they can relay information about your loved one and they may even urge you to purchase a number of sessions which of course, is unethical. As a psychic myself, I know that you cannot promise to be privy to the spirit world, much less the world where your loved one resides, because it is not up to you or to them. The person who has passed will decide how and when they wish to appear to you, since it is a relationship, and in any relationship, both people provide input.  Beware of psychics or mediums who try to convince you that their information is correct, even when your inner knowing tells you that is not the case. I remember having a psychic consultation with someone who insisted that my mother was wearing couture fashion, which she loved.  When I heard that, I laughed since my mother always dressed well, but couture would never be something she would choose -she didn’t believe in spending a lot of money on clothing. Ask for referrals from friends, and you may want to arrange for an initial call with a psychic to see if you are both aligned.  After your reading, ask yourself if you feel relieved. Inspired? Or did it upset you? The visceral reactions will give you clues since your body never lies.

I was also told that I needed to ‘let go’ of my mother and that she was on her own journey, and basically, I was on my own.  Of course, this was not what I wanted to hear because my bond with my mother was strong and I could not imagine then, or now, why she would abandon me for all time.  Instead, I suggest that you ‘let in’, your loved one and find ways to incorporate her/him into your life.  For example, reading the books she loved, keeping photographs around you, talking to them about your day, and having an intentional dream or meditation practice can not only be helpful, it is healing.  I wear the necklace that my mother bought me of the Virgin of Guadalupe with the inscription, ‘You got me!’ every day.   I have survived profound grief, and I know that once our psychic and somatic consciousness is shattered, often out of the ordinary occurrences take place. This is a spiritual opportunity to align with Divine forces, particularly with the loved one you have lost and the mystical and sacred communion that can take place is beautiful.  The grief journey is a personal mystical initiation.

After interviewing countless women about their experiences in grief (and conducting a research study), I was heartened to hear that I was not the only one who experienced visions, signs, and dreams about her.  I saw blazing neon lights for over a year in my apartment and was also shown depictions of the other side, which words do not adequately explain.  The women I spoke with were eager to share their experiences with me, although they usually introduced the topic with the words, “Please don’t think I am crazy.”  I am appreciative of their willingness to share their metaphysical occurrences and below I have documented some of their comments.

In the book, daughters shared their experiences of the metaphysical dimension, and you may have had similar experiences.  Grief is not pathological and is a wound, and like any wound, it leaves a scar, but remember that you are more than your grief.   When we are willing to share our stories with others, we can understand the many facets of grief since it is not a one-size-fits-all model.  Grief can provide opportunities for self-reflection, insight, and inner knowing, and most importantly, death does not eradicate the eternal and enduring bonds of love between mother and daughter.

Have you experienced mystical experiences after your mother passed away?

#1.  Dreams of my mom, and when I am in nature, I can feel her with me.

#2. Dreams and I often call out to her in my sleep.

#3.  My radio went off, and when I asked for a sign a year later, the radio went off again. I believe it was her.

#4. Had a vision and she told me she was taken, and she was not ready.

#5. I feel her presence and a warmth comes over me.  I have her walking stick, and I can feel her energy in my hand when I touch it.

#6.  My daughter spoke with her when she was two years old.

#7.  I felt her presence when I went to a religious park with my daughter.

#8. She shows up in dreams, and I pay close attention to nature, and I can feel her all around me.

#9. She had a near-death experience and said she was blissfully happy.

#10: Songs on the radio would magically come on like clockwork. Recurring dreams.

My dear friend , Jane Grossenbacher, sent me a letter after my mother passed away when I was acutely suffering. Jane has lost her mother when she was younger and I knew she would understand.  She wrote:

Wear some of her jewelry. Be your magnificent self and she will tag along in your bones or in an expression or when and where you smile. Make a ritual and lay down her burdens, acknowledge her sufferings and make them disappear. You will imagine the best way to go to the next avenue, in the same world.

     I often reach for her letter in my desk . I hope that her words can also help you when you are in need.

Grieving is a form of prayer-a prayer to be retrieved from the land of sorrows, and a prayer to reunite with our loved ones. Grief is a voyage to the underworld and possesses many gems of wisdom. However, these insights cannot be told or taught; they must be felt and experienced. This process can last a lifetime but also possesses various degrees of power-sometimes it will feel shattering and frightening and other times quiet and bittersweet. I cannot tell you that it has an endpoint, but although it never truly ends, it changes as the sting of grief transforms into grace. I believe that the most important component of the grief process is Faith. I am not referring to a particular religion or spiritual path.  Depending on one’s religious or spiritual orientation, this faith can be comforting.  However, I believe that Faith in yourself is key.  Faith that you will be offered a connection with your loved one from their higher dimension can indeed take place, and when they are ready.  I hope you have Faith that you will be able to continue your life with your loved one for grieving is fundamentally a courageous act . The bonds of love that you experience do not end, for they are eternal.

From The Eternal Bond by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD.  © 2025 by Janet Lynn Roseman, PhD. Used by permission from Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd., www.Llewellyn.com.

The post How To Understand Grief Visions: They Really Are Common appeared first on Open to Hope.

  Throughout my life, somehow the ice called me, a pull I never quite understood, my happy place, where my mind emptied. I felt the glide on a sheet of ice, like a beautiful piece of glass, and felt the cool breeze swoop the hair off my face. Although I lost many memories of my sisters, I somehow remembered the skating memories—our laughter, rosy cheeks, and warm hot chocolate afterwards.

It seemed fitting that I founded Celebration of Sisters in 2011, an annual ice-skating fundraiser to commemorate the lives and memories of Margie and Jane, benefiting Massachusetts General Hospital. Margie and Jane were fun extroverts, unlike me, who was an introvert. A fundraiser that represented them in a sport we all shared. I never dreamed that I, the tentative skater, would be out there performing in front of a large audience. Margie and Jane encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone, celebrate them, and share my sisters with others to keep them from being forgotten.

  The event took a pause in 2022 and will return in 2026. The date is in November, the most challenging month. Jane’s birthday is November 6th, Margie’s the 8th, and the anniversary of Jane’s death is the 7th. I needed the focus to provide me a way to channel my grief, get through the harrowing month, after decades of squashing my grief. Margie and Jane provide me with the courage to skate before an audience and are my anchors. I can hear my sisters giggling, telling me my dress is too short, I have too much blush on, but ultimately proud of the shy middle sister who came out of the wings to do good and give back.

  I felt honored that they asked me to perform at my skating club’s Christmas show in December. The day proved to be magical. I had my typical meltdown on practice day before the show. A mix of emotions–elated to be skating, feeling the joy, love of my sisters, and a piece of my heart hurting, missing them, wanting them to be beside me. I am grateful to have found a space where I can hold grief meaningfully and find the symmetry of love, joy, and grief blending. 

  In 2025, the birthdays/anniversaries hit me hard. Grief has no timeline, and despite Jane being gone for forty-four years and Margie thirty-three, the loss and sadness remain. I never know what the feeling will be from one year to the next, and now I am allowing myself to feel whatever emotions come up and trying to give myself compassion. Margie and Jane remain my past, present, and future. I am Judy, the middle of three sisters.

  “Ice-skating brought me full circle back to my beloved sisters. As I glided across the ice, I felt free, and the weight of my world lifted. I imagined Margie and Jane skating on each side of me, holding onto my shoulders. The joy of my sisters’ presence was reflected in my radiant face and fluid movements on the ice. I could dance away from the pain for that one moment in time. Ice skating was and is my passion, solace and peace.” (Excerpt from my memoir, Celebration of Sisters: It Is Never Too Late To Grieve)

The post Skating for My Beloved Sisters appeared first on Open to Hope.

that fills our souls with both awe and terror.

The consequences of the death of one’s

mother is not like any other ordeal in life.

Daughters are often faced with resurrecting

a new life without a road map, catapulted

upon the ruins that remain while enduring

indescribable emotional pain. Based on

my experience of my mother’s death, and

the shared narratives with other daughters

I have spoken with, this journey is both

courageous and terrifying.

Grief is often a taboo topic, and many

women (and men) in mourning are

not only distraught but feel alone and

disconnected. Constructing a life

with meaning, that is psychologically

sound, is empowering, especially

when daughters feel abandoned and

hopeless after their mother’s death. It

is a myth that during grief you need to

“let go” of your loved one because the

unwavering connection crosses the

spiritual realms and continues after

death.

This eternal bond is boundless, infinite,

and everlasting because it is the energy

of love, and love cannot be destroyed

or lost. Although their physical presence

is removed, the bond can never be

taken away. When I speak to skeptics,

I often cite Dr. Albert Einstein’s theory

that “energy cannot be created or

destroyed; it can only be changed from

one form to another.”

KÜBLER-ROSS MADE A MISTAKE

Clinicians can offer great comfort,

psychological understanding, and

support for daughters. When they blindly

adopt Dr. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s stages of

grief as the only model, they contribute to the

lack of acknowledgment that grief belongs

to the griever, and it is a sacred act of love.

The respected work of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s

many stages, although compelling, does not

depict the actual stages of grief despite the

fact it is universally accepted as the model.

Grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression,

and acceptance has been the universal gold

standard, but it negates the fact that every

person has their own experiences with grief,

which may or may not mirror those stages.

More importantly, those stages should not be

used as a checklist of dictated emotions that

grievers should use to judge how they are

doing. These stages may bring comfort to

those who want validation for their feelings,

but I believe it is a false analysis. Reducing

the multilayered grief process to five words

does a disservice.

Daughters may feel as if they are not

experiencing the grief process correctly if

they do not travel through these stages or,

even worse, they remain stuck in one of those

stages. It is insulting because it is formulaic

and reductionist. It does not acknowledge my

experiences or yours.

Grief is a dance, and we may also feel

guilt, sadness, lack of interest in our lives,

joy, and celebration. Dr. Kübler-Ross also

never mentions any occurrence of visions,

dreams, or other signs that the bereaved

may experience. The point I am making is

that you cannot quantify how you should feel

or will feel. The wisdom of suffering that one

learns during grief is formidable wisdom, and

one learns what truly matters in life when

someone you love is taken away.

After the death of her mother, writer Ada

McVean wrote in 2019 an insightful article

stating that Dr. Kübler-Ross’s model “is

not science based, does not describe well

most people’s experiences, and was never

meant to apply to the bereaved.”1

According to McVean’s research, Dr.

Kübler-Ross created this model after she

interviewed two hundred dying patients to

learn about their psychological beliefs

about death and that this model was not

based on empirical or systematic

investigations but a collection of case

studies. What I think is compelling is

that her research, although merited,

did not consist of interviewing those

who had lost loved ones but was

based on those who were facing death,

and those populations are very

different. McVean ends her article with

sound advice.

There is not a “right way” to grieve.

There is not a “wrong way” to grieve.

And I hope that when you experience

grief you can take some small comfort

in knowing that however you are

feeling is just fine.2

THE DANGER OF LABELING GRIEF AS A MENTAL ILLNESS

In March of 2022, the newest disorder

to be added to the Diagnostic and

Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders

(DSM), a publication of the American

Psychiatric Association, included

prolonged grief disorder. They defined

this “disorder” as “intense yearning or

longing for the deceased (often with

intense sorrow and emotional pain).”3

Adding further insult to those in deep

grief, clinicians could bill insurance

companies for the treatment

of this “disorder,” and pharmaceutical

companies now had further permission

to manufacture drugs that grievers

would now” need.” This addition was

not without controversy, and Joanne

Cacciatore, an associate professor of

32

social work who is an expert on the grief

experience, stated:“When someone who is

a “expert” tells us we are disordered and

we are feeling very vulnerable and feeling

overwhelmed, we no longer trust ourselves

and our emotions. To me, that is an

incredibly dangerous move, and short

sighted.”4

When someone is unable to function at all

for long periods of time or threatens to

harm themselves, they need professional

care, and in this case, I am not referring to

those circumstances. If you are interested

in reading more, there is an abundance

of materials on PubMed and in the DSM

online.

Grief Is Not Pathological

Daughters who are grieving after one year

or “long for” their mothers are at risk of

being labeled and medicated. The only

boon would be for pharmaceutical

companies to help psychiatrists medicate

their patients when these daughters are

not mentally ill but experiencing deep grief

Grief is not a mental illness or a pathology

but a natural process. The grief process

will include intense longing for your mother

and the physical separation from her often

creates emotional distress. These are

natural human responses and not a

mental disorder. Many research papers on

grief characterize this normal experience

as problematic if grief does not resolve

within a year. This is just ridiculous. I

wonder if the authors have ever lost a

beloved. Find support, allow yourself to

mourn, and reach out for help when you

need it.

WHO DECIDED THIS DIAGNOSIS AND WHY

The financial conflict that surrounds this

diagnosis and the task force that created

the initial diagnosis for prolonged grief

disorder in 2012 is alarming because

69 percent of the members of the task

force reported financial relationships with

pharmaceutical companies.5 There is a

justification for prescription drugs when

they are needed, and they can be

beneficial. I do not believe drugs are an

antidote for grief, but I know they can often

help some women to ease their distress.

Antidepressants and antianxiety

medications are the usual pharmaceuticals

chosen by clinicians who may not know that

natural therapies can also assist.

Homeopathy, naturopathy,

acupuncture, nutraceutical support,

massage, and energetic practices are very

valuable. If your clients choose to work with

any type of integrative medicine practitioner,

naturopath, or energy healer, tell them to

seek out those who are clinically trained

and have credentials. It is wise for grievers

to resist the urge to self-medicate because

all medications, including natural remedies,

have side effects. It is always prudent to work

with someone you trust who also possesses

the proper qualifications.

~Taken from an excerpt from The Eternal Bond 

The post Grief And The Trouble With Universal Stages Of Grief appeared first on Open to Hope.

I have spent more than four decades companioning people through loss, and I have learned:

Grief is not the end of your story. It is the beginning of your transformation.

Loss shakes us to our core and reveals what truly matters.

It invites us gently, quietly, and at our own pace, to discover strengths, truths, and inner resources we never knew we possessed.

This is the hidden gift inside grief.

This is the light that rises from loss.

This is your superpower.

Grief Clears the Path for What Is Most Meaningful

In ordinary life, we rush. We move from task to task, expectation to expectation.

But loss pauses the noise long enough for wisdom to speak.

In that stillness, our hearts reveal what matters:

the people, the beliefs, the traditions, the inner callings that bring us goodness, joy,

and beauty.

Loss does not take everything from you.

It causes you to see, through your agony of grief, what is essential to your well-being. It strips away the unimportant and allows your inner light to illuminate what matters.

And in that shining, many people rediscover purpose, joy, connection, and clarity, not in spite of grief, but through the process of grieving.

Grief Expands the Heart’s Capacity to Love

When someone we love dies, the love does not disappear.

It becomes a guiding light.

Grief is love in motion, love reaching forward, love remembering, love honoring, love continuing.

Grief opens your heart to a deeper, more unconditional kind of love.

It makes you more open, more tender, more courageous.

You love more freely.

You speak more honestly.

You cherish more deeply.

You forgive more readily.

Grief teaches you that every moment of love is sacred, and that loving courageously is one of your greatest strengths. It is your superpower.

Grief Awakens Compassion and Connection

Nothing softens the human spirit like loss.

Leaving us broken and vulnerable, the experience of grieving opens the door to compassion, understanding, and connection in ways nothing else can.

If you pay attention and listen to your inner wisdom emerging, you begin to see people differently.

You show up for others.

You recognize their silent struggles.

You listen without needing to fix.

You are present with a gentleness you may never have accessed before.

This is because grief connects us to the universal human experience of being alive, vulnerable, and beautifully imperfect.

Your compassion becomes a gift to others and to yourself.

It is one of grief’s brightest superpowers.

Grief Builds a Resilience That Is Quiet and Mighty

We often imagine resilience as a bold, dramatic comeback.

But grief teaches a different kind of resilience, soft, steady, and soulful.

We recognize it as:

• the courage to get out of bed

• the strength to feel your feelings

• the willingness to accept help

• the ability to hold sorrow and gratitude together

• the bravery of imagining a future again

This quiet resilience is not about “moving on.”

It’s about moving forward, today, attempting to make it better than yesterday. Living every day for the rest of our lives with love, moving with meaning, and moving at a pace that honors our hearts.

And every step,

no matter how small,

is a victory.

Grief Is the Beginning of a New Kind of Purpose

Grief asks powerful questions:

How will you honor the love you’ve lost?

How will you live differently because of what you now know?

How do you want to grow into a better- stronger, wiser, more compassionate version of yourself?

When people answer these questions gently and honestly, they often discover a renewed sense of purpose.

Not a replacement for what or whom was lost, but a continuation of the love that shaped them.

Some find themselves more present with family.

Some deepen their spirituality or community involvement.

Some step into service, creativity, leadership, or advocacy.

Some simply choose to live with more intention, gratitude, and compassion.

Purpose does not always roar.

Sometimes it whispers, and grief helps us hear it.

You Are Becoming Something Braver, Softer, and More Beautiful

If you are grieving today, I want you to know:

You are not breaking.

You are becoming.

Becoming wiser.

Becoming more compassionate.

Becoming more authentically yourself.

Becoming someone who knows, now on a deeper level, what matters most.

Grief does not erase joy.

It eventually deepens it.

Grief does not end love.

It transforms it.

Grief does not close your heart.

It expands it beyond what you thought possible.

Your grief is your superpower because it is leading you, slowly, tenderly, and courageously, towards a life lived with greater meaning, presence, and love.

However dark this chapter feels, there is a light within you that loss cannot extinguish.

It may flicker.

It may dim.

But it will rise again.

And when it does, you will see that you have been growing wings this whole time.

The post How Grief Becomes Your Greatest Superpower appeared first on Open to Hope.

Many of us had those “puppy love crushes” in our teenage years with no expectation of it leading to the altar. I purchased a cute Valentine’s Day card for a “guy” I was dating on-again, off-again. There was no intention in mind other than to get his attention with a bit of lighthearted humor. For all I knew, he could have promptly discarded the greeting card.

On the front of the valentine was a picture of a sad, droopy hound dog  and the words: Be my Valentine.” Inside it read, “Or I’ll hound you until you do!” Though not the first time, I’d forgotten it and recently found it in a box of Gary’s stuff. Sometimes events in our lives happen because they were “meant to be!” Who would ever expect that a humorous valentine would lead to the altar?

I remember our Wedding Day with great clarity.  I was an anxious, nervous bride, almost to the point of tears. Tears for fears of what our life would be together or were they tears of joy?  I was young and unprepared, but I boldly took that first step. I remember my dad saying to me, just before we walked down the aisle, “You still have time to change your mind.” When I saw Gary waiting at the altar and put my hand in his, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that this was the commitment I wanted, and I was making it with my whole heart. We were married for over 55 years. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect life every day or every year, but we weathered the storms of adversity together. And we had a generous share of them, without a doubt. But our marriage was blessed with many memories made.

LOVE COMES WITH A COMMITMENT
On the day that Gary died, unexpectedly and suddenly, I remember my last words to him were, based on our marriage commitment:  “ You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m so grateful to God for helping me find you.  I will always love you.” After our son’s death decades ago , I didn’t think I could bounce back again after another traumatic loss.

I recently read in a Daily Devotion Book: “ Success in marriage is more than finding the right person. It’s becoming the right person.” We come into marriage not fully knowing a person and not fully knowing about life. It takes patience, courage, and desire to keep learning and growing together. This determines what kind of a “partner” you will be.

Without ever thinking about “what kind of a spouse/partner I wanted to be, I think Gary and I worked equally together to live our lives with mutual respect, dignity, faith, loyalty, and the preservation of our initial vows.

DEATH HONORS COMMITMENTS

Another word for “commitment” is a promise. I’ve always believed that “love never dies,” but I never thought of how our bond could continue to grow after his death. When I mentally cataloged decades of challenges, cherished memories, and my loss of future dreams, I  realized there was still a part of that initial commitment that extends even after death, if desired. I need not forget him. In fact, just the opposite is true. I promise to keep telling his stories (as I did with Chad all these years). I promise to adopt many of his values in the life I live. I promise to value the influence he had that made me who I am today. I promise to be  grateful and blessed for his unconditional love when I took so many things he did and was for granted. I promise to honor his legacy in the pursuit of purpose and meaning. From this comes my strength and resilience.

In retrospect, sending that bold hint in a Valentine decades ago made me smile, realizing how historic it was in forging the life I was privileged to live with Gary. Never would I have dreamed it would lead us to the marriage altar.

Death resets the button on priorities. That doesn’t happen immediately, but it did as I started healing my wounded heart. The Valentine reminded me that there are even “commitments” after death, as well as those made when taking your sacred vows. Vows to Honor, Love, and Remember, being the greatest of these.

KEEPING VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL

I don’t let Valentine’s Day pass without remembering how it all began and being grateful we could share our lives together for decades. I continue to honor my commitment, but in a different way. Sometimes I send valentines to friends and family, grateful for their support. I might venture out and enjoy the day or have lunch with a friend and share memories. But, in the evening when I’m all alone, I always light a candle in Memory of Gary and enjoy the flowers on the table that I bought myself, typically adding the rose, just like he would have done. Our son, Chad, is also a part of those memories I cherish. Knowing the two are together smiling down on my emotional moments.  This year, that silly Valentine will be the focus of my home-alone celebration. I’ll be telling myself…”I’m so glad I hounded you to be my valentine. It was the best choice I ever made!”

The post A Lighthearted Valentine Evolved Into a Lasting Commitment. A commitment in life and in death. appeared first on Open to Hope.

—Donna Tartt, author of The Goldfinch

There is a year nearly every daughter who has lost her mother describes as being very significant. This is the year when she becomes the age of her mother when she died. This was also true for me. 

When I turned thirty-four, the age my mother was when she died, I had a serious uterine infection. The doctor prescribed antibiotics, but my infection wasn’t responding. Finally, my fever was so high, and I was in so much pain, the doctor sent me to the hospital. I was bent in half as I sat in the wheelchair for the nurse to take me to my room. They put me on an intravenous antibiotic, daily penicillin shots, and ordered an ultrasound. The test showed a mass in the area. The doctor was baffled about its origins, but in my mind, the elephant in the room was cancer. The doctor decided to repeat the ultrasound the next day, after the antibiotics had a chance to take effect. 

The circumstances felt ominous to me. I feared that I was about to be the third generation of women to die at an early age. Unlike most early loss daughters, until this moment, I hadn’t given much thought to the anniversary of my mother’s death, nor her mother’s. But, on this long and anxious day, I did the math. I realized I was the age my mother was when she died. Further, my oldest daughter was the same age I had been. It only recently occurred to me that my youngest daughter was the same age that my mother was when her mother died. It was truly a circle-of-life moment. 

In the evening, my little girls, ages eight and three, came with their dad to visit me. We named the IV stand “Fred” so it would seem less ominous to them. We walked the hall so they could see me out of bed. Was I remembering the days I’d spent visiting my mom in the hospital? I don’t think so, but perhaps my intuition was telling me to consider my daughters’ possible fearful feelings more than the average hospitalized mom might. I knew what it was like to have a mother who never returned from the hospital. I also had experienced losing a mother at a young age and I didn’t want them to imagine they too could be motherless. 

When I was eight, and my mother was ill, I turned to God for solace and intervention. Now sick myself, I again turned to God in prayer. I knew I needed to be clear and ask for what I wanted. Here’s what I said. 

“Dear God, as you know, Winnie is the same age I was when my mother died. She is independent, strong, and has a great dad. She will be fine. But I have this little girl, Katie. She is only three years old, much too young to be left without a mother. Sorry, God, I can’t leave her yet. I’m not going now. Please stand with me on this. Amen.” 

The next day, my husband came to the hospital by himself to be with me as we heard the results of the second ultrasound. Dr. Johnson looked bewildered as he entered my hospital room late in the afternoon. He said, “The mass is completely gone.” He had no explanation as to the cause of the mass or the reasons for its disappearance. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing with the antibiotics and see how you improve in the next few days. Your fever is down, and I believe you’re on the road to recovery.”

I didn’t need further explanation. I knew God had answered my prayer. I would get to be a mother for a while longer. Was this a miracle? Believers like me think so. Was it the power of suggestion? Perhaps. Was it all a mistake? Maybe they had misread the first ultrasound? I don’t know, nor do I care. I was profoundly grateful I had escaped this crisis and had a chance to see my children grow up. I knew there were no guarantees, but I was hopeful as I sailed away from my anniversary year. 

I was also tremendously relieved when my oldest daughter, Winnie, moved into her forties, surpassing her grandmother, Winnie, and her great-grandmother, Winnifred. Winnie is now fifty-five with three daughters of her own, just like her great-grandmother. 

www.mershonniesner.com

The post ANTICIPATE THE ANNIVERSARY YEAR(S) appeared first on Open to Hope.

think maybe it was all a bad dream. As soon as you get out of bed, a

tidal wave of grief knocks you down, bringing you to your knees, and

you immediately start to cry. You can’t stop crying. This is the beginning

of the end of your life as you knew it—grieving your child who

is no longer alive. Whether it was a long goodbye, a short goodbye, or

no goodbye, you want the pain to stop but you don’t think it ever will.

How could it? How will you go on? Why should you go on?

Everything has turned to shit. Things will never be the same. You will

never be the same. Your child has died and a part of you has, too. Your

world has gone from color to black and white, though it’s mostly just

pitch black. The light—your darling son, your beautiful daughter—is

gone forever and you’re left alone, stumbling in the dark.

You drag yourself into the shower and try to wash the anguish

away. You scrub and scrub until it hurts and then you scrub some more

until you burst out crying again. The shower is one of the few refuges

where you can let go, where you can turn your insides out. The shower

cleanses your body but can’t purify your soul.

You get dressed, unaware that you’re wearing two different colored

shoes, and look in the mirror to see if you’re still in one piece. It surprises

you that you are. But there’s something different about your eyes.

They’re dull and lifeless, like one of those zombies on The Walking Dead.

You wonder if people can see the sorrow in your eyes, or the hole in

your heart, or the bottomless pit in your stomach, and then you wonder

if they can see you at all.

You eat a light breakfast because the barely rational part of you

knows that you need to keep up your strength, but everything tastes

awful. Really, everything has no taste at all. You have no appetite for

anything—least of all, for your life.

The phone rings and you jump out of your skin before realizing

that there’s no longer a reason to ever do that again. You still have the

coroner’s voicemail to prove it. This time, it’s just a little PTSD calling

to say hello.

You hop in the car and begin to cry again because this is your other

fortress of solitude. You think this is where you do your best crying—

the deep, guttural, ugly kind that barely sounds human. This is the start

of your mourning commute.

Your first stop is your therapist’s office. Today she wants you to

recall the moment you got the horrible phone call because that’s part of

the EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) therapy,

which supposedly will help you to rewire your trauma and relieve your

emotional distress. As your eyes begin to track her hand as she moves it

in and out of your field of vision while you’re tapping your fingers on

your legs, you think, Am I the biggest idiot for doing this ridiculous thing?

Or am I just that desperate to make the sadness subside? When she finally says

your time is up, you curse God for saying the same to your child.

When you get to work, everyone is extra-nice yet a little skittish

about approaching you. When they do pay their condolences, it’s awkward

(“There are no words”), and you say thank you and smile politely, and

a colleague gives you a big hug. Hugs have never felt so soothing before,

and you don’t want to let go—not just because it feels good but also

because you need to feel connected. The physical contact reminds you

that you’re still a part of this world, an unjust world without your child.

Your cell phone buzzes again, and you feel the same sickening jolt

in your belly. When will this stop? you think, and this time it’s your best

friend checking in to see if you’re “all right.” You hate those words.

Nothing will ever be “all right.” Right now, everything is all wrong—

with no end in sight. Why can’t everyone just leave me the hell alone? you

think, and then you thank your best friend for calling.

You throw yourself into your work, hoping it will be a distraction,

and it goes pretty well for a while until something reminds you of your

child and reduces you to a puddle. You run to the bathroom before

anyone can see you and lock yourself behind a stall. When someone

walks in, you bite down hard on your hand, hoping to silence your sobs.

After a productive morning of mourning, it’s time for lunch, and

your best work friend wants to take you out, so you slip on your “all

right” mask and prepare to be peppered with the same questions that

everyone keeps asking. They’re all variations on “How are you doing?”

and you wonder for a second, Should I really tell this person how I’m feel-

ing? Does this person really want to hear that my guts have been ripped out and

how badly I’m suffering every second, minute, hour of every day? Instead, you

say, “I’m hanging in there, doing the best I can,” and they smile and

nod approvingly.

They actually look a little relieved because they really don’t want to

hear about your agony, and you really don’t want to inflict it upon them.

How can they possibly understand what you’re going through anyway?

You can barely comprehend it yourself. So you quietly eat your tasteless

salad and make small talk until the check arrives. Your best work friend

is happy to pick it up, and you think that one of the few fringe benefits

of having a dead kid is all the free meals you’ve been getting lately.

The afternoon crawls by, and you picture yourself in this metaphor,

crawling on all fours while caught in rush hour traffic on the way home.

Home. Home used to be one of your favorite words. Home is where the

people you love most in the world live. Except for one of them. Now

you have to face your husband, wife, or partner, and, in many cases,

your other children, and it’s your job to comfort them, to reassure them,

to hold on to them for dear life.

After dinner, when everyone has retreated to wherever they go to

lick their wounds, you crack open what has become a nightly bottle of

wine and pour yourself a hefty glass. You plunk down on the couch

and hope that maybe by the time you finish the bottle, your heartache

will ease a tiny bit. Maybe you’ll finally get a good night’s sleep. Maybe

you won’t wake up tomorrow. Maybe you’ll drown yourself in more

maybes, you think.

You turn on some mindless TV show, because that’s all you can

handle right now and you’re not really watching anyway; it’s just random

images and background noise that complement the mayhem of

your thoughts. And it comes as no surprise that you’re crying again,

even though you’re watching Guy Fieri eating cheeseburger fried rice

on Food Network, so you pour yourself another tall glass and head into

the bedroom.

Your husband or wife is already zonked out, so you decide to skim

one of the many grief books people have recommended, but everything

you read just makes you feel worse. Finally, you pop a Xanax or two,

turn off the lights, and try to go to sleep.

And that’s when things get really dark, because now it’s just you

and the relentless voices in your head. You’re trying to make sense of

something that doesn’t make sense, and yet you keep trying because

you think it will provide relief, connecting the dots, explaining the

unexplainable, hoping against hope that you can miraculously change

the outcome. You hope that somehow this will make the pain go away,

knowing full well that nothing can ever take it away, knowing that the

pain will last forever.

It’s a grotesque feedback loop in which you’re stuck inside your

own head and the walls are filled with pictures of your child, and wherever

you look, there’s your kid looking back at you, sometimes smiling,

sometimes sad, sometimes angry, sometimes completely expressionless,

but always looking you directly in the eye. And you want to hold them

and shake them and hug them and kiss them, and more than anything,

you want to hear their voice, you want to hear them laugh or curse or

say, “I love you,” but they can’t speak because it’s just pictures.

So you dig a little deeper, looking for memories that come with

their own soundtrack, and you think you can hear them, but really it’s

just you putting words in their mouth—I love you, Mom; I love you, Dad;

I love you; I love you; I love you—over and over until it’s just a faint whisper,

and even though you’re wide awake, it feels like a horrible dream

and you just want it to end. You keep saying it was just a bad dream, it

was just a bad dream, it was just a bad dream, the same thing you told

your child when they were having one.

Then you take a deep breath and dry your eyes. You didn’t even

realize that you were crying again—when will you ever stop crying?—

and now you’re just sitting in bed and looking at a photo of your daughter

or son on the nightstand, the one from a million years ago before you

got the phone call that irrevocably changed your life. You can see their

exquisite beauty and feel their divine spirit, and you say out loud Why?

Why? Why? Why? And they look right back at you—the most beautiful

child in the world—and they don’t say a word.

You wake up the next morning and once again, for the first few

seconds, you think maybe it was all a bad dream. This is now your life—

if you can still call it that—when your child’s life ends.

The post A Day in the Life . . .If You Can Still Call It That appeared first on Open to Hope.

The post Dr. Bernie Siegel on Living Fully After Loss, Fear, and Life’s Uncertainty appeared first on Open to Hope.

 After he died, it was my turn to find out what suffering really means. 

In the first few weeks and months, I was gutted and in shock. So were my ex-wife, Caryn and my younger son, Zach. Our family had been destroyed. The whole thing seemed surreal—time was out of whack, nothing made sense. I was in a state of disbelief. And then, little by little, the anesthetic fog lifted and everything became clear and sharp and very real: Rob was dead. End of story.

I was walking around with a hole in my heart and just wanted the pain of never seeing him again to stop. I started to write about him every day—it was the only way I knew to grieve—and that led to my new book, A Space in the Heart: A Survival Guide for Grieving Parents. It also paved the way for some revelations, as did joining a grief group. 

There’s a good chance that you’ve been fortunate enough not to lose a child, but I know you’ve been touched by grief. When you get to be our age, losing people we love is just part of the deal. If we love, we grieve. That’s the bargain we make for staying alive.

But the weight of it takes you by surprise, and so, for me, did the grief group experience. I’ve always been a textbook lone wolf. But I knew from years of therapy that I desperately needed to do something to help myself cope, and there’s comfort and power in being part of a group. Revealing your darkest and most intimate thoughts to strangers who truly understand—because they pretty much feel the same way—opens you up like you could never imagine. An unshakable trust is established. 

Everything seemed different one night near the end of two years in my grief group, when I was struck by a palpable lightness in the room. We still talked about the rough stuff, but the tone of our voices had shifted. We sounded calmer, more self-assured, even hopeful. The vibe was nothing like what it was in the early days when we were all such hot messes.

In short, we were transformed. And that sparked what for me was an unexpected calling: I wanted to help others who were facing a similar struggle. The role of group leader and grief coach has turned out to be one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. It also taught me some essential lessons about grief: 

Be Gentle with Yourself

I first heard those words at the end of the first grief group I ever attended. I had been beating myself up with all kinds of excruciating questions and it took a while before that advice sank in. The pain is intense and unrelenting and yet, at the same time, necessary. It helps you process the loss while keeping you connected to your loved one. What’s not necessary are the self-inflicted wounds. The ones we torture ourselves with, the ones that keep us up all night, the ones that cut the deepest. Your grief deserves your compassion. Your heart is broken, but there’s still room in there to love yourself.

Talk—and Don’t Forget to Write

I like to talk to Rob as if he were still here. Maybe you do the same with your loved one. It doesn’t matter if they can hear you. It doesn’t matter if they respond. What matters is expressing your love for the person you’ve lost. You loved them in life, you love them in death, you’ll love them until the end of time. Tell them that every day. Letters work, too. Writing to Rob helped me process what happened to him, what happened to us, and what happened to me. Writing documents your love and loss. Seeing your feelings come alive on the page connects you with your loved one like nothing else.

Surrender to Sadness

Grief hides in the shadows and creeps up on you when you least expect it. When that happens, here’s the trick: Don’t fight it. The worse your pain gets and the deeper you immerse yourself in that pain, the better and faster you’ll move through it. Avoiding it just prolongs the process of healing. It’s like the Supremes said about love: You can’t hurry grief. Grief asks more of us than anyone or anything has ever asked. The surprise of your life will come when you discover how much strength and courage has been hiding in your broken heart.

Let Hope Guide You

It’s hard to see sometimes. The sadness blinds us, but hope is always right there with you. All you have to do is reach out for it. Whenever you’re having a really bad day, wrap your arms around it and don’t let go. Hope is the light in the darkness. And as long as you have hope in your heart, everything is going to be okay because hope is everything. As Rob would put it, “Hope is dope!”

This story originally appeared in the July/August 2025 issue of AARP: The Magazine.

The post Terrible, Thanks for Asking: What I’ve Learned About Grief appeared first on Open to Hope.

Whether your grief is fresh or seasoned, New Year’s celebration and traditions of new beginnings in the form of yearly resolutions can be extremely painful.

I often describe it as a “slap in the face” reminder that the world has moved on without my daughter—while I still think of her and miss her every day.

It all started in September 2009, when my 4-year-old daughter died in a sudden, tragic accident. In the weeks that followed, I worried about all the impending holidays involving family celebrations: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I was filled with dread and tried to plan for how I would handle each one.

New Year’s wasn’t on my mind because I had never been one to go out and celebrate while waiting for midnight. And yet, I was completely blindsided by just how painful the New Year’s holiday was when it finally approached. In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I realized I was on edge and angry.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that a new year was already here, and my daughter wouldn’t be alive in it.

The fact that a new year was being celebrated by the rest of the world amid the crushing reality that she wouldn’t be alive in it made me downright angry. The idea of resolutions, hope, or fresh starts felt ridiculous. All I saw was overwhelming, never-ending pain before me.

Some of you may feel that same despair. The idea that anything good can ever happen again may feel impossible. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying life may feel like a betrayal of your loved one. And if you feel that way, it’s okay. It’s a very normal reaction to losing someone you built your life and your identity around.

When you’re ready, I encourage you to give yourself permission to look for hope again. But this time with a new perspective.

Perhaps it’s like a New Year’s resolution. But for those experiencing the overwhelming pain of grief, you can do it any time during the year.

I’m not talking about those resolutions that are doomed from the start because they’re too ambitious and too vague. Most people fail those resolutions because they try to take on too much at once. They don’t have a plan or the willpower to change the lifelong habits that are barriers to their goals.

The resolutions I’m suggesting are very specific, small, and achievable goals. Mini goals that are SO simple you do them. And if you do them consistently for a certain length of time, they become new habits. If I were to suggest mini goals based on my personal experience with grief, here are four:

Say or write ONE word that describes how you feel. Every day.

Our natural reaction to grief is to try to suppress the pain. Some stay in a state of denial, others keep busy (to distract from it), some numb it with drugs or alcohol, etc. The problem is that suppressing the pain only makes it worse—and often prolongs the severity of your pain.

By saying or writing one word that describes how you feel each day, you learn to start expressing your feelings. When you express feelings, you begin to work through them. When you work through them, you can ultimately let those painful feelings go. Words I used to describe how I felt in early grief included: despair, guilt, panic, fatigued, hopeless, numb, disbelief, angry, and despondent. These are just a few.

Acknowledge ONE nice thing that happened. Every day.

When you are deep in grief, you often focus on what you’ve lost and its resulting pain. Your world might become bleak and filled with despair. By acknowledging one nice thing that happened each day, you can begin to create a habit of gratitude, hope, and optimism.

Even if you had this habit before your loss, you’ll likely experience it in a more meaningful way. Nice things could be as simple as someone holding the elevator door for you. Or as significant as a friend stopping by to say hello and let you know they care about you.

Do ONE thing to take care of yourself. Every day.

This may not be difficult for some. But for myself and many others I know, this can be challenging even when you are NOT grieving. But in early grief, your energy is usually depleted. Even basic chores like cooking or laundry can feel impossible. If there is one time in your life you need to take care of yourself, it is now.

For example, you can ask family or friends to help with things you normally take for granted. Things like cooking a meal, doing a load of laundry, etc. You can eat something healthy when you don’t have any appetite. Or take a nap when you feel exhausted. You can let yourself cry if you feel the urge. Taking care of yourself could even be something like treating yourself to a massage to help relieve any aching tension.

Smile ONCE. Every day.

For some, this may be the most difficult mini-goal of them all. It was for me. If I smiled, it felt like I was okay with my daughter’s death. I literally thought I had to be miserable for the rest of my life to show how much I missed her.

Yet, for the sake of my other children, I forced myself to smile again. At first, the smiles weren’t authentic. But eventually the fake smiles led to real smiles. Eventually, the permission to smile led to feeling happiness and even joy once again. Happiness and joy lead to hope and optimism.

That is my ultimate wish for you – happiness, joy, hope, and optimism. You will likely have to re-learn how to invite them into your life. Yet your ultimate motivation and guide will likely be the deep, enduring love you feel for the loved one you lost. And I know there is no end to the depth of that love.

The post New Year, Old Grief: Now What? appeared first on Open to Hope.

Bear with me for a moment as I reaffirm what you already know: children aren’t supposed to die before their parents. That’s just not the way life should work. We give birth to children or adopt them, we love and nurture them, we raise them, they grow up, we grow old, and then we die. The circle of life, sunrise, sunset, rinse and repeat, choose your own metaphor. That’s what every parent expects, and by and large it’s also the way things play out.

Losing a child—no matter the circumstances—goes against the natural order of things. It’s not part of the ordinary experience. It is something entirely different, and we become something entirely different.

When your child is taken from you, you are no longer ordinary parents. Ordinary parents don’t visit their child in a cemetery. Ordinary parents don’t cry themselves to sleep at night. Ordinary parents don’t wake up each morning knowing they’ll never see their child again.

We become extra ordinary.

We become the ones who are unlike the others. We become the newest members of the world’s cruelest club, one that is already overcrowded and where the cost to join is the steepest price imaginable.

We become “those people,” the tragic ones who are whispered about and pitied. We become the ones who are shattered, seemingly beyond repair. Remember Mary Tyler Moore in Ordinary People? That.

But after a while, something strange takes place that’s right out of a Marvel comic book. A metamorphosis occurs during our grief and mourning, transforming us from extra ordinary to extraordinary. A lot happens when you close up the space between those two words.

We are extraordinary parents. Not in the sense that we are exceptionally good, which is what people usually mean when they use that adjective. But look it up and you’ll find we are the very definition of the word:

a. Going beyond what is usual, regular, or customary 

1. Exceptional to a very marked extentWe are extraordinary parents who must go on living in the world with a hole in our heart. We are extraordinary parents who, in many cases, still love and care for our other children. We are extraordinary parents who go to work every day and function as human beings, while most people are unaware of our secret identities. We are extraordinary parents who feel things that no ordinary parent has ever felt, and we can endure the deepest pain because that has become one of our superpowers.

   And that’s another notable thing about us: we all have different superpowers because each of us experiences our loss in our own particular way. Some of us have an unlimited capacity for compassion and forgiveness. Some of us become impervious to pain. Some of us are masters of disguise. Some of us can turn to stone. Some of us can become invisible. And then there are those of us who can open up and share it with the world.

   We walk among you. We are your friends and neighbors, your co-workers, the quiet couple who sat at the table next to you in a restaurant last night. We are the extraordinary parents. And we don’t mind if you want to call us by our first name.

   ***

   One final word on words: many extraordinary parents, particularly in the early days of grief, feel like they’re broken. I’ve always hated that self-appraisal. There’s no doubt that we’re damaged, but we are not broken.

   Nothing calls for a good metaphor more than grief, and my favorite is kintsukuroi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery by filling the cracks with gold or silver lacquer rather than trying to disguise the damage. The repair creates something even stronger and more beautiful than it was before.

   Point being: that’s exactly what happened to me and what can eventually happen to you.

The post We Are Extraordinary Parents appeared first on Open to Hope.

While I work, I have the radio playing in the background. A couple of times this year I heard a Christmas song playing – Driving Home for Christmas sung by Chris Rea. The song was released in 1986 but I can’t ever recall hearing it and I had never heard of Chris Rea before.

Music has a way of touching the soul and this simple tune and lyrics resonated with me. It is a song about memories and coming home to loved ones. For many, Christmas time is the opportunity to have a day, or if lucky a little longer away from the grind of life – work, commitments and worries and this song took me on that journey.

Apart from hearing the song a couple of times, I forgot about it. But on Christmas day a prompting to look up the song and listen to it again was persistent. This is usually how I receive messages from loved ones who have passed over.

I searched “Driving Home for Christmas” and a video came up. I clicked to play and noticed on the top of the video playing was written – Carl’s Old Record Club. Carl loved to go for drives and the two lines So I sing for you though you can’t hear me. When I get through, and feel you near me are so relevant. I am in awe of these moments and grateful.

Continued afterlife communication has shown me there are no coincidences. Just unconditional love and a reminder that there is more to our existence than we can ever understand.

Merry Christmas Carl.

TheOldrecordclub

Carl’s Old Records

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDt3u2Ev1cI

Driving Home for Christmas

I’m drivin’ home for Christmas
Oh, I can’t wait to see those faces
I’m drivin’ home for Christmas, yeah
Well, I’m moving down that line

And it’s been so long, but I will be there
I sing this song to pass the time away
Drivin’ in my car, drivin’ home for Christmas
It’s gonna take some time but I’ll get there

Top to toe in tail-lights
Oh, I got red lights all around
But soon there’ll be a freeway, yeah
Get my feet on holy ground

So I sing for you though you can’t hear me
When I get through, and feel you near me
(Drivin’ in my car)

I’m drivin’ home for Christmas
Drivin’ home for Christmas
With a thousand memories
I take a look at the driver next to me
He’s just the same, just the same

Top to toe in tail-lights
Oh, I got red lights all around
I’m drivin’ home for Christmas, yeah
Get my feet on holy ground

So I sing for you though you can’t hear me
When I get through, oh and feel you near me
Drivin’ in my car

Drivin’ home for Christmas
Drivin’ home for Christmas
With a thousand memories
I take look at the driver next to me
He’s just the same

He’s drivin’ home, drivin’ home
Drivin’ home for Christmas
Drivin’ home for Christmas

The post Memories and Messages. Merry Christmas from the Other Side appeared first on Open to Hope.

But what if grief is not something to close, but something to continue?

I came to this question through two worlds that have shaped my life – hospice nursing and the arts. As a hospice nurse, I have sat at countless bedsides, witnessing the raw, sacred moments at the edge of life. I have seen what matters when everything else falls away. As an artist, I have long been drawn to the human condition, to symbolism, ritual, and the quiet language of meaning that images can hold when words fall short.

The Ash Rose Project was born at the intersection of these two perspectives: healer and artist, witness and creator.

This nonprofit project offers individuals and families the opportunity to transform cremation ashes into original works of art, each one created through an intimate, collaborative process. Ashes are not used as a shock or spectacle. They are treated with reverence, blended into charcoal, and woven into imagery that reflects the life, love, and legacy of the person who has died.

At its heart, this work is not about death. It is about relationship.

So often, we are taught that healing means letting go. Yet what I have witnessed again and again is that people do not want to let go of love. They want to understand how to carry it forward. They want something tangible, something present, something that allows their loved one to remain part of daily life in a new form. One participant shared: “The thought of mixing ash and charcoal on paper to re-create the essence and vision of my father sounded incredible. It was such a pleasure to spend time together, looking at photos and sharing memories. These experiences trigger so much awareness around how sacred life is. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I am so grateful for the experience and for the beautiful artwork of my father. A gift I will always treasure.” – Sandra Z.

In hospice, we often talk about legacy, not as something grand or distant, but as the quiet ways a person continues to influence the living. The Ash Rose Project gives form to that idea. The artwork becomes a living icon – present in the home, present in conversation, present in moments when grief resurfaces unexpectedly.

Another participant reflected: “Honoring your loved one in this way gives meaning to their ashes far beyond keeping them in an urn, in a box, or in a shopping bag deep in the closet. It is a beautiful reminder that our loved one is with us always, just in a different form.” – Sandi K.

What makes this work especially powerful is not only the creation of the art, but the act of witnessing. Each participant is invited to share their story – not just the loss, but the love that endures. In doing so, something remarkable happens. Private grief becomes communal wisdom. Pain becomes a source of light for others who are still finding their way.

One mother, who lost her son to suicide, shared: “Having this artwork is a way for me to show others that healing is possible. If something this beautiful can come from the darkest moment of our lives, then others can begin to heal too. When I look at the rose made from my son’s ashes, I feel peace and hope. It reminds me to look for light even in the darkest moments. It’s profound. It’s love.” – Yvonne O.

This is the essence of The Ash Rose Project. It is not about erasing grief or bypassing pain. It is about allowing loss to become something that still speaks, still teaches, still connects. Through surrendering ashes, opening to expression, and trusting the creative process, participants often discover that grief is not the end of the story. It is a chapter that continues to unfold.

The project has grown into a community of witnessing and remembrance through gatherings, exhibitions, and shared stories. Each artwork stands on its own, just as each journey through grief is unique. Like snowflakes falling in winter or flowers blooming in spring, no two stories are the same. Each carries its own lesson. Each is a masterpiece in its own right.

As you explore the stories and images that follow, my hope is not only that you feel inspired, but that you feel less alone. That you sense permission to grieve openly, creatively, and honestly. And perhaps, that you begin to imagine how love might continue to take new shape in your own life.

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Although we are in a much better place mentally now, we grieve for our son every single day. As I tell my friends, I still cry every single day over my son, mostly when I am alone, but yes, every single day there is some trigger I am brought to tears.  We miss him deeply and remain in mourning. As a result, we are not attending many joyous occasions. It is difficult for us to put on a happy face—to laugh and smile—around others who are surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and families, while we are still broken.

I came across a “Mourner’s Pass” some time ago, I really don’t know where or when, and it was on a ragged piece of paper, barely legible, which has been long lost.  When I shared the text with some of my friend who were also bereaved parents, they all loved it and thought it was a great idea.  I then went ahead invested some time, rewrote it a bit, cleaned up the verbiage, added some images, and printed the final product, which finally resulted in a two-sided pass.

The pass basically says thank you, but no thank you, in a very clean, polite worded paragraph.  I have attached a hyperlink below that you can read the Pass for yourself.  It also does not expire, is transferable, and the recipient has to accept the pass without judgement or argument.

Over the years I have offered copies of this pass to those who would like them.  I passed them around at my local bereavement group meetings I attended.  Obviously, I have never made money on this, I have just covered the cost of printing and mailing.  But for those readers who would like the pass, I can send you a print quality PDF file that you can bring to a local printer and have them printed and cut to size.  Or you can contact me for other options.  I have given out large quantities of these to bereavement groups to pass around at their meeting and telling those in attendance to take whatever quantity they wanted, I have had many of them printed up, I think we are on the fourth or fifth printing now.

The verbiage is just great; it covers all kinds of events.  I know it may make the mourner nervous to hand it out, but once they do it the first time, they are much more comfortable doing it later on.  The receiver of our Pass generally does not have to withstand the pain and sorrow of being forced to attend a happy and joyous occasion that we are just not ready for.

Just to let you know, my son passed away in 2013, and we are just starting to attend Thanksgiving and Holiday gatherings, but we still feel sorrow and pain when we go to them, if hurts us to see everyone celebrating and happy and we cannot celebrate and be happy for our beloved son is no longer with us to celebrate.  It is getting better little by very little, so there is hope for all.

So please, read this pass, pass it around, and for heaven’s sake, use it when you need to. There is no shame in you not attending anything that will make you uncomfortable!

Thank you

Perry Grosser
father of Andrew Grosser
www.neverforgetandrew.com

Here is the link to the Pass on my website – Mourners Pass

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I tortured myself for the better part of two years, asking the same questions over and over again—is there anything we could’ve done to prevent Rob from doing what he did?

In the days and weeks after his death, the answer seemed obvious: yes! For God’s sake, I was with him the day before he killed himself. Shouldn’t I have picked up on warning signs? Shouldn’t I have asked him if he was depressed, or how he was sleeping, or if he was still going to AA meetings? Shouldn’t I have offered to give him money, or get him meds, or take him to the emergency room like I did previously? Shouldn’t I have done something? Anything?

Shouldn’t we have been able to nip his mental illness in the bud when he was a little boy and get him on the right combo platter of drugs to smooth him out? Shouldn’t we have thrown him into rehab, where he could’ve received proper treatment and then maybe he would’ve turned his life around? Shouldn’t we have done more? How could we have let a thing like this happen? Did we fail as his parents?

Fast-forward six years, and the definitive answer to that question is no! In my heart of hearts, I know we did everything we could’ve done. Woulda, coulda, and shoulda can go to … well you know where they should go to.

We couldn’t save Rob because Rob didn’t want to be saved. He took his own life, accidentally on purpose, in an impulsive moment, and if it didn’t happen then, it would’ve likely happened in the future. With all his close calls in the past, it was kind of amazing that it hadn’t already happened.

I don’t think we could’ve prevented Rob from taking his own life. Nobody could’ve. He had made up his mind. He was determined. He wanted the pain to stop. He was out of here. His soul knew when it was time to go.

My therapist Katarina and I were talking about suicide one night and she told me a story about a man she met who had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. He told her that he had regretted it the moment he leaped, like when Wile E. Coyote looks down and realizes that the cliff he’s been running on is no longer there. In that split second, the man knew that he wanted to live. He miraculously survived and now helps other people who struggle with what the pros like to call “suicidal ideation.”

Rob often leaped without looking, but I don’t think he had planned to kill himself that night. Whenever I try to piece it all together, I always come to the same conclusion—that what he did was both opportunistic and impulsive. Shooting yourself with two other people in the room whom you’ve been drinking and playing video games with all night is just not a premeditated act. To say nothing of leaving behind Biscuit, the cat he had rescued and cared for with all his heart.

We’ll never know what he was thinking in that horrible moment when he pulled the trigger, and I’m not saying that he hadn’t contemplated taking his own life—I’m pretty sure he had been thinking about it for some time. I’m just suggesting that, like a lot of Rob’s plans, this one played out differently than he’d thought.

I’ve heard that people who are suicidal commonly have blinders on. They can’t see past their pain. They can’t bear feeling the way they feel. They just want it to stop. They don’t think about the people who love them. They don’t think about getting help. They don’t think that anything can ever change. They see only one way out. Rob—drunk, depressed, desperate—saw an opportunity, grabbed it, and that was that. As Kay Redfield Jamison, perhaps the foremost expert on bipolar disorder, wrote in Night Falls Fast, “Suicide . . . is the last and best of bad possibilities.”

Unfortunately, there’s no going back when you put a gun in your mouth. There’s no cliff edge to hang on to, no chance of surviving a fall into San Francisco Bay. It was one and done, which reminds me of another classic Looney Tunes cartoon.

It’s the one where Bugs and Daffy perform vaudeville acts, and they’re going back and forth, trying to top each other, with Bugs always getting the better of Daffy until we get to the end. Bugs has just finished juggling and the audience is applauding when Daffy runs onstage and says, “I hate you! Now you’ve forced me to use the act I’ve held back for a special occasion. Just try and top this one!”

He proceeds to consume nitroglycerin, a goodly amount of gunpowder, and some uranium 238. Then he lights a match—“Girls, you better hold on to your boyfriends!”—and swallows it.

Kaboom! He blows himself up (I remember loving this so much when I was a little kid) and the audience erupts in applause.

“That’s terrific, Daffy!” says Bugs. “They want more!”

“I know, I know,” says Daffy, who is now a ghost, “but I can only do it once!”

And then Daffy rises toward Heaven right before the closing credits music kicks in, accompanied by the famous words, “That’s all, folks!”

That’s what I imagine Rob saying right before his soul left the building.

The post The Soul Knows When It’s Time to Go appeared first on Open to Hope.

Thanks mainly to the Beatles, I always thought that love was all you need. Love was the answer, I knew that for sure. As I’ve said many times and will continue to say, I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved my older son Rob and I never will.

I’m sure you feel the same way about your child. That’s the deal when you become a parent—the amount of unconditional love you feel for your children is so enormous and overwhelming that you didn’t and couldn’t possibly have known that you had it in you to give. There’s a transformation that happens at your core when you become responsible for this tiny, new human being who is 100 percent dependent on you. The world shifts from revolving around yourself to revolving around your child. Your child becomes your world.

But when your world ends, as it has for so many of us, you learn a terrible truth about love, one that the Beatles never sang about. It’s simply this: love isn’t enough to save the person you love.

That insight has become something of a mantra for me. I can’t get it out of my head because for the longest time, I thought it was. I thought love would be enough until Rob, the person I loved, made it very clear it wasn’t.

I thought love would be enough when we first adopted him. I thought love would be enough when he cried incessantly and insisted I pick him up. I thought love would be enough when we had to deal with every scary thing that ever happened to Rob. Because, no matter what, we loved him with all of our hearts, even when he was at his most unlovable.

Admittedly, I was often blinded by that love. It was so strong, so immense, so all-encompassing that I believed it could do anything. Saving Rob was not only my job as his father, it was my superpower. I can’t tell you how many times I swooped in to save the day. He’d call and I was always there in a flash.

But as Rob got older and even more unpredictable, I became brutally aware of another truth: you can’t save a person who doesn’t want to be saved. And Rob, the person I loved, made that pretty damn clear too.

Love isn’t enough to save the person you love because you can’t save a person who doesn’t want to be saved. When you put those hard truths together, they are destined to cause a world of hurt.

That became abundantly clear to me a few weeks before Rob died. We were walking to the Greek diner that we’d occasionally go to for lunch, and I asked how he was doing. I was expecting the usual one-word answer, but he surprised me by saying that things were really bad and proceeded to tell a story about borrowing money from a loan shark. I wasn’t working at the time and had also recently talked myself into “detaching with love,” so I told him that I couldn’t give him the money.

“I’m not asking you for it,” he said in a soft voice, a voice that, in retrospect, screamed that he had made up his mind this time and didn’t want to be bailed out. “And even if you had it, I wouldn’t take it from you.” We then sat down at the diner and ate bacon and eggs while I listened to how he got himself in so deep.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said after he told me the whole sorrowful story.

“I know. Me neither.”

So we both just sat there, not saying anything. Rob was looking at his phone while I fought with myself over the question of whether I should give him the money. My head and heart duked it out for what would be the last time. That afternoon, my head won, not knowing that it, along with my heart, would soon be crushed into a million tiny pieces.

Those terrible truths set Rob free, and there are no words that can undo what he did. Love wasn’t enough to save him because he didn’t want to be saved. End of sad story.

Love also wasn’t enough to save your child—no matter the circumstances of their death—but there’s another transformation that happens sometime after they’re gone. The world shifts again from revolving around them to revolving around healing yourself.

Although you don’t always feel it and oftentimes aren’t even aware of it, that’s what you’re doing now while journeying on the grief recovery road toward becoming an extraordinary parent. It’s so easy to lose yourself in the pain and beat yourself up with all the whys, what ifs, and other futile questions.

There’s only one answer and it applies to yourself: all you need is love.

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Grief is one of the deepest kinds of spiritual work we will ever do because it arises from the deepest parts of who we are. As we explore these depths, we discover one of the most fundamental human behaviors, which is the reflexive habit of turning away from pain. Everything in our mental, physical, and emotional DNA tells us to avoid discomfort at all costs. We are wired to seek pleasure and to avoid pain. But this habit to avoid turns us in the wrong direction, away from the door of healing.

At some point, however, through some unexpected loss, our reflex to escape pain is thwarted and we are pierced by the arrow of grief. Someone close to our hearts is taken and we are broken open. An earthquake of sorrow fills our chest. And dazed in the rubble, we find ourselves ill-prepared to respond to the scale and intensity of such internal disruption.

Depending on our inner capacity, such thresholds can produce either promise or peril. Doors can open or they can close. In these times, a spiritual practice can provide invaluable support.

Supporting Loss

Four years ago, the wisdom of Aikido – a Japanese martial art based on the principles of harmony and non-resistance – helped prepare me for an encounter with loss when my younger brother died from cancer.

Pete and I shared a rare bond of brotherhood for over sixty years, defined by boundless love, jaw-stretching humor, and a deep reverence for the gift of belonging we bestowed upon each other. The heartbreak of his passing remains a koan of sorrow that I will likely carry to the end of my days.

But fortunately, I’d spent thousands of hours training in this beautiful art which helped ground and illuminate my path through the dark wilderness of grief. Specifically, the practices and principles of Aikido teach us the art of creating space within the constancy of life’s tight spots – those endless constellations of friction, inside and out, which define our lives. Using the tools of breath, movement, and attention, we learn to develop more room around our experience.

Wrist Grabs

For instance, we spend countless training hours practicing simple exercises with a partner – such as wrist grabs – to viscerally explore how we are wired to resist. Initially, it’s both shocking and embarrassing how quickly your world shrinks when someone grabs your wrist.

In a nanosecond, you feel trapped and trespassed! But then you remember, “Oh, wait – I’m actually not being mugged in a dark alley, but learning how to harmoniously connect with another friendly human.”

You exhale, relax your shoulders, reset your posture, and allow yourself to feel into the resistance. Being present to such moments, over time, provides the opportunity to rewire some of this primal patterning – the same inner constrictions that clog our grief process.

“Body like the mountain, heart like the ocean, mind like the sky.”
— Dogen

A Still Point in Grief

For me, as I swam through my own currents of loss, Aikido practice helped me cultivate a still point inside, which served as a reliable atoll in the ocean of grief. Sometimes, especially in the early days, I felt like I was swept off the beach and tossed into the roiling water. But eventually, and rarely on my timeline, I would pop up to the surface and find my way back to my small spit of sand. It became a trustworthy place to return to, an inner refuge from which I could wait for the storm to pass.

From one perspective, the grief process and Aikido training are both explorations into the nature of resistance. They each perfectly mirror who we become under duress. One of the guiding principles in Aikido that is intimately applicable to our relationship with grief is the notion of relaxing under pressure. Or, how not to resist pressure.

Untrained, our (nervous) systems generally do not operate this way. Whether we are grabbed by grief or by our partner on the mat, our default response is the same: we tighten and contract. We resist. But, as always, the training is to remember: breathe, relax, and invite a little more space to arise.

Non-Resistance

When Pete died, I was confronted by my own inner tempest of resistance, which arose as shades and shards of shock, denial, numbness, rage, sadness, confusion, and all the rest.

However, over time, I built my little atoll one shovel of sand at a time. There were moments when the grief waves receded and something new arrived on the horizon of my attention. In addition to my conditioned impulse to push, pull, fight and flee from the pain of loss – resisting what was present – I began to ask: “What would non-resistance feel like here?”

At first, this inquiry began as a simple thought, like a mind arrow that points itself toward a deeper exploration. My training had helped form new internal bridges between my psyche and my soma, so this inquiry slid naturally downward from my head to my heart, into the primal pond of grief.

As I watered this new movement with my attention, it began to open on its own. Every now and then, it felt like the resistance pattern had been temporarily interrupted. A shift occurred in which I was no longer bobbing around in the great sea of grief, but the sea of grief was bobbing around inside a more spacious version of me. Paying attention had expanded a portion of my inner terrain

As we each travel our unique inner landscapes, brailing our way from Here to a deeper Here, sometimes the smallest tools can make the most significant difference. Our attention is that tool.

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But in that grief, there is also transformation. The loss teaches us how fleeting life is, reminding us to cherish every moment, to be present, and to live with purpose. It gives us a kind of wisdom that only comes through pain—a deeper understanding of what truly matters. It teaches resilience, pushing us to keep going even when the weight of sorrow feels unbearable.

Through this journey, I have learned to live life to the fullest, to be kind, to appreciate the people around me, and to embrace every opportunity to love and give. My father’s absence has, in many ways, shaped the person I am today—stronger, wiser, and more determined to honor his legacy by the way I live my life.

The post Finding Strength and Wisdom after the Loss of a Father appeared first on Open to Hope.

Now I see it clearly: my brother was incredibly strong for holding on as long as he did. He carried the weight for over a decade, ever since I left him behind when I immigrated to Canada. 

Conditioned to live by abandoning his own needs and silencing his own dreams, he poured all his energy into everyone else. 

Facing my own suicidal thoughts became the heaviest burden of all. Only later did I learn from Dr. Alan Wolfelt’s The Wilderness of Suicide Grief: Survivors of suicide loss are at high risk themselves. It’s not just the ambiguous and devastating nature of the loss; we grieve multiple layers at the same time. In my case, it was a staggering amount of loss all at once. 

In the deepest agony of mourning, it was as if a veil suddenly lifted from my eyes, awakening a piercing question in my soul… 

What am I doing with my life? 

That moment marked the beginning of a slow, painful, yet valuable transformation- both within me and around me. I chose healing and released the relationships that no longer nurtured my growth. I let go of the false hope in a marriage that had starved my spirit, and began listening to my intuition, my dreams, and the signs I believed were from Arman. With determination, I searched for answers and opened every door to healing, even the ones that frightened me. 

Hiking in the mountains, sensing every breath of nature around me, spotting signs and images in the clouds on my walks, falling in love with hot yoga and Neurographica drawing, capturing beauty through photography, and being present as I could for my daughters–these were my undeniable efforts to heal, and slowly rebuild myself and my life. 

I know Arman wants me to live the life he didn’t have a life that’s fulfilling and free. His passing taught me that I must care for myself and honor my own needs first, so I can truly be there for my daughters and others. So I embraced my healing and, for the first time, began showing up for myself. I gave myself permission to feel every feeling, to move through the raging waves of grief with gentleness and compassion. 

Then I started writing, as if Arman was guiding my hand. 

I hadn’t written poetry since high school, but one day, I had to confess honestly, “I have to let it all out, or it’s going to kill me.” Writing became a pivotal part of my healing. My grief, my love, my hope, and the insidious monsters of guilt and unforgiveness- every word was soaked in my tears and heartbreak. 

Writing became not only a crucial part of my healing, but it also grew into something far greater than I could have imagined. It gave me the voice I had never dared to use before and led me to a beautiful discovery: the gift my brother had left me. FIVE A.M. The Silence After Goodbye was published, and it carries not just my voice, but Arman’s, as well. His poetry and songs are woven throughout its pages, bringing his spirit and words back to life. 

Alongside writing, I was unexpectedly drawn to get a tattoo. It wasn’t something I had ever considered before, but this decision came straight from the heart. I chose to have our special nicknames inked on my arm–in Arman’s own handwriting. Seeing his words etched into my skin brought a deep sense of peace, comfort, and hope. It’s a reminder that he’s still with me. 

The brick we dedicated to him in the park behind our house has become another meaningful connection. When my daughters and I walk our dog, we always pause there at this simple memorial by the entrance. Nature was Arman’s refuge, and in that space, his spirit feels tangible, soothing our souls. 

We feel that same love and presence every time we look at his photos on the wall. I often find myself talking to him, tracing his face in the frame, as if he’s right here with me, in my home. 

Inviting close friends for lunch on the day of his passing, decorating our Christmas tree, and sharing cake and dinner on his birthday in November aren’t grand gestures. They are sacred rituals – heartfelt acts of love that help me carry him forward while learning to carry myself. Through these moments, I show my daughters that grief is simply love that never leaves us, and that our connection with loved ones can become even stronger than before. 

As I reflect on my journey through grief and healing, I carry profound gratitude for my brother and the unexpected gifts he blessed me with: the courage to find and use my voice, and the calling to share our story. 

Our story is not mine alone–your story matters, too. 

We are not meant to walk through life or loss alone. As humans, we are created for connection–to stand beside one another in the brightest joys and the deepest sorrows; to celebrate life together, and to learn, painfully yet beautifully, how to say goodbye. 

If you’re grieving, please remember this truth: you are not alone. You should never have to be. 

In the darkest moments, when silence feels eternal and your heart unbearably heavy, know that there are others who see you, who hear you, who walk beside you- even if from a distance. 

I stand here, speaking openly about grief and healing through my book, through this story, and through every chance I get to break the silence, along with many brave–hearted souls across the globe. 

Grief is a language of love, a testament to the depth of our connections. 

It may twist us, break us, and reshape us, but it also teaches us what it means to be deeply human. Through grief, I have learned to live with tenderness for myself and for others, and to carry pain and hope side by side. I’ve come to understand that healing is not a final destination but a winding path we walk together, hand in hand, as one village, lifting and supporting each other through the ever–changing seasons of loss. 

To my beloved brother Arman: all I have left now is to hold you closer in every memory, in the silence between words, in speaking your name aloud, and in every breath I take. Your love still guides me, softly threading its light through all that I am becoming, leading me forward- beyond time, beyond goodbye.

The post The Silence After Goodbye: My Brother’s Suicide and the Gifts He Left Behind appeared first on Open to Hope.

When life felt uncertain, I’d tighten my grip. Shrink my schedule. Shrink my appetite. Shrink myself. 

It was a way of controlling what I could. A survival reflex from years of starving out my own needs while serving everyone else’s. The irony is that I built a life feeding others, yet often forgot to feed myself. 

Grief made that pattern louder. It’s strange how something can feel heavy and hollow at the same time. The weight of loss. The emptiness of absence. The body trying to find itself again when everything familiar has shifted. 

There were days when eating felt like effort, when the idea of preparing a meal was too much. So I began asking myself one simple question: 

What sounds good to eat in this moment? 

Sometimes the answer was as small as a piece of toast with honey. Other times it was something heartier, like a smoothie that felt almost like a meal. 

That’s when I began making what I now call my Solid Ground Shake — a blend of simple ingredients that kept me rooted when I felt unsteady. It became a gentle act of rebellion against the part of me that once counted calories or measured every portion. It was permission to nourish myself first, before stepping into the kitchen to feed anyone else.

It reminded me that nourishment doesn’t have to be elaborate. It just has to be intentional. 

Solid Ground Shake 

Serves 1 

Ingredients 

• ½ banana 
• 2 tablespoons nut butter of choice 
• 1 tablespoon Dutch cocoa powder or cocoa nibs 
• ¼ cup unsweetened coconut milk 
• Ice (enough to blend to your liking) 
• Optional: liquid sweetener of choice (maple syrup, honey, or stevia) ● 1 scoop @goldenrationutrition protein powder (optional but recommended for extra grounding fuel) 

Directions Add all ingredients to a blender and blend until smooth and creamy. Adjust sweetness or thickness as desired. Pour into your favorite glass or mug, take a breath, and drink slowly. 

This shake became my small act of reclamation — a reminder that feeding myself well doesn’t have to be complicated, only conscious. 

Reclaiming the appetite, for me, has meant learning to feed myself again in every sense of the word. Feeding my body. Feeding my heart. Feeding my purpose. 

That’s what Soul Nourished is really about. It isn’t just a cookbook. It’s a love letter to

anyone who’s forgotten what it feels like to be well-fed, body and soul. A reminder that you’re allowed to take up space, to savor, to want more, and to receive it without guilt. 

So if you find yourself in a season of depletion, start small. Ask your body what it needs, then give it to her. Maybe it’s a warm meal, maybe it’s rest, maybe it’s a conversation that reminds you who you are. 

That’s the work. To listen. To feed what’s real. 

�� What about you? What are you truly hungry for right now? I’d love to hear what nourishment looks like for you in this season. 

�� Soul Nourished is now available for presale — stories, recipes, and rituals to feed your body and your soul.

The post Reclaiming the Appetite: Learning to Feed Myself Again appeared first on Open to Hope.

It is also helpful to face significant dates with a ritual. According to Drs. Evan Imber-Black and Janine Roberts, “when healing rituals have not occurred, or have been insufficient to complete the grief processes, a person can remain stuck in the past or unable to move forward in meaningful ways” (Evan Imber-Black and Janine Roberts, Rituals for our Times: Celebrating, Healing, and Changing Our Lives and Our Relationships).

What kind of rituals? For ideas, consult your family, elders, and of course, the parts of your own soul. This is what one of my clients does on a regular basis. Every year, Nina checks in with her internal system in anticipation of significant dates surrounding her mother’s death. Since Nina never married, she moved in to care for Mom after her father died. The dutiful daughter has done numerous activities in honor of Mom’s memory—from eating at the diner she liked, to watching Gone with the Wind (Mom’s favorite movie), to buying peonies, Mom’s favorite flower, to decorate her grave with.

But what if your loss had no exact date, like in the case of a missing soldier? Imber-Black and Roberts suggest gathering loved ones together on the date your person went missing. In the case of suicide or other losses imbued with shame, consider throwing an un-birthday party—a celebration of the person’s life on a day that is not the person’s birthday.

Christmas and Thanksgiving mark another major time to greet your parts with an extra embrace. Because society equates Christmastime with cheer, some parts might feel pressured to plaster on a peppy look. Likewise for Thanksgiving—for those of us in North America—since Thanksgiving typically gathers families around.

The glaring absence of family members who have passed on is bound to breed sorrow, especially the first time your family gathers. As such, please avail your parts of an additional dose of compassion around these annual markers. Face your loss. Vocalize how this year’s holiday season is different because of grief.

Talk to your parts the way you would a hurting friend. Don’t wait until a trigger flusters you before you scamper inward to calm parts down.

On that note, whenever you are triggered, it means a part feels a direct hit. Restore your equilibrium by finding out the part within your system that became activated. (Just ask inside.) Once you have an idea on the identity, focus on that part. Ask, What happened? What triggered you? Befriend, listen, witness its story. Use this same sequence anytime a trigger activates any part.

Taken from Grieving Wholeheartedly by Audrey Davidheiser. Copyright (c) 2025 by Audrey Davidheiser. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com

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What a devastating wake-up call to find out that people die, that our lives forever change when the people we love the most go by way of the grave.

When we lost extended and distant family members, the hit to our hearts and minds was still somewhat bearable. After all, we did not see and fellowship with them on a daily or regular basis. However, when death started removing people from within our immediate family, parents, grandparents, and siblings, a shift happened. We began to view life differently. What we once held to be so important suddenly lost its importance. What we once worried about ceased to be a bother. What happened? Our lives changed, so we changed.

We grow up with the love, comfort, and security of our parents, of our grandparents, and of our sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts, and uncles. And then, one by one, they begin to die and to leave us. We can no longer call them on the phone, or visit their homes, or spend time with them playing, shopping, laughing, planning for the holidays, etc… The reality is like being drenched with a bucket of cold water. We’re initially shocked! We begin to sputter! We’re numb with cold! We look around in disbelief, trying to locate the culprit who made us a victim of the sudden splash of cold water! We want to shout, “Wait! Where is everybody going?! Why are you leaving?!”

We are then left here to continue living within a changed existence. How will we cope? We did not consider the inevitability of change. Did we hide our heads in the sand? No. Not really. We were simply carrying on with our daily lives, giving little to no thought to the truth that, as time moved forward, our lives would eventually and continually change, including the fact that loved ones would one day exit our lives.

Nonetheless, humanity has been adapting to change since the dawn of creation. No one copes with loss the same way, but as this life continues, we, as a human race, perpetually learn that change, in some shape, form, or fashion, is indeed inevitable.

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But what if a dream of your loved one who has passed away is so clear and tangible that you could swear it was really them?

I have heard about these kinds of dreams from others and read about them in books. And I have had a few of them myself. Who’s to say if it was really your loved one? In my opinion, if you felt their hug, looked into their eyes, heard them speak, and felt that eternal loving connection, then it was them. So easy for the naysayers to say it was nothing but a dream, but the experiencer is the only one who knows how it felt.

Here is my recent dream:

I was in a nondescript space, standing, looking straight ahead at what I would describe as fog with a light behind it. I was aware of a table off to my right with a radio on it. The voice from the radio sounded like my 24-year-old son, Eric, who had passed away almost 6 years ago. I said, “Is that you? Is that you?”

Still in the dream, I suddenly I felt a strong presence behind me that was undeniably Eric. He had a huge presence, bigger than life. I felt him wrap his arms around me, then place his hands under my armpits and I knew he was going to lift me up, almost like a male dancer would do with a ballerina. I said to him, “If that’s really you, then when you lift me, hold me there up at the top for a little bit.” Immediately he lifted me up and held me there, and I knew it was him. As I remained suspended in the air, the rush of euphoria was immeasurable, the bliss eternal.

After a few moments, he gently placed me back on the floor. I turned around to hug him. Even before I put my arms around him, he put his arms around me, and we hugged. I could feel his body. I was so filled with joy to be with him. After that we began to talk about different things, and though I don’t remember the exact conversation, we were together in a place beyond this time and space.

I woke up gently, softly, with an unmistakable sense of peace. I didn’t want to move, to let that feeling slip away. I knew that eventually I would have to begin the human realities of the day ahead of me. But I wanted to keep this feeling of Eric with me. The connection was strong. I had just been with him. And in that waking moment, all was well.

I have had so many other dreams as well. And I have heard from Eric’s siblings and friends about the time they have spent with Eric in their dreams. I have documented every dream, each one bringing me immense joy and comfort, each one resonating deeply within me, affirming the truth that his love for us continues just as much as our love for him continues.

The connection with our loved ones in spirit is eternal. We feel the grief as we miss their physical presence, but knowing they are always with us can bring about hope for a way to continue to live in a way that honors them. By Dolores Cruz

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One part of you accepts the reality of your loss, while another part remains lost in disbelief. One part of you acknowledges that love never dies and that grief lasts a lifetime, while another part wonders how you could possibly continue to live like this. One part of you understands that enduring the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent makes you a stronger person, while another part asks how you can be stronger when a piece of you is missing and can never be replaced.

One part of you has begun to process your grief by facing what scares you the most, while another part simply ignores it. One part of you has stopped crying all the time and feels a tiny bit better, while another part suffers an intense sadness that will never go away. One part of you doesn’t allow the loss to define you, while another part feels like the poster child for bereaved parents who are endlessly pitied.

One part of you is slowly letting go of denial, guilt, anger, and fear, while another part is drowning in an ocean of sorrow. One part of you has been able to experience joy again, however short-lived, while another part feels terribly guilty about it. One part of you has become a warrior, while another part is exhausted and ready to give up.

One part of you is hopeful that you’ll survive your tragic loss as so many have before you, while another part is certain that nobody has ever experienced the depth of pain you’re living through. One part of you is certain that nothing can ever hurt you again, while another part is an open wound that will never heal. One part of you takes great comfort in your faith, while another part admonishes God for taking away the most cherished gift He ever gave to you.

One part of you is becoming yourself again, while another part feels that the best part of yourself is gone forever. One part of you has stopped torturing yourself by asking unanswerable questions, while another part stays up all night trying to answer them in vain. One part of you needs to be strong for your other children, while another part secretly fears for their lives.

One part of you has changed and evolved with your grief, while another part is scared that if you change too much, you’ll lose the connection with your child. One part of you senses that what you’re feeling is exactly what you should be feeling and that you’ll feel differently in the future, while another part views the future as meaningless.

One part of you realizes that juggling all these complex and paradoxical feelings is just part of the grieving process—that you can hold opposing thoughts at the same time—while another part, after making a fuss, reluctantly agrees.

One part of you concedes that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, while another part still wonders how to become whole again.

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When the loss of a spouse or partner or beloved family member happens it changes a person. The view of their life with that person is changed: the future may look entirely different, memories of a shared past may create strong emotional reactions and day-to-day patterns of life may be disrupted or greatly altered. As such a loss brings personal changes and may require change in several parts of life there are three “tasks” of grief which follow the loss. The tasks may remain the same but the responses to each may change and evolve as time passes. One task may feel resolved completely, another may be “in process” and feel different over time and one may happen with little or no thought.

  “Redefine the Relationship”

The first task of grief is to redefine the relationship with the loved one who has died. That relationship never ceases, it only changes and now it must be redefined. When a parent dies the redefined relationship may contain moments of reflection with acknowledgment of gratitude or regrets. It may contain rituals that occur on certain important days or even a commitment to a shared passion or charity. When a child dies a parent must now define their relationship in a way that allows for sadness over unfulfilled milestones of life but also for feelings of gratitude for the time shared with their child. When a spouse or partner dies many choices may be made to redefine the new relationship in ways which are helpful initially but may change as time passes. One person may want to remove articles of remembrance such as photos or clothing or special personal gifts. One person may decide to begin an end each day with a conversation or journal entry. Redefining the relationship allows for whatever may provide a sense of comfort and peace with the physical loss of the relationship. This must be done because the relationship never ends.

“Keeping the Memory Alive”

     A second task of grief is determining how to keep the memory of a lost loved one alive. This is a task that may often and easily change over time. Initially after the death it may seem that friends or family avoid conversation about a lost loved one and one person might decide that he/she will always make reference to their loved one by using their name in conversation and that they will never avoid sharing happy experiences from the past with others. Regular visits to the cemetery or the place where ashes have been spread may occur on special days. A commitment to continue support of a charity or function that had special meaning to a loved one is a way to keep their memory alive. For some, a special tatoo may be created and worn or a tree may be planted in a special place. Keeping the memory alive can happen in many ways and what feels most important soon after the loss may be replaced by something else after time passes.

Just as the first task of grief involves movement—doing something, creating something, turning thoughts into an action—so too does this second one. The action may be to change something in a pattern of life or it may be to continue a life pattern that allows a person to acknowledge their loss and to appreciate the memories created by the relationship. The process of grief can sometimes lend itself to becoming less sensitive about the quality of the life being lived each day. Spending time with others may become unimportant or greatly reduced. Exercise or physical movement may become less frequent or cease and too little or too much sleep may happen as well. Reading books or periodicals may be lost to sitting and watching endless television shows or staying indoors for extended periods of time. Each of the these first two “tasks of grief” are invitations to think, to reflect, to learn from others, to consider new choices and to do something in life that is different than anything done before.

“Creating a New History”

The third task of grief is to create a new history of life. This does not mean that anything is replaced or altered that is already a part of a life experience. This task requires only that life continues and each moment, month and year becomes part of the new history that is being added to the existing life history which included the physical presence of a lost loved one. This task does, however, allow for the conscious choice of experiences that may add joy, fulfillment, peace and comfort or endless possibilities to life. Memories may give feelings of sadness AND happiness, tears AND laughter, or gratitude AND regret. A new life history only adds to the experience of loss and grief and can begin to balance deep feelings of sadness or loneliness. This task, like the first two, is partner with grief. It always follows a profound loss and is accomplished by continuing to be alive.

When Billy completed his tasks he was allowed to join Jimmy and enjoy the experience of skateboarding. As these three tasks find responses enjoyment in life also finds more ways to become reality each day. They are sometimes easy to ignore or avoid but they really do “come with the territory” of grief.

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Grief. Such a complex topic—one that we do not speak about enough. Grief shows up in many situations; it is not only about the passing of a loved one. In reality, we are all faced with grief throughout our lives, often on a subconscious level. And we rush through those events without honoring them for what they truly are: rites of passage—moments that mark profound transitions and have the power to transform us completely.

Running From Emotions

I have spent most of my life running away from difficult emotions—not consciously, but fear has always been running the show. Difficult emotions were, to me, ugly and incredibly overwhelming, and my own sensitivities scared the living hell out of me. Subconsciously, I was living a life driven by the need to be liked by others, with my inner child of 7 running the show more often than I realized.

My parents divorced when I was 7. Due to a very threatening situation, my mother escaped with my sister and me to another country. As a 7-year-old, I had absolutely no understanding of what was happening—only that life would never be the same. In the years that followed, I started to feel a lot of anger and ended up using party drugs to numb it. From there, I entered the army and spent 9 years in a life where many emotions are seen as weakness—ensuring that I never learned to validate my own feelings.

When I Thought I Forgave Him

At 28, I learned that my father had passed. I remember that moment: I felt a sense of relief and believed I had forgiven him. Many years later, I realized that I hadn’t even started to grieve the man who was my father.

As a result of unprocessed childhood emotions, I was drawn to specific dynamics—intimate relationships where I became the fixer, the pleaser, the “strong one.” A lot of drama, subconsciously playing out my attempt to save my father. And nowhere in that space did I allow room for grief. To me, he was dead and erased from my memories.

The awakening 

At 37, I fell in love—deeply, as never before. I experienced a homecoming, something so familiar, and the perception that I was loved for who I was, not for what I did. Motivated by love, I started meditating and embarked on a deep journey of self-exploration through many types of therapy.

Unfortunately, the relationship never grew into a healthy dynamic. It turned out to be another reenactment of childhood patterns for both of us. What began as something beautiful quickly became a toxic, traumatic journey. I tried everything in my power to fix it, driven by a huge fear of losing this person. But I only made it worse. When my body started to resist and give me vague symptoms, I slowly began to move away. I had no choice—and by that time, I recognized the need to listen to myself.

The shattering 

Two years ago, I left the country, my community, my identity, my purpose—and chose myself. That was the catharsis for all the grief I had never allowed myself to feel. One very painful message on Christmas Eve, showing me I had lost the person I loved, was enough to throw me into the shattering. For three days, I walked in the forest, screamed at the trees, and cried non-stop.

But this time, there was an awareness I had never felt before. After many years of psychological and spiritual work, I had changed tremendously and recognized that I had a deep emptiness within—one I had kept filling with outer validation, trying not to feel the discomfort.

Before that message, I had already spent months allowing myself to sink into that emptiness and feel all that needed to come up. With therapy and the help of some amazing souls, I began to rest in that inner space—the birthplace of love, what the Zen tradition calls the “master of emptiness.”

By allowing myself to rest there, I became more and more in touch with my authentic self and started to enjoy the exploration of my deepest inner worlds.

Discovering the letters 

When I finally received the bad news, I broke. And this time, there was no resistance, as I was ready to feel. Around that time, I discovered the writings of Mirabai Starr, and her reflections on grief completely resonated with me. Grief, when surrendered to, is the deepest spiritual, emotional, and psychological transformation one can experience.

I felt such a heartache, and yet, simultaneously, immense gratitude for the person who hurt me. I was truly happy for her happiness. It was such a bizarre polarity—and ever since, I’ve known that grief can consist of both gratitude and pain. There is no linearity to grief, and it often makes no sense to the human mind. Grief is a heart state.

While working through my grief, I discovered letters from my father. And when I looked at a photo of myself at a very young age, the grief for my father arose. That brought with it the incredible grief for myself—for all those years of not knowing. Even now, tears well up when I think of all those years I tried so hard to be the good person, to be lovable, and never understood where I was going wrong. The shame and deep sadness—for myself, for just not knowing when I needed to know, for often being in the fear of a small child who was just petrified to be left alone. I was 43 when I found the letters. That is when I truly lost my father.

A lifelong process In one month

I will turn 45, and I still have days of sudden grief—for all the different losses in my life. This time,have compassion for myself, and I allow myself to take time out and truly feel the pain when needed—and experience the beauty, when allowing feelings to pass through and transform into love. This time, as with all of my emotional experiences, I fully accept them quicker than ever before.

Grief is a rite of passage. Whether you lose someone to a passing or a breakup, the childhood you never had, the identity you clung to, the country you left, the dog you loved, or the job that once gave you purpose—these are all rites of passage. There is a deep need to pause during these transitions to truly feel them.

In our culture, we don’t really do this. We rush through them, running away from any difficult emotions. But, as I’ve learned, the emotions never truly leave. You cannot outrun them. You can only feel them—deeply—and allow them to pass through you, and thus transform into beauty.

The most beautiful creations have been birthed through grief, and although I wish no one the shattering pain, I do wish to see a world where the transformation brings deep love—for life, for self, and for each other. There is an incredible need for those who can assist others in times of grief and loss. People who have faced their own grief and can hold space for the pain of others. To truly guide someone through grief, one must be accepting of their own feelings and have experienced the true depths of them. And this is a lifelong process—one that can only be done together. No one should be doing this alone, we are meant to heal together.

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Portals exist as gateways and passageways between dimensions that allow Spirits to maneuver in and out of the alternate worlds. These are parallel universes, which exist side by side, and, because these portals have opened, the healing process is very much a parallel process, or in other words, a mirroring process. What happens to you, is happening to them.

The portals have a strong purpose: to facilitate the ease in which you process your grief and the ease in which your counterpart can cross over and transition. Over time, as you heal the separation from your loved one, that grief portal will eventually close.

In addition to grief, you will experience the trauma that comes with the physical separation between you and your loved one. Humans suffer from energetic attachments known as energy chords with people, habits, places, and things. These energy chords keep us bonded together and, when gently separated through a normal process of letting go or surrendering, an energetic release and relief occur naturally, and under normal circumstances. An example of a normal circumstance could be growing apart from a friendship or mutually ending a romantic relationship. Long-term illness or death under natural causes can ease that separation and detachment of energy chords and although cutting the chord may take some time, you do eventually find freedom from those attachments.

This is not the case when you experience the sudden loss of a loved one, especially if the departed are just as surprised as you are of that loss. Sudden and abrupt endings often drag that energy chord and attachment into the spiritual realm as your loved one’s spirit crosses over into their new reality. They take a piece of you with them, and you will feel this pull physically. You will feel a strong desire to ask important questions, to connect with spirituality, to look for answers and comfort in many otherworldly ways. Some of you may find great relief with this information knowing that your loved one still carries a piece of you with them. You are still connected to them energetically, even though there is physical separation.

Eventually, as part of the grieving process, you will learn how to release that energy into a deeper purpose. This releasing process doesn’t make you forget the love and memories but rather allows you to experience freedom in the same way that they now have become free.

Holding consciousness and awareness over grieving will challenge you to open your mind to a different perspective. You will grow to realize that knowledge and intellect is what ultimately frees you from the limited beliefs of the past and will allow you to decide how you want to create your grieving process. This is a choice. You have the power to connect and to experience otherworldly truths that are not always popular. Keep this in mind as you find a gentleness in your resistance, and an openness in your third eye and crown chakra. Continue to be loving and compassionate with yourself, as you are they and they are your counterparts. Connected.

Susan B. Roara

“Grief and the Afterlife: How to Manifest a Happy Ever After”

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For some, early trauma or difficult experiences meant silencing our voice, hiding our needs, or abandoning joy in order to stay safe. These strategies helped us survive. But later in life, we may realize how much of ourselves has been left behind. That realization can feel like grief — because it is.

This form of grief doesn’t come with rituals or sympathy cards. It doesn’t always have a clear beginning or end. But it still deserves recognition, tenderness, and space.

Invisible Losses

Not all losses are visible to others. Some are woven into the ways we learned to protect ourselves. A child who grew up needing to please everyone may lose their ability to say “no.” A young adult who stayed vigilant for danger may lose their ability to truly rest. Over time, what’s missing is not just energy or freedom, but entire pieces of selfhood.

These invisible losses are easy to dismiss because no one else sees them. But inside, there can be a deep sense of absence — of spontaneity, playfulness, or even a voice that once felt free. To name these as losses is an act of validation. It says: what I feel matters, even if it is not obvious on the outside.

The Body Remembers

Often, the body holds these losses long before the mind names them. A throat that tightens each time words want to emerge. Shoulders that never fully drop. A nervous system always slightly on guard.

Grief lives in these sensations. It may surface as exhaustion, tears, or restlessness without a clear “reason.” The body is mourning what it had to bury in order to survive. Listening to these signals can be a doorway into understanding the grief that isn’t tied to an event, but to a gradual loss of self.

Allowing Grief to Surface

Once we begin to recognize these invisible losses, the next step is to allow grief to have its place. This can feel confusing at first — how do you grieve something that was never fully lived? Yet the ache is real, and so is the healing that comes when we give it room.

Sometimes grief shows up as tears that come without explanation, or as a heaviness that lingers in the chest. Other times it appears in anger — frustration at all the years lost. Whatever shape it takes, the invitation is the same: to let it be felt without judgment.

This kind of grieving isn’t about wallowing or staying stuck. It’s about honoring the truth of what was lost. By acknowledging the sorrow, we make space for something new to arrive.

Reclaiming What Was Lost

Grief opens the door, but healing asks us to gently walk back through it. The parts of ourselves that were silenced or hidden are not gone forever — they are waiting for safety to return.

Small steps can help them reemerge:

• Notice softness. Pay attention to moments when your body relaxes — in laughter, in quiet rest, in connection. These are signals of return.
• Ask with curiosity. “What part of me has been waiting to come home?” The answers may be subtle, but they matter.
• Practice reclaiming. Sing again. Say no when your body resists yes. Allow yourself to rest without apology. Each small act is a way of welcoming yourself back.

These practices don’t erase the grief, but they weave it into a larger story — one that includes both loss and renewal.

Closing: Grief as an Opening

The grief of lost selfhood is real. It can feel as sharp and devastating as the loss of a loved one, even if no one else can see it. But it is not the end of the story.

When we allow ourselves to grieve, we also create room for return. Each softened breath, each spark of joy, each word spoken from truth is a reminder that what was buried is not gone. It is still here, waiting to be lived.

In this way, grief is not only about endings. It is also about openings — the chance to welcome ourselves home.

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In another conversation, a man older than me shared how he still misses his dog. They had a routine, and he misses that routine along with his dog’s presence in his life and home.

There was a younger woman, younger than me, who talked about how the death of her cat impacted her life more than the death of her grandmother. She wasn’t suggesting that her cat’s life was greater than the worth of her grandmother’s life, but she understood that her cat was part of her everyday life in a way that her grandmother was not. The void left behind by her cat impacted her mornings, evenings, days, and nights in persistent and personal ways, unlike any other relationship.

When we got married, we had a cat. He was warm and funny, but wasn’t a very bright cat. He would repeatedly run around the carpeted areas of our apartment and then skid into the kitchen table when he got to the linoleum. He struggled with the concept of the litter box. One day, I left our apartment and took a personal time-out when I discovered that he had used my closet as his litter box and also thrown up in my shoes. When he died with feline leukemia, I was profoundly and surprisingly moved.

There are so many stories about the profound impact that our animal companions have on us, both through their lives and their deaths. Many social media posts are shared about “crossing the rainbow bridge,” along with the gracious and kind expressions of sympathy and condolence that follow in response. Many in the “great cloud of witnesses” of our lives have four feet, feathers, more than four feet, fins, or no feet at all.

What is it about our pets that can impact us so significantly, and why are these relationships and losses often still minimized?

We are wired for connection, and the relationships we develop with our animal companions are genuine. The more they are wired for connection, too, the greater potential for meaning in our relationships with them. Relationships blur the boundaries between two lives. It is not just me and another, there is an us together. We watch and are aware of each other, communicate with sound, expressions, and touch, and respond to what we see, hear, and feel. For many of us, our relationships with our pets provide a constant presence and comfort, grounding us when much of our lives may be in flux and sometimes feel out of control.

Animals are not people, but we as people are not limited to connections with only our own kind. We form deep bonds with seemingly inanimate objects like our homes, our cars and trucks, and our many things. While these things may have no pulse or ways of responding personally (but people have stories otherwise), we endow them with meaning, and they can matter deeply to us. Plants and trees are not people or animals, but they respond to their environments, and we respond to them. We make and nurture relationships in all aspects of our lives.

Interestingly, we don’t question our ability to have deep relationships with infants, even though they lack language and respond in limited ways compared to the breadth and depth of responsiveness that typical adults show. Our relationships with infants are not dependent on them growing into typical adults. We connect with them as they are and where they are, no matter what their future holds. And we do this with our animal companions, too.

Part of the reason we struggle to give our pets the relationships they deserve is due to difficulties with language. We often say “pet owner,” but is “own” the best word? “Own” too strongly suggests our pets as objects with no independent lives and dignity of their own. We don’t refer to parents as “child owners” as doing so would reduce children to property. We have a responsibility to our pets more as stewards and friends, perhaps caring for them as older brothers or sisters.

There is no need to rank the relationships we have with other people, living things, or anything that lives in our hearts. Our philosophy and approach can be one of addition rather than competition. Each relationship in our lives is unique and has its own meaning, which can change and grow over time. Our animal companions mean things to us, and we suggest things to them. These meanings are more than transactional—we do this for them, they do this for us, end of story. The stories of our lives with animals are much more than this.

The bonds we make and experience with animals are not solely of our own creation. They are something that happens between us as we both initiate and respond to and with each other. These are real relationships, and so when our animal companion dies, it is a real loss with real grief. Such losses deserve the time and work of mourning and support from others.

We are making progress with how we think about and support pet loss. Increasingly, losses of our animal companions are recognized and affirmed rather than disenfranchised. More and more, we are not saying “just a pet.” We can say our dog or our cat, and better yet, we can say their name, for they had a name as surely as they had a home in our hearts.

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Sadly, he jumped, which must mean nobody smiled at him.

Brené Brown, the popular social scientist and researcher, defined loneliness as an absence of meaningful social interaction (Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of Human Experience). A poverty of connections, if you will. Could it be this man was so devoid of human connections that it afflicted his soul with chronic loneliness, which then compelled him to choose death?

Chronic loneliness can lead to death. Scientific studies and anecdotal evidence—from the famous writers who killed themselves, to the man who jumped off the Golden Gate bridge—support this conclusion. Of course, not all lonely souls kill themselves, thank God. Still, research shows how destructive loneliness can be: it leaves us feeling depressed and compromises the well-being of both our brain and body (C. M. Masi, et al., “A Meta-Analysis of Interventions to Reduce Loneliness,” Personality and Social Psychology Review 15, (2011): doi: 10.1177/1088868310377394).

Take a guess. Which of the following carries the highest risk of dying early: air pollution, obesity, excessive drinking, or loneliness?

If you picked the last one, bingo. Whereas the first three add a 5 percent, 20 percent, and 30 percent risk of dying early, respectively, loneliness lays on a whopping 45 percent risk (Brown, Atlas of the Heart, 180). Who would have thought loneliness is more dangerous than alcohol abuse?

And how can we lessen loneliness while mourning? Is it by surrounding ourselves with people?

Yes. Grief feels lighter when you can share yours with a sympathetic ear. So if you have not done it, find supportive people to prop you up. Volunteer. Socialize. Read a nourishing book for the kids at your local library. Attend church.

Then again, being around people can sound as charming as chewing raw garlic. As a child, my husband John fought off stubborn cold symptoms this way. His mother was right; the trick worked. But, as you can imagine, the experience was highly unpleasant to young John. Similarly, being around people can help, but when we are gripped with loneliness, it can make us laser-focused on the negative parts of socializing, causing us to skip the whole idea altogether (Masi, et al., “A Meta-Analysis of Interventions to Reduce Loneliness”). No wonder Brené Brown said she often feels the loneliest when others are around (Brown, Atlas of the Heart, 179).

So now what? When parts of us compel us to hunker down and tune out the world, what can be done for our lonely parts?

We can befriend them.

Being around others can help mitigate loneliness. But it can also multiply your pain. That is why, to ease loneliness, the safest first step is to turn inward and offer your presence for your lonely part. This way the lonely part does not need to hunt for someone suitable in the external world to befriend. While not everyone is willing or able to help, the real you—your Self—is always available.

Besides, the more your lonely part trusts you, the more it will allow you to lead the way, in case someone makes an insensitive comment. Your Self can handle relational ruptures in a firm but loving way.

Taken from Grieving Wholeheartedly by Audrey Davidheiser. Copyright (c) 2025 by Audrey Davidheiser. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com

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Dr. Audrey Davidheiser (www.aimforbreakthrough.com) is a licensed psychologist in California, certified Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapist, and IFSI-approved clinical consultant. After founding a counseling center for the Los Angeles Dream Center, she now provides IFS therapy for trauma survivors, including those with religious trauma, and assists in IFS trainings. She has been a regular writer for Crosswalk.com and columnist for iBelieve.com. Her book on how IFS helps the grieving process, Grieving Wholeheartedly, is published by InterVarsity Press in July 2025. Follow her on Facebook and Instagram @DrAudreyD.

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I opened the closet where they are stored. To my disappointment, the big ones I remember were not there. I’m not sure, perhaps I lent them on your behalf, and my grief brain doesn’t remember. At first, I was disappointed and sad, a minor frustration compared to the grief I carry daily, but it caused me to pause. I know you understand. I started to look in the closet quietly, and my eyes focused on the purse you had that day—the beautiful lilac-colored one with darker purple trim. I could still see the scratches from the accident, but my heart thought I would use this one and hold it with love and pride, just as you did. You loved purple, and the contrast of two shades of purple was captivating to anyone who saw it. But as I picked it up, I noticed that time had crept in and damaged what had once been so beautiful. The pretty purple material had become cracked, revealing the white underlay, and the pieces were falling apart in my hands. I sat on the bed and reflected on that day, and could feel the beauty of your presence, your smile, your voice, my daughter. Then the piercing pain of missing you crushed my heart piece by piece. I realized that time has also tried to deteriorate the sweetness of our love, but unsuccessfully, because it is untouchable. Our bond, memories, love, and your legacy will be forever. I carefully placed your damaged purse back in its’ safe keepsake spot and could almost feel your touch securing and locking our love.

I slowly looked around the closet, touching the purses gently and remembering. My eyes stopped on the bright red shiny one with white trim. Some people might say it is outdated and not the style for today, but it is yours, and it’s so pretty; you’ve always had a fantastic sense of style for this necessary accessory. I decided it would be perfect for my trip. I will choose to live boldly even with my grief and carry my daughter’s memory with strength, her love for red, and the joy it brought to her. As I placed her purse in plain sight for me when I am packing, I thought my day would continue as usual. But I could feel the unexpected weight of grief get heavier and heavier. It is difficult to get a good breath; the tears are creating pressure behind my eyes so much that it hurts. The emptiness within my soul is indescribable, but I continue to move forward doing the things I need to do. My body felt like it had instant fatigue, with slow, weak movements. I decided to take a little nap, maybe the safe place of my bed will help me. I awakened feeling proud of myself for managing to take control and not give in to the pain and impact of this grief wave.

Life progressed as it does every day without you. Then I find myself alone, your dad reminded me that maybe there are more purses. So, I went to our storage area and found the purple tote, which I anticipated contained purses. To my surprise, I met another trigger that could make my heart bleed again. I guess I have been a clever grieving mom; it was a tote for your baby boy, Tristan. It contained a note that I had written to him 13 years ago after you left. I placed it in a bag with all the items I found in your purse that you carried that day. A little reminder for him that one day, when he reads it, he will know of your love for him. The tote contained baby clothes and items that you so carefully bought for him. I wanted to honour your love for you and him. I gently closed the container, which carried me down memory lane to add more to my already heavy burden of pain. No other purses, just reminders of the beautiful daughter and mother you are.

Grief is not a linear process, and loss is a strange and unwelcome companion. It does not arrive with a schedule, and it does not come with instructions. Thirteen years ago, I lost my daughter, and every day since, I have navigated the relentless landscape of grief, learning as I went what it truly means to live with the absence of someone I loved dearly.

Society believes that thirteen years later, grief has worked itself through, and life is good. Well, that is not entirely wrong; life is good. On the bad days, and yes, I still have them, I feel like I am overwhelmed and suffocating, gasping for that next breath. Then there are days when I can see and feel the small joys, such as the scent of a beautiful flower, the laughter of my grandchildren, and the healing power of nature. These better days do not erase the grief, but they remind me that life still holds beauty and that there is hope.

As I progressed in my journey, I realized grief is full of change. Just as the purses had changed, so had I, and time moves forward, whether I am ready or not. Loss changes everything — our routines, our possessions, our expectations — yet within these changes, life continues to offer small gifts if we are willing to notice with appreciation. The missing purses became a symbol of my reality. The physical object was no longer there, just as the life I had imagined with my daughter was gone. However, this reminded me that our love and bond remain, eternal and untouched by time.

Over the years, I have learned that acknowledging grief means permitting oneself to feel the pain fully, without judgment. Acknowledging loss, even in small, daily ways, is the first step toward genuine healing. The purses I could not find were a gentle nudge: notice the change, honor the loss, allow the feelings. I carried the disappointment of the missing purse forward into a choice: I could focus on what was gone, or I could notice the purses that were still there, still functional, still offering use for honour. The action of using the red purse does not erase pain, but it transforms it into purpose. I can use this and carry the same pride that Andrea did when she held it. Today allowed me to appreciate the beauty and goodness that remain, even in the midst of profound sorrow. Gazing into the closet evoked the memory of the purses Andrea had loved. Appreciating my daughter and everything she means to me does not diminish my grief; it serves as a poignant reminder that grief and love co-exist.

I closed the closet doors today with a reminder that grief will always remain, just as my love for Andrea does. I will use her red purse with honour as it whispers courage to me, and the gentle silence of ‘I am still here.’ It carries the story of love, loss, and resilience.

The post The Big Red Purse appeared first on Open to Hope.

How? We can identify parts of our soul based on how they manifest, including the beliefs, thoughts, or feelings they hold. Different parts care about different things. So if you are in the midst of connecting with a sad part and feel a wave of fear, ask the sad part if the fear belongs to it. If the answer is yes, continue working with that part. But if the answer is no, then another part is feeling afraid, and you are sensing this newcomer’s fear. Acknowledge the new part and ask for space so you can continue working with the sad part.

Parts—which are members of our soul, also known as “subpersonalities”—have their own reactions to our experience. Their presence explains why we can sprout a variety of responses to the same topic. For instance, a part of you may nod along as you read on, another part might exude skepticism, and yet another part may be ruminating about something else altogether.

Having multiple parts within our soul is not pathological. Multiplicity is a trait every person possesses. If the idea of having subpersonalities feels unnerving, however, you are welcome to view it differently—like considering “parts” as different “aspects” of yourself.

There are three categories of parts: exiles, managers, firefighters.

Exiles are hurt parts that carry vulnerable feelings, memories, and beliefs. For instance, Joannie’s husband had been hiding an affair with a woman half his age. When Joannie confronted him about it, he filed for divorce, leaving her with an exile who believed he left me because I’m not good enough.

Managers and firefighters are considered protector parts. Their mission? To shield us from our exiles’ threatening feelings and beliefs. They will do whatever it takes to protect us from reliving the humiliation or trauma from yesteryear. But their strategies vary. Manager parts accomplish this goal by being proactive in controlling our behavior. For instance, the manager that oversees my finances insists on unplugging unused appliances and prompts me to hunt for bargains, all to save money. There is also a hardworking manager that criticizes me daily, with the hopes that this valiant effort at self-improvement would deter others from disparaging me.

No matter how hard managers work, however, things happen. And when they do, and exhale Isabel, to escape, flooding our awareness with, it’s difficult emotions, causing firefighters to rush, and come us by any means necessary.

Let’s return to Joannie as an example. After her divorce, she trudged into her women’s Bible study just as an attendee was apprising the group on Joannie’s ex-husband’s social media post: “He looks blissfully smitten by the curvy new Mrs.!”

Heat climbed Joannie’s face. Shame, jealousy, and rage prompted her to turn around and rush to her car. She sped out of the parking lot to buy three pints of cookies & cream—finishing them in one sitting.

Firefighter parts will try to distract us from pain using benign activities like sleeping, lulling us with entertainment, or—like in Joannie’s case—binging on ice cream. If these tactics fail to soothe us, they will up the ante and resort to more destructive acts. Cutting, getting intoxicated, driving recklessly, and suicide are examples of more dangerous firefighter activities.

Taken from Grieving Wholeheartedly by Audrey Davidheiser. Copyright (c) 2025 by Audrey Davidheiser. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com

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After Carl’s funeral, we were faced with the daunting task of collecting his belongings. Carl’s friends were amazing and provided support beyond what we could ever have expected. They brought their trucks and trailers and helped us pack everything he owned. Words can’t convey the surreal, gut-wrenching feeling of seeing all of Carl’s treasured possessions on the back of a truck.

When you lose someone, all you have left is the memories and their material possessions. At least that is what I used to think. I brought home some seashells and rocks that Carl had collected from the beach, along with a lifelike magpie statue, a mascot for his favorite football team – The Collingwood Football Club. Having these precious items provided me with some comfort.

The next morning, I was getting ready for work when I heard magpies warbling loudly. I approached the back glass door, and on the veranda were three magpies. Never before had they come so close to the house. I watched as they flapped their wings, tilted their heads back, and carolled like warriors. In that moment, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of Carl’s presence. It felt like he was acknowledging that I had his magpie, that he was still around, and that everything would be okay.

This moment brought feelings of comfort that, although Carl and I can’t walk beside each other on Earth again, we will always be connected. This was the start of ongoing communication with Carl and confirmation for me that when we die, it is not the end for our soul or the connections with those we love.

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“Grief does not change you, it reveals you.” John Greene

When my daughter Andrea died, a part of me died. My world shattered in a moment, and I stood in the ruins, with no foundation. I did not know how to breathe and could not think of living in a world without her. Losing her was devastating, but unknown to me was that Grief was going to unravel like a ball of yarn to reveal so much more.

As time passed, Grief kept showing up in unexpected ways. It wasn’t just the absence of Andrea that weighed on me—it was the ripple effects her death caused in every corner of my life. Secondary loss is one of the most misunderstood aspects of Grief. It is the loss of the world as we knew it, the loss of the person we were before, and the countless invisible pieces that go missing when someone we love dies. These losses are real, painful, and not recognized because we are deep into the emotional trauma and pain.

Being consumed with sadness, tears, and emotions, we don’t often understand how Grief keeps unfolding. Layers upon layers of unknown loss that reveal deeper pain. Our whole environment is undergoing change and reconstruction. The secondary losses creep into places no one prepared you for—relationships, identity, routines, hopes for the future. It is essential to identify these different losses and changes so we can understand and accept them. As these unexpected pieces of loss manifest themselves, one must realize that with time and patience, one will absorb the changes. It is part of the Grief process, and healing will reveal the new person you are becoming.

It is important to remember that Grief is unique to every person. The secondary loss may not be the same for everyone. But they all have a profound impact, and without realizing it, we grieve them as well. When losses pile up like this, it is sometimes called compound grief — the way one loss can reawaken the unprocessed pain of earlier ones. Some examples include:

Loss of identity

I realized that for me, the most significant secondary loss was my “identity”.People would ask me how many children I had, and I struggled to find the correct response. Do I include Andrea, and if I did, then I would have to explain my loss, and my Grief brain was foggy and too tired to explain. I would look in the mirror and didn’t recognize who I was becoming. It felt like I was only a shell of an existence, and I had to figure out how to fill that space and discover who I was. As time progressed with my healing, I realized I will always be her mother, and I gained clarity on my changed and new identity. But learning to accept these unexpected losses and changes does not come easily, and it is crucial to be patient and give oneself grace.

Loss of future dreams and Milestones

The loss of future and milestones is one of the most heartbreaking secondary losses of Grief. It’s not just grieving your loved one, it’s grieving all they would have become. For a parent, it’s the ache of never seeing their child graduate, get married, pursue dreams, or grow older. It’s the emptiness on birthdays that should have been, the silence on holidays that once brought joy, and the pain of imagining what could have been. The now-empty chair at all family reunions and special, shared times is most challenging to accept. These missed milestones are invisible to the outside world, but sincerely crush a grieving heart. When I lost my daughter Andrea, I lost more than just her physical presence. I lost the sound of her laughter in our home. She did not have the joy of watching her son achieve his milestones, and I grieve what he lost. I lost parts of myself that only existed in our special relationship. Even years later, I still hear her voice as she entered my house — a sound that warms my heart.

The lost opportunity to make more memories. The future is gone, and all that life that was supposed to unfold. It’s not just the person who is gone, but the life you planned together — the laughter, the growth, the legacy you shared. This loss of the future adds another layer of deep pain that surfaces unexpectedly, reminding you not just of what was, but of everything that will now never be.

The loss of purpose and direction

As I lived with the emotional upheaval of losing Andrea, I found myself dealing with another level of pain that I didn’t expect or recognize until later. There are many days when I have felt lost, with no direction, like being in a dark forest with no sense of direction. My daily routine of working and planning my days around babysitting my grandson came to a drastic halt. That role became obsolete. It helped shape my daily purpose in life, but without it, my life felt meaningless. That structure provided comfort and stability, now I had to fill another void and a missing link in my life. As many of you deal with the secondary loss of changed routines and responsibilities, you too face a loss of purpose. Rebuilding purpose after such a loss is a slow, tender process, often requiring a redefinition of self and a gradual rediscovery and appreciation of what matters now.

Loss of career or financial stability

Another secondary loss that ripples through every aspect of life is the loss of career and financial stability. The impact of grieving impacts the ability to concentrate or focus. Unfortunately, society does not provide adequate support for individuals who are grieving and need to return to work. For some, returning to work may be a positive distraction, especially when accompanied by the support of employers. For others, the job environment feels emotionally triggering, and with unsupportive co-workers, it complicates and prolongs Grief. I remember my dysfunction with emotional pain. I was unable to secure a role in the workforce. As a nurse, I no longer held empathy for others and could not return to my job. I considered myself mentally disabled. I am fortunate to have a husband who can provide financial support for us. For many of us, this change brings significant financial strain, with lost income, and that adds another layer of stress to an already overwhelming situation. This erosion of economic security and professional identity can deepen feelings of helplessness and compound the emotional weight of Grief.

There are many more secondary losses unique to each individual experiencing a loss. Each one is important and contributes to the profound pain we have to endure. People often do not realize that we are suffering from these losses, yet they contribute to the emotional weight of the initial loss. They will surface over time, revealing themselves in everyday moments when the person realizes what has changed, but what else is missing. Understanding secondary losses is crucial; neglecting to learn and understand them complicates the grieving process. Dealing with secondary losses requires its own healing space, and it gives validation to the full spectrum of Grief. Slowly, piece by piece, I have learned to honor each heartbreak and carry the love my daughter and I shared forward to rebuild the new and changed version of myself. With recognition, we can honor our loss and reconstruct a new, healthier life. Leading us to Hope with new meaning and purpose.

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The post When a Parent is Ninety: Grieving the Loss of a Child appeared first on Open to Hope.

The death of a child is one of the most devastating and life-altering losses anyone can experience. For parents, it is not only the loss of a beloved son or daughter—it is the loss of future dreams, milestones, and a sense of identity that is often intertwined with being a parent.

Friends and family often want to help but struggle to find the right words or actions. Missteps are common—not out of malice, but out of fear or lack of understanding. By identifying what parents who are grieving the loss of a child need most, we can empower communities to show up with compassion, presence, and practical support.

This conversation falls under the larger truth that loss comes in all forms. Yet the unique devastation of losing a child requires particular sensitivity. Research from reputable organizations such as the National Alliance for Children’s Grief (NACG), The Compassionate Friends, and the Dougy Center shows that the support of friends, family, and community is one of the most important factors in helping parents begin to navigate life after such an unimaginable loss. Below are ten ways to support grieving parents after the loss of a child.

1. Presence, Not Platitudes

Parents don’t need clichés like “They’re in a better place” or “At least you have other children.” What they need is your presence. Sit with them. Listen without trying to fix the unfixable. Sometimes, the greatest comfort comes from simply being there, holding their hand, or sitting in silence. One resource that discusses how to be present for grieving parents is The Club No Parent Wants to Join: Navigating the Death of Your Child.  This resource provides specific examples of what family and friends should and should not say to grieving parents.

2. Permission to Grieve in Their Own Way

Every parent grieves differently. Some want to talk constantly about their child, while others may need solitude. Honor their process without judgment. Avoid placing timelines on their grief. Healing is not linear, and your understanding of this can be a lifeline.

3. Practical Support in Daily Life

In the days following the loss, parents are often paralyzed by shock. Friends and family can help by providing meals, running errands, taking care of other children, or managing household tasks. One of the best measures that friends and family can take is to direct grieving parents to professionals’ resources and support. For example, one resource tool is the Grief Support Navigator, which provides more than 300+ tailored resources for type of loss. These practical gestures lift an immense burden and allow parents to focus on their grief.

4. Acknowledgment of Their Child

Say their child’s name. Share memories. Don’t shy away from talking about them. Parents often fear their child will be forgotten, so continuing to acknowledge their life is a tremendous comfort.  Oftentimes, society buys into myths around child loss. For example, one myth is that it is better not to bring up the death of a child to a grieving parent.  But in fact, acknowledging their child is the way to go.

5. Consistency Beyond the Funeral

Support often floods in the first week but fades quickly. What grieving parents need is ongoing support. Mark important dates—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—and check in on those days. A simple message of remembrance can mean the world.

6. Space for Emotional Expression

Grieving parents may cycle through sadness, anger, guilt, and numbness. Offer a safe space where they can express these emotions without judgment. Let them cry, rage, or sit quietly. Your role is not to control their feelings but to validate them.

7. Encouragement to Seek Professional Support

While friends and family provide an essential circle of care, professional grief counseling or grief support groups can offer specialized help. Organizations like The Compassionate Friends and the Dougy Center provide peer-based groups specifically for parents. Gently encourage professional help without pressuring.

8. Respect for Their Boundaries

Parents may not be ready for social gatherings, returning to work, or answering every phone call. Respect their boundaries. Let them set the pace for what they can handle. Your patience communicates deep respect for their journey.

9. Help Creating Rituals and Remembrance

Rituals—such as planting a tree, lighting a candle, or creating a memory box—help parents honor and remember their child. Offering to help them create these rituals can bring a sense of connection and ongoing love.

10. Long-Term Compassion and Understanding

The grief of losing a child never truly ends. It changes shape, but it does not disappear. Long after the initial loss, parents still need compassion, understanding, and acknowledgment. Your willingness to walk alongside them for the long haul is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

THE ROLE OF COMMUNITY IN HEALING

Research from the National Alliance for Children’s Grief highlights that parents who feel supported in their grief experience lower levels of isolation and a stronger sense of resilience over time.

But this support is not about fixing. It is about walking with parents through an unthinkable loss with patience, humility, and love.

FINAL THOUGHTS

When a child dies, parents’ worlds are shattered. In those fragile days after the loss, friends and family have an opportunity to be a steady source of comfort, stability, and love. By offering presence, practical support, acknowledgment, and long-term care, you help grieving parents feel less alone on a path no one ever chooses.

The post Ten Ways to Support Grieving Parents Who Are Experiencing the Loss of a Child appeared first on Open to Hope.

In the immediate aftermath of the unimaginable loss of my 24-year-old son, Eric, from a car accident, I felt broken and lost. The pain in my chest and stomach were relentless and I had no appetite. My hands shook so much it was hard to write anything that was very legible. I was making my way through each day in a fog.

My soul must have guided my body to keep doing what it does, one breath at a time, one step at a time. Some moments in the day I was stoic, other moments the tumultuous waves of grief took over, eliciting huge wails which I had no control over, nor did I even have the strength to try to contain. Nor did I care. Nothing mattered anymore anyway. There was no need to hide anything or hold anything back. I just existed in the debilitating pain of raw grief.

The Elegant Tree

There is a magnificent pine tree in our front yard. I estimate it to be about 80 feet high and close to 100 years old. She sits elegantly in the middle of the grass, providing a playground for the squirrels and wrens and sparrows that visit throughout the day, as well as shade for me and my family. I often gaze at her through our windows.

One day, just weeks after Eric’s accident, I felt drawn to go out to her and lie underneath her graceful branches. Flat on the grass, I stared up through the lovely woven boughs, soaking in the view of the blue sky and puffy white clouds. It was late May by then and the weather was mild.

The breeze was sweet and gentle. The ground underneath me was secure. I surrendered to all of it. I had no strength to do otherwise.

All was Well

And here I found peace. In this sacred place, I felt loved and held and safe. Time stood still and I was somehow transported to a dimension where all was well. My brain certainly could have argued that all was not well. But in some ineffable way, in this present moment, I felt an utter tranquility I had never felt before. This lovely monument of nature was sending me healing in a way I cannot explain, yet I felt in my bones and in my soul. I didn’t question it. I just accepted it. And in that calmness, I felt Eric’s love.

Most of us have heard of the healing quality of the natural world. This firsthand experienced left me with no doubt that this is true. When we are in nature and we stop to really look at the tree, the flower, the mountain, the ocean, or the clouds, all else is inconsequential. And when we allow ourselves to let go of regrets of the past or worries for the future, we are left with only that which is right here, right now, this beauty that we are in the presence of in this moment.

Nature Heals Us

I continued to go out each day to lie under my elegant pine tree for many more months of Eric’s passing. Eventually, the need to do so lessened as the pain in my chest and stomach subsided and the uncontrollable shaking in my hands ceased. But now, eight years later, I still enjoy spending time out there with her, sometimes lying underneath, sometimes standing in front of her and taking in the awesome intricacies of her wide trunk. I still gaze at her through the windows when I’m inside the house. I feel grateful for her constant love and healing.

As I continue to navigate this grief journey at my own pace, I bask in nature in many other ways. I walk through our local botanical gardens where the sweet scent of eucalyptus is in the air, or occasionally at the ocean where the sand supports me and the gentle breeze caresses me. Wherever any of us may be in our grief, there is a respite where peace can hold us. Mother Earth is generous. Just take a moment to look around, ask, and receive the healing force of nature.

Read more from Dolores on Open to Hope: Setting the Intention to Live Again – Open to Hope

Check out Dolores’ website: Home | Dolores Cruz

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Since my mom died, I’ve been cataloguing the sounds of grief. So far, I’ve documented five.

Sound I.

My immediate, acute grief had a specific sound. You might recognize it. If you’ve ever balled up a soft object, buried your face in it, and screamed with all your might, this particular grief sound will carry a note of familiarity.

I didn’t make it in time to say goodbye to my mom in the hospital room. So I said it later, while she lay on a slab in the morgue. When I got home, I walked into her bedroom, shut the door, climbed onto the bed. I didn’t lie down. I crouched on all fours, grabbed her pillow, pressed my face against it, opened my mouth, and discovered Sound I.

Sound II.

There are multiple renditions of this particular vibration. It’s a staple of the sappy Hallmark movies I sometimes half-watch to numb my brain. It often elbows into the illusion of “ordinary” life. It’s the little sniffle that slips out when a tender (or painful) memory brushes past, stirring just enough emotion to wet your lashes and set your nose tingling.

It harmonizes with the brush of a sleeve or tissue against a cheek and the huff of a deep, steadying breath. It’s often performed in public, where the other Grief Sounds rarely find a welcome audience. Sound II might even be familiar to non-grievers, though it takes on a different tenor when shaped by loss.

Sound III.

This one is tricky. Outside the moment, it can sound melodramatic, but in the moment, few things feel more real or authentic. It rises from somewhere primal, echoing through bone and muscle until it finds release. Its tone most closely resembles that of a wounded animal.

When I reach this pitch of grief, I often hear the echo of “wailing and gnashing of teeth” reverberating from the back of my mind, a distant but familiar scrawl from my Episcopal/Catholic upbringing. While writing this, I Googled the phrase and discovered it’s actually “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” I never was much good at chapter and verse. No matter: Sound III.

Sound IV.

A wry nod to Simon & Garfunkel, this one is among the hardest to bear. To the uninitiated, it can feel confusing, even guilt-inducing. I’m grieving; shouldn’t there be sound? But our brains are smarter than we give them credit for. The sudden silence after emotional thunder isn’t emptiness; it’s protection. A temporary shutdown. A quieting of the system until our inner reserves can recharge enough for the noise of grief to return.

Sound IV is the absence of sound. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because, for now, you can’t.

Sound V.

 And finally, we come to the most surprising note of all. To make sense of it, you have to start with this: grief isn’t the same as sadness. It’s not interchangeable with pain. As I often say, grief isn’t a feeling—it’s all the feelings. Which, mercifully, means that within the melody of loss, there are chords that hold tenderness, gratitude, even joy.

When I picture my mom struggling to turn on her first iPhone, only to be told it wasn’t working because she was holding it upside down, I can’t help but laugh. So yes, the fifth, and most unexpected, sound in the suite is laughter. Not in spite of the grief, but because of it.

What does your grief sound like?

Learn more about Lindsey at her website.

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Have you ever felt like that? If you have, you have lots of company.

When someone who meant the world to you dies, it can feel like all the good in your world has died, too. It can feel like everything precious has been taken away, leaving you with empty arms and grasping hands. You can feel like there is nothing left.

Well-meaning friends and family try to remind you otherwise: You still have people who love you. Maybe you still have your spouse or partner. You have your memories. Perhaps you have other kids. You can try again. You will love again. And you will feel alive again. Count your blessings, name them one by one…

Maybe they’re right, at least about some of it. But it doesn’t feel right or true, and even if they’re right, it’s not enough. What you feel is a hole that seems to have no borders and no bottom. What you feel is that you’ve got nothing left.

It feels heavy and dark and lonely. Maybe you used to think that a “broken heart” was just a poetic phrase, but it doesn’t feel poetic now. It feels literal, real, and true.

So, you sit with it. Sit in it. Feeling it. Soaking it in as if you had another choice. Part of you pushes back—it can’t be true! Yet another part of you knows that it is true and that it does no good to pretend otherwise. This “it can’t be true but it is” dance is part of the deal, part getting used to it. Getting used to something that feels offensive to imagine and impossible to fathom. But there it is, so you sit with and in it some more.

How is this even possible? Not that the thing happened, although “how is this even possible” fits for that, too. No, this “how is this even possible” is about you. How is it that you experienced this nightmare of losing and yet you’re still alive?

Somehow, although it boggles the mind to ponder, you have found a way to think these thoughts, feel this pain, and sit in the muck of it without falling into a million little pieces and blowing away.

Although eating no longer appeals, you put things in your mouth, chew, and swallow. While sleep is often elusive, you get enough of it to get to your feet in the morning to do the things that you do. These things which you used to do without much noticing now feel like climbing a mountain bare-footed, yet somehow you do them.

As the days, weeks, and months go by, you’re still here. How can that be? You thought that without your person, life could not continue. The sun would stop in the sky, the seasons would pause, and traffic would freeze-frame. The universe would call a timeout to correct its error or at least provide a long moment of silence (nip it, birds).

But the sun didn’t stop, the seasons continued, the birds kept singing, and traffic crawled or raced on. Meanwhile, you, despite all your internal predictions, unexpectedly and thankfully continue to live.

Living is haunted now. You thought your person was totally gone, but they won’t and don’t go away. The memories sneak through your cracks or sometimes slap you in the face. They show up in dreams, in birds in the backyard, and in TV commercials. Often the presence of their absence feels like a weight sitting on your chest. But you notice that other times their presence is a balm, a warm blanket, or a needed inspiration or kick in the pants.

Questions follow you and pester for a response: What did they mean to you when they were alive? How did they make your life better? Did they also sometimes make your life harder? What do you want and need them to mean to you now? What did you mean to them and how did you make their life better? How do you want them to accompany you in your days going forward?

How in the world can you wrestle with these questions when it feels like you have nothing left? Yet, that is exactly what you do.

Life, and death, can be full of mystery, as is the reality that you continue to find ways to continue life and living. And that is a grateful something when it feels like you have nothing left.

Greg Adams

The post When It Feels Like You’ve Got Nothing Left appeared first on Open to Hope.

Do these words describe your present state because of loss of a loved one? I know it did mine after our son, Joshua, died by suicide over six years ago. Do I still feel this way from time to time? Yes, but with God’s mercy, I passed through and out of the terror over Joshua being gone.

Psalms 56:3 is fitting: “What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.” (KJV)

Hard to practice living that verse? Of course, especially when you’ve lost a child. I walked around full of terror that first year after Joshua left us. But I didn’t stay in that miserable state. We may feel fear during our loved ones’ birthdays and the holidays that we experience without them. And we may know terror when their death date rolls around, but all this can be less of a burden.

In time.

This year, my husband and I were not overly saddened at Christmas time. Few tears and sorrow to overwhelm us. Why? We reached out to a community where I spent much of my growing up years. My husband passed out Bibles and the Gospel of John tracks at the town’s Christmas dinner feed. At one table, we shared about God’s love to a suffering soul. We even got to eat with my dear friend who is still like a mother to me after all these years. We felt blessed by the day.

Something else I’ve recently come across is a book about writing through your healing process. You do NOT have to be a writer or a published author. You can take up writing at a point in your life when that has never been your intent. It can be words only for your eyes.

The book is entitled, “Writing as a Way of Healing” by Louise DeSalvo. I believe God allowed me to find this book as an aid to my healing process. With God as my foundation, I’ve been reading DeSalvo’s words. I understand I am doing well to write about my feelings after all the major losses in my life.

DeSalvo suggests we write in a journal about an event that has caused us so much sorrow that we can not let it go. Something that keeps us stuck in neutral. Here’s a quote from DeSalvo’s book: “Engaging in writing, in creative work, then, permits us to pass from numbness to feeling, from denial to acceptance, from conflict and chaos to order and resolution, from rage and loss to profound growth, from grief to joy.”

Do you think David understood this when he wrote Psalms? I see David’s life poured out onto the pages of our Bible. So, why shouldn’t we create our own words of healing? Or paintings of healing? Or woodwork, crafts, sculptures? Why not try it, friends?

Until next time . . . create.

Jean Williams is the author of God’s Mercies after Suicide: Blessings Woven through a Mother’s Heart: Williams, Jean Ann: 9780997701609: Amazon.com: Books

Visit Jean’s website: Jean Ann Williams | Author – (jeanannwilliamsauthor.com)

Read more from Jean on Open to Hope: Missing a Son During his Birthday Season – Open to Hope

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A plethora of emotions accompany the loss of a loved one. The dark shadow of loneliness, however, tends to hover longer, seemingly with no promise of an exit date.

People grappling with grief often lament, “If only I could shake this loneliness, I believe things would turn around for me.” The unfortunate truth is that, although the pain of loss diminishes over time, the deceased, on some level, will always be missed. The void created by an individual’s absence cannot be filled by another because no two people are exactly alike.

The death of a hospice patient, though expected, may still register as a painful and crippling reality. An expected loss is no less of a loss. After a demise, loneliness will threaten peace and will challenge an attempt to return to some sense of normalcy.

One Day at a Time

One day at a time is not trite advice to be dismissed or taken lightly. Death is a heavy weight. Its impact will not cease overnight. Survivors of loss need not only to take one day at a time, but each second and each minute at a time. Just learning how to breathe again is progress.

David, as a shepherd, found comfort in the Lord’s rod and staff as stated in Psalms 23:4.  The path through loneliness may be found in different things, in different places, for different people. A special memory might produce a smile. Perhaps a picture kept close keeps the tears at bay. Wearing a specific article of clothing that belonged to the deceased could momentarily ease a gnawing ache.

Others discover that a bereavement support group gets the lonely out among other people in a push back against isolation. The path to healing is not the same for everyone.

The path through loneliness varies after losing the beloved. Giving oneself the permission to remember and honor loved ones through the patience of time is a good place to start.

Barbara Ann Fields is the author of The Afterlife: Learn How to Biblically Prepare For It in This Life: Fields, Barbara Ann: 9781728365008: Amazon.com: Books

Read more on Open to Hope about loneliness: Managing Loneliness After a Loss – Open to Hope

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I hate grieving.

There. I said it.

A part of me did, actually. The part that abhors the tears I shed while writing this book.

But I am not the only one with parts. Your soul comes prepackaged with them too. Have you noticed the maelstrom of reactions following your loss? Perhaps maintaining concentration has been hard, as your mind keeps slipping to memories of the deceased or fears about tomorrow. Your digestive system feels wonky. Reminders of your loss spur shame, guilt, perhaps even both. Maybe you avoid crying at all costs. These are some of the ways your parts might have expressed themselves.

Grief Disrupts

Grief intrudes differently into our existence. Did you sense death’s steady cadence as cancer colonized your sweetheart bit by bit? Or did the grave ambush someone you loved? My initiation to the world of grieving fit the latter category. On July 2, 2018, I waved goodbye to my parents as they boarded a jet to Jakarta, Indonesia, after spending their summer stateside. My dad died less than two weeks later.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross postulated grief as passing in five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance (Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, On Death and Dying). Prior to her own death, however, Kübler-Ross clarified her position: “[The stages] were never meant to help tuck messy emotions into neat packages. They are responses to loss that many people have, but there is not a typical response to loss, as there is no typical loss” (Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, On Grief and Grieving, 7).

Even with her own admission, and even though the scientific community has debunked the stage theory of grief, many still cling to the stubborn belief that grieving progresses in a tidy trajectory (Mary Lamia, Grief Isn’t Something to Get Over). But prescribing the same neat steps for mourners everywhere is as realistic as restricting every Disneyland visitor to only a handful of rides, with a specific order to boot.

Grief Follows Culture

Truth is, many factors determine how we approach loss. Our psychological composition, faith tradition, family background, culture, and upbringing all play significant roles. Whether we have fully dealt with prior losses can also determine how our current grief fares. If we repressed or glossed over past losses, for example, the current emotional load might tip us over—which might then activate the impulse to get high, work overtime, super-spiritualize grief, or engage in other strategies to smother our emotions.

Our history with the deceased and circumstances around that death will also influence how we grieve. An abused teenager is unlikely to mourn her stepfather’s death; and if her mother was clueless about his harmful behavior, the mother’s grief might incite her to lash out at the teen for appearing aloof. The grandkids whose grandmother spoiled them before dementia took over might be wrecked with sorrow. But their mother—who quit her job to take care of her mom—might feel secretly relieved to be liberated from heavy caretaking responsibilities.

Regardless of how others do it, you are free to mourn in your own way. The same goes for each part of your soul.

A scent, a melody, a specific time of day, something someone says—anything can trigger your grief. Please make room for your feelings when these tender moments materialize. Rather than avoiding them, how about viewing the loss in your life as an invitation to venture into your internal world, where emotions reside?

Excerpted from Grieving Wholeheartedly by Audrey Davidheiser. Copyright (c) 2025 by Audrey Davidheiser. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com

Read more on Open to Hope: Illusion of Truth in Grief Journeys – Open to Hope

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Dr. Audrey Davidheiser (www.aimforbreakthrough.com) is a licensed psychologist in California, certified Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapist, and IFSI-approved clinical consultant. After founding a counseling center for the Los Angeles Dream Center, she now provides IFS therapy for trauma survivors, including those with religious trauma, and assists in IFS trainings. She has been a regular writer for Crosswalk.com and columnist for iBelieve.com. Her book on how IFS helps the grieving process, Grieving Wholeheartedly, is published by InterVarsity Press in July 2025. Follow her on Facebook and Instagram @DrAudreyD.

The post Grief is Not a Neat Package appeared first on Open to Hope.

Phrases like “If you need anything, just ask” or “I’m here if you need me” are commonly offered after the loss of a loved one. While often well-intentioned, these words can serve more to relieve the speaker than to provide real help. In my five years running a nonprofit grief support program and listening to participants, I’ve learned that such offers rarely translate into meaningful support. People often say, “I offered to help, but I never heard back,” as though their responsibility ends with the offer.

Why the Bereaved Struggle to Ask for Help

When someone is grieving, they are often overwhelmed, lost, and unsure of what they need both now and in the future. In this state, anticipating needs or reaching out for help is nearly impossible. It’s crucial to educate those who want to support the bereaved: help should be proactive, specific, and based on shared knowledge and experience.

How to Support Those Grieving

If you truly wish to support someone grieving, offer tangible and concrete assistance. Here are ways to provide real support:

• Deliver Groceries: Drop off basic groceries—such as milk, bread, soup, lunchmeat, cheese, and fruit—on a set day. Check for allergies and let them know you’ll simply leave the items at the door unless they’re ready for a visit.
• Send Encouraging Texts: Continue to reach out, especially on significant days like birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, or weddings, which can be especially difficult for those who are grieving.
• Share Resources: Provide information about helpful books, online or in-person support groups, counseling, journals, financial advisors, tax consultants, or attorneys, anything that might be useful now or in the future.
• Assist with Children: Offer help with school drop-off or pick-up, attending kids’ events, or simply being present during holidays.
• Support with Daily Life: For those who have lost a spouse, share recipes, offer practical advice on home maintenance and finances, such as changing furnace filters, oil changes, or paying bills.
• Help with Pets: Buy pet food or offer to walk their pets.
• Yard Work: Mow the lawn or shovel snow as needed.

Creating a Support System

One of the best practices for those grieving is to find a trusted friend to help manage requests. Make a list of current and future needs and have your friend coordinate with others who genuinely want to help. When someone asks what you need, you can direct them to your friend and their list—those who truly wish to support you will reach out, making it easier for everyone involved.

Paying It Forward

If you have received meaningful help, consider sharing your knowledge with others. Our community of grievers benefits when we pass on practical wisdom. Often, people don’t even realize what kind of help they’ll need until the moment arrives. By sharing what you’ve learned, you can provide the kind of support that truly makes a difference.

Learn more about Hope Reger on her website: Grief 2 Hope

Read more on Open to Hope: When Grief Affects Your Mood – Open to Hope

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Losing a Husband

The Widow Club

Anger and Betrayal

Visit Kim’s website: Grief Support | Pocket Grief

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Actions better explain love, as love is an action word. It requires a series of give and takes between a man and a woman to fulfill just a short 60,70 years on this earth together. I want to share a love story that I encountered during my time as a Hospice Chaplain years ago.

Rosita and David had come from entirely different lives. Rosie, as she would have me call her, came from a very conservative, extreme spiritual family in Argentina. Her father was a lawyer and her mother a teacher. And David was born and raised in New York City. He lived most of his early days within the confines of a few city blocks.

David told me in our first conversation that during his childhood, everybody knew and looked after one another. It was funny, he told me I had ten moms. He remembered that if he had done something wrong, it didn’t matter whether it was his mom or one of the other moms correcting him; he was in trouble either way. It was a very safe time to grow up. He never felt any fear wherever he was because there were so many eyes that looked after him.

Assisted Living Together

I first met Rosie and David at an ALF, which, if you didn’t know, is short for Assisted Living Facility. Working as a Hospice Chaplain, they both came to our service, meaning that they both had something that would be life-ending. When entering their apartment, the first thing I noticed was the way they greeted me and the smiles that never left either of their faces.

Rosie was the talker. She couldn’t wait to tell me their story. They both taught at a university in a Latin American country. She was a science teacher, and he is a Spanish language teacher.  I remember thinking he was the last person you would think would teach Spanish, as he looked like me.

David was tall, thin, pale-skinned, and had blonde hair. Not what you would expect to teach the Spanish language in a Spanish-speaking country. When Rosie told me what David had done at the university, I had to ask, ‘David, how in the world did you get such a position?’ He had been raised around Spanish-speaking people, and it was almost a first language for him. Becoming fascinated with this language, he would eventually go on to teach it.

Working Years

Rosie and David worked together for all those years. She had been there a couple of years before David. However, they seemed to hit it off and became great friends, as did some of the other professors. This close group would go on trips and outings outside of the time they spent teaching.

Thus, the day came that David was preparing to retire and had given notice that this would be his last semester teaching. As the day drew closer to David’s retirement, he told me that he had started to realize he would no longer be spending time with his close group of friends, and that bothered him. Rosie also began to feel the same way; she could never tell David that, as she thought that was too forward.

As his last semester of teaching drew to a close, he began making plans to move back to the United States, specifically to New York City. Rosie would tell me that David couldn’t sleep. When telling me this, she had a smile on her face that looked like that of a sixteen-year-old. Blushing as one first in love, I understand that when I met them, they were both in their mid-nineties. So, I found that wonderful in Rosie. She was so prim and proper until she spoke about David, and her voice filled with excitement as she talked about their love.

‘I Love You’

Rosie went on to tell me about the night David came to her home. It was in the middle of the night, and a knock on her front door woke her.  It was at this moment that Rosie blushed at the thought of David standing at her door; she began to understand that he would soon be gone, and her heart was troubled. Well, Rosie’s upbringing kicked in, and she certainly couldn’t entertain a man in her home at that time of the night, or anytime, without a chaperone. Turning on the porch light and stepping out on the front porch. And before she could ask what was going on, David started to talk.

David was excited, speaking in circles and looking confused, which was out of character for him.  What came out of his mouth next was unbelievable. David paused for a moment, then swallowed deeply and blurted out. “I love you”. It was like being a young girl again, even though she was in my early sixties. He followed up with, “Come with me. Marry me. I can’t be without you.”

Days later, they were married, surrounded by our close friends.

Decades later, there they were, she with heart failure and David with dementia. How wonderful that they spent twenty-five years together, being in love.

Dying Together

It wasn’t long after I started to visit them regularly that I got the call that David’s life was coming to an end, and Rosie had asked me to go and pray quickly. Entering the apartment, I sat down in a chair on one side of the bed as Rosie sat on the bed on the other, holding David’s hand. Rosie was stoic and focused on every moment of David’s care. She had a wet towel in her hand, wiping David’s face as this had a cooling, relaxing effect on David. It was not long after I sat down next to David and prayed that he was gone.

I’m so sorry, Rosie, I said.

Don’t be sorry, Chaplain, she told me. We had often talked about this day, and we both understood that it was just a season for one of us to leave and the other would follow. After spending time with Rosie and helping her make the call so David would be picked up.  And as I comforted her, I noticed her thin, frail body moving uncontrollably as she was sobbing, not crying, but sobbing—such a difference in the two.  I did David’s grave site service, and there was just me and Rosie, as they had no family. She thanked me for my care and the respect I showed to David.

Less than a week after David’s gravesite service, I received a call from the A.L.F.  Rosie was gone. They had gone to wake her for breakfast, which she had stopped eating altogether after David’s death, which concerned me, and I spoke to her about that, and she told me that doing even the simplest things like eating was too sad, as they had done everything together.

Read more about hospice: Writing to a Friend in Hospice – Open to Hope

Check out John’s book: Remember Me: End of Life as Seen through the Eyes of a Hospice Chaplain: Kirn Wenderlein 111, John Kirn: 9798890742575: Amazon.com: Books

The post Living and Dying Together appeared first on Open to Hope.

I woke up screaming, as if I’d had a nightmare, only to realize this is my new reality. Screaming, crying, breathless, heart aching so deeply, I’m not sure it will ever heal. My stomach in knots feeling like I could puke or poop myself at any moment.

My mom is dead. My dad and I found her yesterday. Today is my birthday. FUCK THIS! I don’t ever want to celebrate this day again. I can’t even think about eating, my world in shambles. Oh, by the way, I’m pregnant with my first child, not even sure how far along. Living with my parents to finish my first home. I haven’t even told anyone about my pregnancy except my significant other.

My mind is racing at 100 at all times. Wondering, how am I going to do this? What happens during pregnancy? Will I be a good mom? How will I get by without my mom?

Eerie Funeral

Just 24 hours ago, I called my mom, having a meltdown, asking her ‘where are you?’ Now realizing, I will NEVER be able to call my mom again. What an eerie realization, especially to a newly pregnant first-time mom.

The next days are an extreme blur, but I will never forget how your life feels so stuck still, planning a funeral, while the rest of the world goes on. How people don’t know how to act around you, what to do or say. When just holding space to be is the only thing that you need.

I had my first ultrasound and appointment, finding out I’m 12 weeks, the day before my mom’s funeral. My sister-in-law knew I had some sort of appointment and didn’t want me to be alone, insisting that her or my brother go.

A Million Firsts without Her

But I refused. It was something I felt I needed to do alone; I just wanted my mom. I knew this was the beginning of a million firsts without her. It broke me. Of all the times a girl needs her mom, especially when she’s becoming one herself. I decided to put the u/s picture in a bow frame with a bunny in a bag, to share the news with my dad, brother, sisters-in-law, nieces, and nephews. I already had these things because I knew someday, I was going to be a mom.

We were going to have breakfast at my parents alone before the funeral, but my aunts and other invited themselves. So, we decided to let them meet at the house and we would all meet out to eat, to have just immediate family time before this horrid event. I was hoping the news would bring some light and positivity to our lives that day.

When I read my speech at the funeral, it hit deeper reading about how I’ll never get the opportunity to share pregnancy and motherhood with my mom. I’m only 28 years old; I should have a long time left with my mom. I don’t know that my siblings understand my envy/jealousy of sharing their children with our mom. I will never get that chance.

Read more on Open to Hope: Pregnant After Your Mother Has Died – Open to Hope

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Losing Andrea irrevocably altered my life most profoundly. Child-loss changes the course of one’s life forever. My world is a different place, and I am not the same person I was before. There’s the deep personal pain that words are unable to touch, but there’s also something else I didn’t expect: the way the world responded. Or didn’t.

In the months after Andrea died, I learned that many people don’t know how to deal with Grief, especially when it’s not their own. I call it grief illiteracy: the widespread discomfort, avoidance, and misunderstanding around what it means to grieve. We live in a world that is eager to celebrate success and growth, but uncomfortable when it comes to Grief.

Saying the Wrong Thing

People mean well, but they don’t know what to say, so they say the wrong thing—or nothing at all. Others offered quick-fix clichés, such as “everything happens for a reason” or “she’s in a better place.” About six months after losing Andrea, I was in a grocery store. I was in my “Grief daze” and doing what I needed to do: getting food.

I met a neighbor who greeted me with the usual general conversation and then informed me about an accident in the area that took the lives of an entire family. She then added, “At least you only lost one person.” My reaction led me to say goodbye, and I exited the store in a state of distress. I experienced raging anger with a complete grief crash.

I am sure the intention was innocent, but it is an example of societal and Grief illiteracy. Grief isn’t a problem to be solved or a weakness to overcome; it’s a natural part of the human experience. It’s a reality that I live every day. My love is forever, as is my Grief.

Grief Illiteracy a Silent Epidemic

Society is lacking in the appropriate language and tools to deal with Grief, and it is a silent epidemic. It leaves grieving people isolated just when they need connection the most. People avoid speaking about Grief because it is uncomfortable. It leaves a silent pressure for the grieving to “move on.” Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It is not to be compartmentalized and dealt with at a later time. It’s not a project with milestones. Grief is unique, and the journey is different for each person. It lingers, it morphs, it returns. It is forever.

The avoidance that society gives makes people view their Grief as a personal failure, lacking strength rather than a normal human response. When friends change the subject or coworkers walk on eggshells, the grieving person feels isolated and alone in their pain.

Once the flowers wilt, the honor and celebration are over; the calls slow down or come to a halt, and the griever is left quiet. Not because people don’t care, but because they don’t know how to deal with Grief. The rebuilding of life after loss is a time-consuming process, and it is a lifelong journey that does not end with the funeral or celebration of life.

No Preparation for Loss

The concept of Grief is universal, and the specific way people express it can vary. In many Western cultures, Grief is avoided, while Eastern cultures consider death a natural part of life. Many cultures prize strength, independence, and positivity. Grief doesn’t fit that mold.

We lack education, which leads to misunderstandings and ineffective support. Most people only learn about Grief when they’re in the midst of it, and by then, they’re overwhelmed and lacking the tools to help navigate it. We have all worried about making Grief worse by speaking up. Most people fear saying the wrong thing, so silence often feels safer. But silence can be the loudest kind of abandonment.

Grief illiteracy isn’t just awkward, it is damaging. It makes the grieving feel alone in their pain and feel guilty for still hurting. But Grief is not a weakness or flaw; it’s a reflection of love. If we want to be a society that genuinely cares for each other, we have to do better. That starts with education and empathy.

Confronting Grief Illiteracy

We need to normalize Grief by talking more openly about it. We are increasing awareness about mental health, and Grief should be next. Media, workplaces, and schools can all play a role in making Grief a normal topic, not a taboo. Grief support should be as accessible as any other health service.
We talk about wellness and productivity. Let’s also talk about loss. Let’s normalize pain, not hide from it.

We need to increase Grief resources, such as hotlines and online platforms that enable people to connect, share, and heal together. Safe places where the grieving person can feel comfort and understood.

People need to stop imposing timelines and expecting others to “get over it” by a certain point. Grief is profoundly personal, and there is no “one size fits all.” I will grieve Andrea until my last breath; our love will echo forever. Love is eternal and needs to be recognized. That’s not failure. That’s love in another form.

Don’t be afraid to say their name. One of the greatest gifts is simply hearing Andrea’s name. It is music to my soul. She existed. She mattered and still does. Don’t be afraid to share your thoughts out loud. Some of my most heartwarming moments are when I attend a book signing and people comment on my picture of her, saying, “She is beautiful.” Please share a memory or a story. Whether I smile or cry, recognition of my daughter validates her importance and my pain of loss.

Grief doesn’t end after the funeral. It is not a linear process; it is unique and varies from person to person. The person grieving needs you to show up and keep showing up. The real work starts after the initial support fades. Check in and offer to run errands, bring food, and assist with childcare. Don’t expect a grieving person to ask for help; they are too absorbed in emotional trauma to formulate thoughts. Grief is exhausting.  

Becoming Grief Literate

You don’t need to “fix” someone’s Grief. Just show up and listen without judgment. Presence and support matter more than perfect words. It is essential to be empathetic, present, and understanding. They’re less likely to suffer in silence, turn to harmful coping mechanisms, or spiral into prolonged isolation. And when it’s our turn to grieve—and it will be—we’ll be glad to live in a world that knows how to hold space for that.

A grief-literate society isn’t just kinder—it’s healthier. When people feel seen and supported during their Grief, they heal more effectively. We can’t eliminate loss, but we can stand alongside one another and build a culture with honesty, courage, and care.

I will never stop missing Andrea. That’s not something I need to “get over.” It’s part of how I carry her forward. But what I hope is that her absence, and what it has taught me, can help others be more human with each other.

Grief isn’t contagious but love and compassion are.

Linda Henderson is the author of Amazon.com: The Road of Love & Hope: The Journey of Child Loss eBook : Henderson, Linda: Kindle Store

Read more by Linda: The Lessons of Grief – Open to Hope

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Ahhh, dating.  Sooner or later this becomes every widow’s favorite topic with other widows.  And there is a very good reason for this: Because we feel like it’s unacceptable to talk about it outside of the herd.

But I can guarantee you that, for most widows, it’s one of the first things we think about after our husbands die.  I don’t mean that in a bad way.  It’s human nature to wonder what comes next.  And for those of us who suddenly find ourselves involuntarily single, we want to know:  Am I supposed to start dating?  When is it too soon to start dating?  What will people say if I start dating? What will they say if I don’t?

It’s very natural to find a mate, settle down, and have kids in our twenties.  That’s why hormones were invented and why birth control is not 100% effective.  I often say that I miss the stupidity of my twenties when I really didn’t know what marriage meant.  I just thought it would be fun to use one of those price guns at Target.  And I really didn’t think the whole thing through. It didn’t occur to me that by marrying my husband when I turned 20, there was a good chance that I would be with him for 70 years.

But fate is a tricky thing and things didn’t quite turn out that way.

Marriage has its Downsides

Now, in my 30s and having taken the vows once before, I know full well what it means to be married and smell the same gas, watch the same do-it-yourself shows, and wake up to the same morning breath (which means that he didn’t get up with the kids so that you could sleep in) every day for the rest of my life.  So, forgive me if I pause before making that leap once again.

And dating isn’t as easy as it was in my twenties.  I know I’m hitting the age where 49% of all the males I know will start to get divorced, thereby flooding the market, but it’s still no picnic.  They all come with kids, mortgages, and potentially crazy in-laws to deal with.

Now, funny enough to the male population, I seem to come with more baggage than they do.  I’ve never quite understood that.  Sure, I’m dealing with a loss, but I think widows and divorcees are pretty much tied in the bitterness and “it’s not fair” department.  Believe me, it’s just as hard for me to accept you with your three children from three different wives as it is you to deal with me and my deceased husband.  Let it go.

More Selective Now

And now that I’m older, I’m pickier.  I mean, in my twenties, I was looking for a nice rear and a decent car.  Now I’m grilling my potential dates on their benefits packages and the state of their health. `Cause let’s face it, I don’t want to lose another one.

And finally and most importantly–after you’ve been single for awhile and you start to understand that you can handle most things on your own, you start asking yourself, “Do I want to get married again?”

Don’t get me wrong.  Marriage is great.  But once you get used to sleeping right smack in the middle of your bed with no one to poke because he’s snoring so loud, it’s hard to go back.  It would be nice to have someone to bounce the big decisions off of, but on the flip side, you don’t have to ask anyone their opinion on anything.  You don’t have to shave.  You don’t have to wonder when he’s going to notice that huge-ass dent in your car.

Loving the Independence

Now, I know this sounds cynical and that really not my intention.  But for those of us who got married in our twenties and had only the slightest taste of independence, well, that’s pretty hard to give up now.  And the problem is that we’d be giving it up to start all over again.  I mean, it took me 11 years to mold my husband into the man I knew he would want to be.

And now, when I go out on a date, I can say within the first 20 minutes, “Nope.  I don’t have the energy to train that one.”  And then I go home and flop myself right smack in the middle of my bed with hairy legs and a box of chocolate.

Hey, it’s not perfect.  But in my experience, Russell Stover has never snored.

Reach Catherine at her website Catherine Tidd

Read more from Catherine Tidd on Open to Hope: ‘Loneliness’ of Widows: The Deep Silence – Open to Hope

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As I drove teary-eyed in the twilight, I panicked, how in the world did I wind up here? How did my life end up like this? This wasn’t how I imagined my life would be when I was younger.

In that very instant, I had an incredibly intense feeling that someone was in my car with me. So much so, that I whipped my head around to look in the back seat to see who was there. Of course, I was alone, but also, not-alone. I sensed something or someone with me — intangible, yet palpable and perfectly peaceful.

I was being held in the highest regard under a loving gaze. It was as if a benevolent, friendly Presence was looking directly into my soul and just bursting with love for me. (Ugh, I get it, you don’t believe me. It’s actually hard to write. But this is how it happened.) I felt enveloped, gathered in an embrace of empathy, almost cradled by an energy of unconditional love. There. I said it.

An Intense Communion

Although I couldn’t visually see anyone, I felt an intense sense of communion with something big. A voice in my head spoke powerfully, yet reassuringly, and the message I heard lovingly and clearly was, “You are not alone.”

The Persian poet Rumi described his mystical union as, “closer to me than myself to myself.” This is the intimacy I experienced. And in that split second, I felt comforted.

Whatever was going on, I was completely entranced by this benevolent visitor.

Dazed, when I looked up and saw the dark road in front of me, out of the corner of my watery eyes, I caught a white speck of light in the rearview mirror. And there, I saw the biggest, yellowest, brightest, full moon I ever remembered shining in the night sky. It was as if that big, glowing ball was sitting there just for me, reminding me of the vast universe I was a part of, waxing and waning, and of the cycles of life.

Connectedness

And in that very moment, I felt … a deep sense of belonging and connectedness. I was going to be okay, and maybe even more than okay, despite my devastating and embarrassing divorce, and in spite of my father’s pending death. After all, it seems I wasn’t alone.

Ego Sum Noli timere. “It is I, be not afraid.” In that instant, I went from disconnected and drifting to feeling deeply connected to something larger than myself.

Now, we are, as you know, a skeptical people in these matters. And I’m totally open to the idea that this all happened in my head. That I was distraught, hating everything in the world, and that I imagined it. But here’s the thing. If I did envision it, I’m in good company.

According to a Gallup poll, one out of three Americans has had a mystical experience. One out of three. Why don’t we hear more about them? Because we live in a world of fear and judgment. I kept my mystical experience secret for far too long, until I couldn’t anymore. What would happen if more of us let the cat out of the bag?

Sharing Mystical Experience

Julian of Norwich did just that. In the 14th century, she had an experience of Christ during the Black Death, a similar trauma to the global COVID pandemic, when half the European population died. Julian was gravely ill, in excruciating pain, and she thought she was dying, when suddenly, without any effort on her part, in her mind she heard words spoken to her by Christ.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” St. Julian’s words summarized her mystical visitation.

Julian was one of us. In the middle of a pandemic, the bubonic plague, her six-year-old son died. She was surrounded by death and illness, and yet, instantaneously felt love and peace after hearing words spoken to her by Christ. She heard the words clearly in her heart and mind. Julian’s words provide a balm for our challenging times.

Julian said her visions, her encounters with Christ, were not hers. Rather, they belong to all of us, to the human soul.

“They are ours, for we are all one,” she realized.

The Run-in That You Don’t Forget

The thing about a run-in with the divine is that you don’t forget it. The memory is everlasting. In some ways, since that brief, magical encounter many years ago, I’ve spent my life seeking that union again. A shift happened for me in those moments and changed the course of my life.

I was somehow restored and reconnected with a sense of well-being deep within, and it turned out to be a kind of awakening.

Although I wasn’t a religious person, this direct exposure set me off on a pilgrimage of sorts, a peregrination as it’s called in Celtic spirituality. I don’t think this had to do with religion. There was no one stream or set of beliefs I needed to pledge to. My visitation was an invitation to personally connect with the divine, and the beginning of a path was revealed to me, some way I hadn’t known before. I was navigating into radically new territory, and while I didn’t choose this path, I didn’t ignore it, either.

Without much to lose, I chose to stay open to the brand-new ways and possibilities of living that I previously had no way of knowing. There’s no reason why I should have been given this gift. It was only later that I realized what I received was grace, a freely given gift that reconnected me to my deepest identity.

Read more by Heidi: Communications at the Edge of Death – Open to Hope

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The reason I named this short story “Norman Rockwell Moment” will become apparent at the end of my story. So, you’ll have to read it to the end to find out.

As a Hospice Chaplain, there are times I’m on call overnight for several nights a week. It was early one morning when I heard my phone ringing. You see, I set it close to my side of the bed to ensure I didn’t miss a call and wouldn’t wake up my wife.

A little about how I act when I’m on call: I find that I possess a passion for ensuring that I reach the need as quickly and safely as possible.  I hang my clothes on hangers and keep my shoes and socks underneath so that I can change into my work clothes as quickly as possible.

Patient is Transitioning

It was about 2 a.m. when my phone rang, and I answered it within just a couple of rings. It was a patient. Not one on my list of patients, I had never met her before that night, and she was transitioning. Meaning she was coming to the end of her life. She lived about twenty minutes away from me, so, as I said, my passion is to get to our patients as soon as possible for them and their families.

I dressed quickly and went out the door. I had already worked a ten-hour day and had been asleep just a few hours before the call. But off I went.

Putting the address in my GPS, I was off. As I turned onto the patient’s street, I noticed there was no parking space available. All sides of the street were full of cars. It took me a little while to decide to park on a side street and walk to the home in question.

Before I could ring the bell, the door opened, and the first thing I noticed was wall-to-wall people. This was a small, maybe a thousand square foot house, and I don’t think it could hold another person. It was then that it occurred to me why there was no parking available on the street. They were all here.

Overflowing with Family

The person at the door, as I recall, was the patient’s grandson; that is how he introduced himself. After inviting me in, I followed him across the house down a narrow hallway to the bedroom at the end of the hall. When I looked at the bedroom, it was overflowing with clutter. Standing room only. I could only see backs and shoulders.

What I noticed was that they were all looking in the same direction. And when they cleared out a spot their focus was on a sweet little lady in a hospital bed. She was not conscience and looked almost angelic. Meaning she looked very peaceful.

As I stood there for a moment, someone called out to get the Pastor a chair, and over the top of all the heads in the room came one, which wound up next to the head of her bed, next to Nellie. That was the patient’s name, Nellie. I remember thinking when our on-call staff first gave me that name.  Not many young girls today are called Nellie.

Crowded Room to Honor Her

I sat down in the chair and caught up with my thoughts for just a second. Then I took up her hand as I often do, as I have always been a Chaplain who touches, looking up at the crowd that was in her room. I lost count of about twenty-seven people in what looked to be, at best, a ten-by-ten bedroom. I hope you have got a good understanding of the moment.

As I scanned the group, a couple of things instantly came to mind. First, could all these be related? As I pondered that, I caught notice of all the eyes in the room.

How to explain what I noticed except to say twenty-seven sets of eyes in that room, from all ages. I mean, from twelve to seventy, maybe older, and in all their eyes, there was a different story. That’s right, everyone was there for the same reason. But in all their eyes, there was a clear story of how Nellie had affected them in various ways. How amazing I thought that was. One thing I need to mention is that lying next to Nellie was the newest member of the family, a newborn girl. I would find out she was less than two months old.

Norman Rockwell Moment

I must tell you that this is where Norman Rockwell came to play. There they all were.  Most of the time I was there, they were silent. They let me talk, and all I could think was referencing Norman Rockwell. I told the room that many of you probably didn’t know who Norman Rockwell was. However, he was an artist who worked as an illustrator in the early twentieth century, and what he could do was capture a moment in time. That is life moments on canvas.

Such was the case tonight. I told them this was like looking at a Norman Rockwell painting. So much love filled that room. I took the time to pray and then thank them all for the honor of being there. After I said goodbye, they had to clear out a trail for me to get to the front door. On the way home, I reflected on this encounter and how fortunate I felt to have shared this time with them. Many people can live a lifetime and never have this send-off.

When I arrived at work that morning, I read the notice that Nellie had passed away. About ten minutes after I left her home. There was no sadness over her passing. She had lived a full life, as was evident the night before. For many years to come, she will be fondly remembered and with great love. Isn’t that what we all hope and pray for? I wonder.

Check out Chaplain John’s book: Remember Me: End of Life as Seen through the Eyes of a Hospice Chaplain: Kirn Wenderlein 111, John Kirn: 9798890742575: Amazon.com: Books

Read more from John A Hospice Chaplain’s Heart: Miss Lilly’s Story – Open to Hope

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As bereaved parents, we need encouragement to remember and honor our children as often and as long as we wish. There is no time limit on grieving. Any time is appropriate to bring attention to the memory of a loved one.

In my initial years following the physical death of my 19-year-old daughter, Melissa, unspeakable pain overwhelmed my life. Although I functioned, heartbreak ruled my existence. Ever so slowly color began to mingle with the darkness of grief.

Now, twenty years after the death, the tapestry of my life is filled with peace, joy, love, and laughter, with the dark thread of mourning a much less prominent element but still present. My need to have my daughter remembered has never lessened, although most of those around me have long past the need to honor or remember her. So, I continue to draw attention to my precious Melissa.

For the 20th anniversary of her entrance into heaven, her father requested a graveside ceremony. Although I was delighted with the request, I confess that I was glad the idea came from someone else and not me.

Graveside Ceremony Honors Her Life

I was aware of the hidden disapproval from others who foolishly believe that healthy grief is time limited. Many people mistakenly believe that grief “should” end with closure and we “move on“. However, for those whom we deeply love, we always move with them, carrying them in our hearts. They are an inextricable part of ourselves and our lives.

For the 20th anniversary ceremony, we gathered around Melissa’s grade as a handful of friends and family with a few others joining us on zoom. Our created service consisted of prayer, reading some of Melissa’s writings, and sharing memories.

The experience was sweeter than I could have imagined. Hearing the stories from others stimulates more memories.  Everyone joining us on zoom also wanted to contribute their memories of Melissa. I hope to set aside time each year to honor Melissa by such a gathering, since it comforted everyone there so much.

Twenty Years of Honoring Her

For Melissa’s 40th birthday a few months later, one of her close friends, crafted a birthday celebration with balloons, candle, and a card.  We called other friends and wrote their messages to Melissa on the card. Everyone who was called expressed gratitude for being included.

How we choose to honor and remember our loved one is very individual. My hope is that everyone who longs to see their loved one again may feel free to share their stories, memories, and thoughts whenever they need to, and as often as they wish, without judgment or fear of disapproval. Continue to keep your loved ones remembered and honored as sacred and precious. Sending my peace to all of you.

Dr. Janice Bell Meisenhelder is a contributing author of Open to Hope and author of the book: Surviving the Unthinkable: The Loss of a Child. 

Read more from Janice: Longing for a Child Who has Died – Open to Hope

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May is when most people start to plan their summer vacations; May is the month my heart pounds louder than anything I have ever heard. It’s the month I lost my parents 9 years and 3 days apart. It’s the month my father-in-law passed away. In May 2023, my father and my husband’s father died 2 days apart, one day shy of Mom’s 9^th death anniversary. I know, my story sounds like an episode from a horror show.

There’s something peculiar about becoming parentless when you’re already “grown.” People assume it’s easier. People who haven’t lost both their parents … even if they try, they can’t fathom what being an adult orphan means. When both parents die, it’s not just one person we lose; it’s a mirror, a home, and a part of who we are. Losing your parents doesn’t feel any less disorienting just because you’re paying taxes and attending board meetings. A part of us dies with them, and it opens doors to identity crisis.

Wishing to be Parented

After we lost my dad, I have wondered about my place in this world. Is there anyone else (aside from my partner) who will put everything on pause for me? Even my husband has other responsibilities as a son, corporate executive, friend, and human being. Despite his best intentions, he might not always be able to hold unconditional space for me. Honestly, I don’t even expect him to because he’s my husband, not a parent. It’s unfair expectations.

There are moments I ache to be parented—after a long day, during an illness, during my doctorate graduation, when something wonderful happens and I want to call someone who will be proud just because it’s me. But the line is disconnected. And still, life moves forward even though I feel untethered.

My older brother and I represent the remaining members of our family. No one tells you how disorienting it is to become the oldest living link in your lineage. No one tells you how lonely it can be when no one else remembers your deceased parents’ birthdays, anniversaries, or their special touch in people’s lives. The emptiness on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day is something my brother and I experience after losing Mom and Dad.

‘Strange Silence’ after Parents Die

There’s a strange silence that follows the death of both your parents. It’s not the absence of phone calls, birthday cards, Mom’s nagging, Dad’s loud laughter and bad jokes, or someone reminding you to wear a scarf when it’s cold or someone insisting you call all the older relatives the minute you land in India because you were raised well. It’s deeper—a kind of orphanhood that creeps into your bones, even if you’re technically grown.

I have a family, a career, and gray hairs of my own. I am an Ayurvedic Doctor, a trauma-informed yoga teacher, and a certified Grief Coach. As a wellness speaker and author of 14 books, I have spoken on health, wellbeing, and grief across the globe. But no one prepares you for this version of adulthood. Losing both parents stripped me of something primal and foundational—like the earth beneath my feet shifted, and I don’t know where to land. I still function, still host gatherings and guests. I show up to celebrations and attend award functions. And I hug other aunts and uncles. I still smile. But nothing feels quite as solid anymore.

Grief, in this stage, is beyond complicated. People assume you’ve already grown up and you’ve weathered the worst of life’s lessons. Meaning, after their token check-ins a few times, so they can sleep at night, people forget about you and think you would have healed.

No One Above on Family Tree

You are now the keeper of your family stories, the holder of photos, the explainer of traditions, the sole person who remembers how your mother’s belly jiggled when she laughed or how your father lit up every party with his humor and big heart or how your mother used to hum in a nasal thin voice when she cooked or how your father wrote beautiful poems when the world fell asleep. There’s no one left above you on the family tree. That safety net is gone.

You become the one who carries recipes, traditions, and memories. The one who answers questions about family history. Every Diwali, Holi, and other Hindu holidays, I recreate Mom’s recipes. Thanks to Dad’s teachings, at the end of even bad days, I know how to feel grateful for what I have. I laugh at something Dad would’ve said, and for a second, it almost feels like he’s still here. I reach for Mom’s wisdom in quiet moments. Sometimes I even speak to them in my mind.

Inheriting an Absence

Honestly, I am tired of talking to their photos in my home office. I long for a hug and I miss their blessings. The voice that once said “You’ll be okay” is now a whisper in my head. My mom’s hand caressing my forehead, my dad pressing my hands before I would leave for the airport. Now when I land in India, there is no one who checks if I landed on time or tracks my flight or keeps my favorite foods ready. I am another tourist in the land of my ancestors.

I’ve come to understand that being an adult orphan means inheriting absence—and learning to carry it with grace. It’s about finding your way without a compass—and slowly realizing you are becoming the compass for someone else. To become the voice that comforts. The one who remembers. The one who builds.

Being an adult orphan is not just about loss. It’s about legacy. It means loving people who are no longer physically here but continue to shape how you show up in the world. It means rewriting family stories, sometimes with just fragments to go by.

Learn more about Sweta Srivastava Vikram at www.swetavikram.com. Her latest book is The Loss that Binds Us: 108 Tips on Coping With Grief and Loss  (Loving Healing Press). Find her on: Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Facebook.

Read more about parent-loss on Open to Hope: Impact of Both Parents’ Deaths – Open to Hope

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Working as a hospice chaplain, there’s never a dull moment. This is true for every patient who comes to our service. You pray, you say, and you do the right thing to give people peace at the end of their lives. My patients have been told they have limited time left; for some, they are more than ready to go. For others, they fight this reality. I want to share with you Lilly’s story.

Sometimes, patients or family members opt out of having a chaplain visit during their stints in hospice care. There are various reasons why. Much of the time, they misunderstand the role of a chaplain. I’ll leave it at that.

My responsibility as a hospice chaplain is to visit patients in nursing homes—those who, again, have been told they do not have long. My days are never dull; they are filled with the various personalities I meet doing my job. One overwhelming fact about my work is that I will meet a variety of personalities. And for that, I’m thankful.

Meeting Miss Lilly

On Fridays, like most days, I visit a particular list of nursing homes based on their proximity to each other. I remember meeting Miss Lilly on one of these Fridays. On any given day, I will visit six or seven patients and countless others who are not my patients. All who live within the walls of a nursing home are precious to me, even when they are not hospice patients. I have also worked with fifty to seventy-five nurses in the nursing homes I visit. When I first meet a nurse, I introduce myself, and then I leave them with one thing.

“If someone you think needs a visit from a chaplain, even if they are not in my service, you must let me know,” I’ll say. I’ve had several handfuls of people (not my patients) that nurses have asked me to visit. Without question, I find time for them. This is how I met Miss Lilly.

I was called to one of my nursing homes to visit a patient who was not doing well, as she was coming to the end of a life well lived. As I entered the long hallway, I was greeted by one of my favorite nurses— Kathy, who had spent thirty years in that same nursing home. Kathy loved every patient she had, and it showed; her patients responded well to her. Kathy was slow to talk, which was never a problem for me. I talk enough for three people. Yet this time, she beat me to the draw.

“Oh Chaplain, I’m so glad you are here! I need you to see one of my patients,” she beckoned. I inquired which one.

Miss Lilly Steals my Heart

“The one thing I thought about all day today, Chaplain, is that she is doing okay, yet I can’t get her out of my mind. Over the years, I have grown to know precisely what that means. This patient needs to be loved up. Her family is on their way, but they live out of state,” Kathy responded.

“Chaplain, I do not think she is going anywhere anytime soon, but I was hoping you could work your magic on her.” With that, Kathy did not wait for me to ask what room or say yes. She blurted out a room number.

“Kathy, let me see my patient, and then I will go sit with Miss Lilly,” I promised.

As always, I spent a reasonable amount of time with my patient, and then I said my goodbyes and promised to return. Then, I ventured toward the room number Kathy had given me.

As I approached the door, I noticed the door was closed. Most nursing homes keep the room doors open to better care for the patient. Knocking is always the protocol for closed doors in these situations. So, knocking on the door, I heard a faint voice say, “Come in.”

The first thing I noticed was that the room was dark. As the room slowly became focused, I saw Miss Lilly, tiny, frail and lying neatly in the bed. The edges of her covers were tucked on both sides and pulled up under her arms. I was struck by how petite Miss Lilly appeared.

“Hello, sweet Lilly,” I said. “How are you?”

“Okay, how are you?” Miss Lilly asked me.

“Fantastic,” I responded. “Can I be anything other than great in the presence of such a sweetheart?”

Loved and Tired

A big smile stretched across her small face, warming my heart. I loved seeing that smile.

“Any pain?” I asked. “No pain,” she responded, “just tired.”

While we conversed, my eyes flitted across the walls of the room. I studied the photos surrounding her bed; her walls were covered with photos! Countless faces; I figured at least three generations of family photos lined those walls.

“Someone in this room is loved,” I remarked.

“Yes, I am!” Miss Lilly agreed, replying nearly instantly. I fetched a chair from across the room and placed it beside her bed, and then I sat down. Miss Lilly asked me why I was visiting her.

“My nurse, Kathy, sent you, didn’t she?” she wondered. I nodded in agreement.

“She is a sweetheart of a person,” Miss Lilly said, confirming what I’d always known about Kathy.

While we continued our conversation, I again stood up, repositioning my chair as closely to the head of her bed as possible. Then, I sat down.

“Miss Lilly,” I began, “I’m a chaplain. I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”

At the Edge of Sleep

A moment of silence passed, and I realized that Miss Lilly had fallen asleep. She would again many more times before I left her.

When Miss Lilly awoke, I again asked her about the photos on the wall. She smiled brightly, one by one illuminating the stories and family connections of the faces in the images. Each person was a dear loved one, and speaking about them gave Miss Lilly a temporary boost in energy.

She reached out for my hand and tried her best to hold it tightly. Finally, she gave up and placed her tiny hand in mine. I’ll reiterate, Miss Lilly was a petite little lady whose hands were smaller than I could’ve imagined.

From then on, she never took her hand out of mine during my visit. She spoke joyfully about each life she’d helped create. Some of those photos, I found out, were of her four sons and three daughters, and their sons and daughters. In fact, some of them had their own children.

Imagine! From the love of this seventy-pound, four-foot-nine-inch lady came three generations of a legacy that would live on long after she was gone.

Loving Memories

In our conversation, she talked about her one and only love. His photo was on her bedside table. She still blushed slightly when she spoke of him.

“There was only one man in my life,” she told me. “Paul. He was all I needed. And when he got sick, all he could do was tell me he was alright; he would focus on me. After his passing, my children said to me that he had spoken to them individually, explaining that they would need to care for their momma after he was gone.”

“Even with all his suffering, Chaplain, he never let me know until almost the end. And even then, he worried about me. I couldn’t have found a better man.”

I must admit that at this point, I was at a loss for words. Those who know me personally would find that hard to believe, yet it was true. Lilly downloaded a lifetime in the fifteen or twenty minutes we spent together.

Everyone Has a Story to Tell

After she finished her story about Paul, Miss Lilly began drifting in and out of sleep— at least, that’s what I thought it was. Meetings like this with Miss Lilly were why I got out of bed every morning and headed out into the world. I was perpetually excited about the possibility of meeting another Miss Lilly.

I’m a firm believer that everyone, without exception, has a story to tell. Miss Lilly’s life was just more proof of that fact.

She was asleep again. In our conversation, Miss Lilly told me that she was a woman of faith and believed she would soon be reunited with all those who had passed before her. Before I went, I whispered that I would leave her with a prayer. She smiled, closing her eyes again, and I began to pray.

Remember, I never let go of her. Or should I say, she never took her hand out of mine? When I was done, I said my goodbyes quietly, not to wake her, and rested her small hand back on her chest.

Watching People Breathe to the Last

In my profession, we spend much time watching our patients breathe. Miss Lilly was no exception. TIt seemed like minutes, but it was only a few seconds. Something came over me, and I knew that she was gone. She was no longer present with me.

Of course,” I thought, “I could be wrong. I’m certainly no medical doctor or nurse.” I slipped out of her room and beelined toward Kathy, who immediately asked me what was wrong. She derived from my expression that I had something to say.

“Kathy, I think Miss Lilly is gone,” I said. “But I’m not a doctor, I could be wrong.” Together, we walked back to Miss Lilly’s room. Kathy looked her over, and before even checking her vitals, Kathy confirmed that she was gone.

“Her family will come in the morning to be with her, as they do every week. But I am thankful you could visit her,” Kathy said. Silence filled the room, and Kathy began to shed tears. After thirty years of caring for elderly people, she still weeps when they pass.

Kathy left the room to call Miss Lilly’s family. I slipped back into the chair beside her bed, gazing at the countless photographs of her and her loved ones. I left her room with no sadness; no sorrow. Miss Lilly was now with the ones she loved so much. I was thankful and honored to have had my time with her.

Blessings, Miss Lilly!

Read more about hospice: Writing to a Friend in Hospice – Open to Hope

Check out John’s book: Remember Me: End of Life as Seen through the Eyes of a Hospice Chaplain: Kirn Wenderlein 111, John Kirn: 9798890742575: Amazon.com: Books

The post A Hospice Chaplain’s Heart: Miss Lilly’s Story appeared first on Open to Hope.

It had been only six weeks since my 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident. That amazing young drummer who charmed most anyone he met with his good looks and kind personality, the one with the sparkle in his eyes that hinted at a bit of mischief, the one people were drawn to by his charismatic personality, the one who never in 24 years hesitated to hug his mom in front of his friends and audibly tell her he loved her.

Yeah, that one. His physical presence was now gone, and though my raw grief enveloped me, my face was vaguely stoic. Here I sat at a little outdoor café with my sister, Chris, who had carried me along so far to this point with such love and compassion, whose healing touch had soothed me as she came to my house each evening to provide me with a gentle acupressure treatment. With us was one of her friends, Elena, who I knew casually.

Facing Grief Directly

Summer break had just begun. I had managed somehow to close up my third-grade classroom just weeks after Eric’s passing. My sister and Elena were also teachers, and Chris had invited me to join them for lunch. Elena, whose only son had also been a friend of Eric’s, was genuinely sorry for this unimaginable tragedy and for all I had been going through.

As we slowly ate our salads and sandwiches, we briefly discussed this profound loss rather than avoid the elephant in the room, and for this I was very grateful.

Then, in an attempt to shift the conversation in a new direction, Elena asked the usual question teachers asked each other in the middle of June, “So what are your plans for the summer?”

A very slight pause. Still moving a bit on automatic, still numb from all that had occurred, my answer was short and quick.

“Grieving.”

I didn’t even have to think about it. It just came out.  Instinctively something inside of me knew that this summer was not about shopping, or beach trips, or catching up with friends, or pre-planning for the Fall school session. The world as I knew it had stopped, and I had something to do. It was very simple. Grieve.

Facing Grief is Healing

I know that people don’t think of it this way. They think that grieving is something that will float in and out while you keep going with life. This is true to some degree because life’s demands must be taken care of.

But grieving is a very real and necessary action after such a major loss. Grieving is actually part of the healing process. For some there is a tendency to want to not feel the pain and instead they may make themselves very busy or turn to some kind of substance to help ease that pain. It is understandable to want to avoid this brutal pain.

But in fact, grief will continue to pursue you, will make itself known when you least expect it. That’s why it’s often referred to as grief work. And if you don’t do the work, you won’t get through the grieving to the other side where life can be lived again. The grieving will never stop, of course, in the sense that it will always remain tucked inside your heart somewhere and still may show itself from time to time. You will always miss your beloved. But when the grief is faced and worked with, it will begin to soften, the turbulent waves will ease, and out of the darkness, the light can begin to shine again.

Running Into the Storm

Grief expert David Kessler says that if you have 1,000 tears to shed, you cannot stop at number 399. Those other 601 tears will stay built up inside of you, trying to burst through.

He also uses the analogy of a herd of buffalo. Upon becoming aware of an oncoming storm, the buffalo will instinctively choose to head straight into the storm, facing it and moving through it and beyond it, instead of running from it. They look it square in the eye and as they boldly encounter it, they are able to grapple with it and then move into a place of peace much more quickly than if they kept running away from the inevitable. By running in the other direction, the storm will only continue to chase.

Grief Teaches Compassion and More

We come to understand what really matters in life. We come to prioritize what how we spend our days. And we learn to have compassion for others who have suffered unfathomable losses. We learn that when all the said and done, it is the love that will remain.

Love. When we love greatly, we grieve greatly. And I have decided that that is okay. I will take all the love I have for my son and allow it to express itself as grief in my earlier days and weeks and even years with the hope and the knowing that, eventually, that love can express itself as joy once again.

I had the luxury of having about 6 weeks to do nothing but grieve before I had to start thinking about and planning for the school year again. Not everyone can do this, though some take as much time off as possible. And if that’s not possible, some devote time each day specifically for grieving. That may be talking to your loved one in spirit, journaling, going through photos, listening to music — whatever feels right for them — allowing the healing tears to flow. This is how we honor our grief. In doing so, we also honor our loved one.

So, yes, stating that my plans for the next six weeks are to grieve is a perfectly acceptable answer. Grief is exhausting. Self-care and self-compassion are essential. Choosing to stay in the pain forever is not proof of my love for Eric. My love for my son is not going anywhere. It will always be right here while I continue to navigate life with him by my side.

Check out Dolores’ website: Home | Dolores Cruz

Read more by Dolores on Open to Hope: Setting the Intention to Live Again – Open to Hope

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Triggers are a natural and inevitable part of grieving. It is essential not to avoid them, as not all are negative. When we find ways to prepare and cope with triggers, we are honoring the lives of our precious loved ones.

Triggers are anything that causes the emotions of Grief to transport us back to moments that feel as vivid as the day of loss, reminding us of our weakest point. Triggers creep around every corner and attack without warning.

Have you ever been going about your day — grocery shopping, taking the kids to school, showering, attending appointments, or working —and thought, ‘This is a good day for me’? When, out of nowhere, the anxiety builds, invading every part of the body, and the Grief takes control. The tears start flowing, and the surge of emotions is deep with piercing pain, reminding us that Grief is not a stationary journey.

I have experienced this regularly in my journey of child loss. The unpredictability of Grief attacks means that sometimes I don’t even know what the trigger is. I have often parked in a grocery store parking lot, unable to leave my vehicle, and I have learned to let the waves wash over me until I resurface and breathe. It is by surviving these triggers that I realize that Grief can have some space but does not power over me.

Why Do Triggers Happen?

Grief is not linear; it requires daily work and weaves into the fabric of who we are. Triggers happen because love and loss are forever profoundly connected. The brain links emotions and experiences through a process called associative memory. We are constantly trying to adjust to the absence of our loved ones, and when a trigger happens, it’s like pressing “play” on a memory, reminding us of a life that once was. It awakens the part of us that still longs for their physical presence.

Triggers come in many forms and often appear when we least expect them. Understanding the different kinds of triggers can help us be more prepared, gentle with ourselves, and more intentional with our responses to them.

Our senses are deeply connected to our memories.

• Sight – When we look at pictures, go to a specific place, or see someone who resembles our loved one, we become overwhelmed with emotions. Anything, anywhere, or anyone you see can trigger Grief. I remember seeing a young woman who resembled my daughter, with the same height, body stature, and beautiful, curly, light brown hair, and she even walked like my daughter. When I was able to get to a safe and private place, I crumbled to my knees, and anguish controlled my body for a time.
• Sound – Music is a common trigger when we hear a favorite song, a style of music, children’s voices and laughter, animal sounds, or any sound that stirs a memory and evokes emotions of loss.
• Smell– The scent of perfume, certain foods, the smell of the ocean or rain if they loved thunderstorms. Sometimes, the trigger, as mentioned earlier, can be positive. My daughter enjoyed the scent of Lavender, and I buy hand soaps, body wash, candles, and anything I can with a Lavender scent. I keep her with me, honor her, and enjoy the smell for her.
• Taste – Favorite restaurants, favorite meals, or treats can all remind a person of special memories and trigger Grief.
• Touch – Holding a piece of clothing or something similar to theirs, such as a blanket or pillow that belonged to them, can bring tears and comfort at the same time. Your child’s favorite toy or something they own can trigger memories. Even a hug from someone who reminds you of them can stir emotions.

Handling Date and Time Triggers

We all know that Birthdays, Angelversary (date of loss), and life milestones like wedding anniversaries and graduation can bring a flood of tears with emotions. Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, holidays, traditions, or just about any day on the calendar can be significant triggers in the grieving process.

Seasonal changes can be challenging for people and are unique to your loss. The date of losing my Andrea is Dec. 20, so the Christmas season and this date seem to team up and create chaos with triggers attacking from everywhere. From autumn onwards, moving forward becomes treacherous and requires careful planning.

Triggers are endless; other examples include travel, new relationships, achieving goals others have accomplished, and changes in routine.

Recognizing triggers as a natural part of Grief is essential, not a sign of weakness. Triggers remind us that Grief is not about forgetting. Instead of pushing the feelings away, allow yourself to feel them. Try journalling, naming and identifying the trigger, and accepting the emotions without judgment. Talk to a trusted friend or join a support group. Remember, there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Feeling triggered does not mean you aren’t healing; you love deeply, and your connection is forever.

Healthy Actions to Handle Triggers

Planning for known triggers can reduce the impact of the trigger. Try to anticipate the triggers so you’re not caught off guard.

Communicate with friends and family to build a support system, making specific dates, places, and events more manageable.

Changing traditions and creating new ones can alleviate the impact of triggers.

Determine what you need and what brings you joy. Engage in self-care by taking a walk, listening to calming music, lighting a candle, or creating something meaningful in their honor. Do you need solitude or the company of others for support?

Set boundaries when needed, be gentle with yourself, and make decisions without guilt or explanation. If a conversation, place, or event is too painful, it’s okay to step away.

Remember to breathe and ground yourself. Use deep breathing techniques (inhale for four, hold for four, and exhale for four). Use your senses for grounding; what do you see? What can you hear?

Appreciation for Triggers

The final step is to appreciate and find meaning in the moment. Appreciation allows you to honor your loved one with a shared deep bond rather than just the pain. Memories are where our loved ones continue to live after they are gone. Suppose we allow the triggers to fill us with warmth and comfort even with the tears.

In time, we remember with love, and the triggers serve as steppingstones in the healing process. Try to reframe the trigger and view it as evidence of eternal love and connection. Honor their memory; instead of saying, “This song is too painful, say, This song reminds me of such beautiful memories.” Allow the trigger not to be a setback but to move you forward in the grief journey.

Read more by Linda Henderson: The Lessons of Grief – Open to Hope

Linda Henderson is the author of Amazon.com: The Road of Love & Hope: The Journey of Child Loss eBook : Henderson, Linda: Kindle Store

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As I become older, my view of the world and the people who inhabit it has evolved.  I would like to believe that growing older has allowed me to acquire more wisdom because of, in part, my own actions and choices as well as those of others whose paths I have been allowed to witness.

The wisdom that I have today has also been due to the teachings that I have discovered as a result of the challenges presented by my eighteen-year-old daughter Jeannine’s death in 2003, as a result of cancer.  Those teachings have allowed me to address much needed ancestral work that has in the words of Susan Roback, my friend and shamanistic holistic practitioner, facilitated “the healing of a bloodline.”

Those teachings have also allowed me to look beyond the cover, beyond the illusion of truth, to understand that every person, regardless of their circumstances or choices, has value.

Privilege and Challenges

I had the privilege of doing human service work for twenty-seven years with individuals who experienced challenges with substance use disorder. The work with chemically dependent individuals is sometimes complicated by negative and largely inaccurate perceptions, shared by many in society.

Many of the chemically dependent individuals with whom I worked were among the most intelligent, passionate, creative and heartfelt people I have ever encountered. Many also had significant periods of sobriety where they helped others who were experiencing the challenges of substance use disorder, did volunteer work, or just random acts of kindness for others.

Their inherent strengths and commitment to service during times of sobriety was as crucial a part of their experience with substance use disorder, as was their continued dance with addiction.

A Dual Perspective

I have infinite gratitude for the teachings I have discovered in working with individuals with substance use disorders both in my former capacity as a human services professional and through companioning parents who have experienced the death of a child due to challenges with drug use.

With that in mind, I want to list the teachings I have gained from working with individuals with substance use disorders; their gifts to me:

• To recognize and emphasize the inherent strengths and assets of all individuals who cross my path.
• That labeling is disempowering and prevents us from looking at the totality of their lives.
• Conversely, that it is crucial to begin to use language that destigmatizes addiction.
• The importance of storytelling as a means to find peace and clarity.
• The importance of being a companion on the journey; witnessing without judgment.

I have had the privilege of meeting other parents whose children died, several due to complications from substance use. It saddens me when their children are perceived as less than because of their dance with addiction.

Every cause of death has inherent issues that are unique to that cause; death by suicide and as a result of drug use has certain stigmas attached. It is crucial that we focus on our children’s pain, rather than the stigmas.

Substance Abuse Deaths are Unique

Here are some other thoughts I have for parents whose children have died due to substance related causes:

• When we embody the positive qualities of our children into our own lives, it allows us to see our children as vessels of love and light in their new existence, regardless of the conflicts we may have experienced with them or the behaviors that they engaged in during their human existence.
• It is important that we embrace the need to be gentle with ourselves and to understand that what we did with our children and for them was always based in love, regardless of how it appeared to the casual observer.  For me, a deer sighting is a constant reminder of the need for me to be gentle with myself (and others as well).

• Allow individuals to witness your path, not judge it or dictate it. We are the authors of our own experience. Envision the path you wish to take after your child’s death, through your own eyes.
• Above all, find ways to honor your child, so that you can discover joy, renewed purpose, and perhaps some moments of peace.

Read more by David Roberts on Open to Hope: Grief Lessons from the Wal-Mart Truck – Open to Hope

Read other writings by David: The Past can Teach Us to be Of Service to Ourselves After Loss

The post Illusion of Truth in Grief Journeys appeared first on Open to Hope.

Since these mental pictures drag me down, I consciously switch my thoughts to positive pictures, such as my twin grandchildren graduating from high school. I’m glad I learned how and when to do this.

Though we all go through grief, Americans tend to avoid the topic. But talking about loss and grief helps mourners to recover. Judy Tatelbaum makes this point in her book, The Courage to Grieve. “Talking about death in natural conversation can be freeing, enabling us to accept death more fully as a fact of life,” she writes.

Tatelbaum thinks sharing our grief is crucial to recovery. “It is an opportunity to examine your own beliefs, feelings and experiences.” Death has taught me many things and one is that I need to say my daughter’s name. The Compassionate Friends, a national organization for parents and families that have lost a child, is one of the few places I can do this.

Why do I need to say my daughter’s name?

Talking about Helen is a way to keep her alive in my memory. Four years into the grief journey, I can tell stories about her without breaking down. Many stories generate laughter. One of my favorite stories involves my grandchildren’s pet hamster. Somehow, the hamster caught his tail in the cage, and he lost the tip of his tail. My engineer daughter re-attached the tip with super glue and it worked!

Saying my daughter’s name is a way to honor her accomplishments. Though she made self-defeating decisions in high school, she recognized them, and turned her life around. She became a nursing assistant, earned a two-year business degree, became a composite engineer, earned her MBA, and six special certifications for industry. Clearly, she was an accomplished woman who died too soon.

Saying my daughter’s name keeps her memory alive for her children. My twin grandchildren moved in with us after their parents were killed in separate car crashes. They were 15 years old at the time, stunned by grief, and lost. The court appointed my husband and me as their legal guardians. Our pledge then and now: Helen, we will not fail you.

As the years passed, the twins were able to tell stories about their mother. In fact, they love telling stories and hearing them. Recently I met a man who had worked with my daughter before she earned all of her degrees. He described her as a hard worker. I shared this story with my grandchildren and my granddaughter replied, “Of course!”

Though few ask how I’m doing, I tell them anyway. I tell them about Helen, all she accomplished in life, and about her marvelous twins. Her values live in them. I am proud to speak my daughter’s name aloud and proud to be her mother.

Copyright 2011 by Harriet Hodgson

Harriet Hodson’s latest book, GRIEF DOODLING, is available at Amazon.com: Grief Doodling: Bringing Back Your Smiles (9781608082520): Hodgson, Harriet: Books

For more articles by Harriet Hodgson, click here.

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Moving is one of the most stressful experiences of life. My husband and I have moved so many times we’ve lost count and we’re good at moving. We’ve lived in our present house for 20 years, the longest time we’ve lived anywhere, and made the house our own. This house has nurtured us through some tough times and now we must move.

In the fall, my husband’s aorta dissected for the second time. He had three emergency surgeries, including a 13-hour operation to graft a Dacron descending aorta to his existing aorta. It was life-threatening surgery. His chances of dying were 20 percent and his chances of being paralyzed were 10 percent. Unfortunately, he had a spinal stroke during the surgery and, though he can move his legs and feet, according to his neurologist, he will never walk again.

My husband has been in the hospital for three months. He was going to be transferred to a nursing home for short-term rehabilitation, but at the last minute, was sent to the hospital rehab floor and the care of the spinal cord injury team. For this to happen, I had to find a place for us to live immediately. In fact, I only had three days. I started calling senior living complexes and they were all full. Where could we go? If I didn’t find a place for us to live what would happen to us?

Moving Quickly in a Crisis

Thankfully, the last place I called had a small assisted-living apartment available – the only apartment and our only option. I signed the necessary papers, put down a deposit, and visited the apartment, only 700-square feet of space. The apartment wouldn’t hold much of our furniture and I had to consider my husband’s disability in arranging it. Months from now, after we are settled, the apartment may feel like home. But it will never be the home we’re leaving.

There is a wooded area behind the house, a stopping place and nesting place for many birds, including cardinals. I love to watch the birds the birds land in the pine trees, the Spring Snow apple tree in our yard, and low bushes bursting with berries. On one of the coldest days of winter a flock of mixed birds – cardinals, blue jays, finches, sparrows – landed on the bushes and ate the red berries in a matter of minutes.

We are going to miss our home and the space. We are going to miss the flowers that bloom in the garden. And we are going to miss the neighbors who live on our cul-de-sac. We are going to miss the location that feels like country and is within eight minutes of the city. I’m the one in charge of clearing out the house and moving us, tasks that must be done in the next three weeks because my husband will only be in rehab for about 20 days. At four in the morning, I awaken from a sound sleep, my mind racing, my anxiety mounting.

Moving is Losing

The other day, I had a total meltdown. I sobbed for my husband, and I sobbed for myself. Though we’re grieving the home we love and must leave, we are blessed to have each other. When our daughter died from the injuries she received in a car crash, and when her former husband died in another crash, we became guardians of our twin grandchildren. The twins were 15 years old when they moved in with us and turn 22 in February. They will be moving out of the house and getting their own apartments. For all I know, they, too, are grieving for the home they learned to love.

After my daughter died, I made a promise to her: I will not fail you. I’ve made the same promise to my husband. I will not fail him, I will cherish the second chance he has been given. Wherever we are, as long as we are together, it is home.

Harriet Hodson’s latest book, GRIEF DOODLING, is available at Amazon.com: Grief Doodling: Bringing Back Your Smiles (9781608082520): Hodgson, Harriet: Books

For more articles by Harriet Hodgson, click here.

The post Moving after Loss: The Grief of Leaving the Home You Love appeared first on Open to Hope.

When I was thick with grief, unable to eat or focus or track simple conversations, muscle memory pulled me through the motions of simple hygiene each morning. While I brushed my hair, Charlie spoke to me. The light above the mirror blinked. I blinked back. It blinked again. I swallowed hard. It blinked again. I said his name. He was communicating with me.

Never mind that the fixture was wonky, or that a hair dryer in another room was challenging our ancient electrical fuses. I was lost in grief and self-recrimination, looking into a mirror with no ability to see, and the light above my head sent a quiet but clear signal to get my attention. Charlie was with me.

His Lasting Presence

In the weeks and months following his death, his friends shared that they recognized Charlie’s presence as they waded through the grief’s awful terrain. I was fascinated by the similarities of what they saw. Over the course of one weekend, different friends sent photos of sunsets in Massachusetts, Texas, Wyoming, Tennessee, and Louisiana. All over the country, the ones Charlie left behind were reassured by his presence.

I also came to believe that sometimes the ubiquitous symbols and signs were not the earthly manifestations of my lost child. They were reminders to look up, to stand still, to let beautiful things find me. At night, I walk deep into my yard, away from the house lights, and stare at the sky. I see him in the moon and the few stars that leak through. He’s in the night sounds of crickets and morning sounds of doves. It’s trite. It’s unoriginal. But it’s true.

And the birds, always the birds. Bluebirds, blackbirds, hummingbirds. I see him in nature because after twenty-one years of tracking his existence, the radar snapped off, instantly removing my ability to find him.

Searching for My Son

Mothers never stop sending signals to their children.

Only now my signals search for him until they return with the image of a cardinal. So that’s where he is, in a tree, watching me.

I’m not religious but yes, I attribute godlike attributes to these sitings, transforming everyday occurrences into poignant reminders of the magic of embracing the unknown. When Charlie pushed a wobbly football through uprights to win the game, the victory was just a little sweeter. When he prevented me from pulling into an intersection when an oncoming car ran a light, I felt protected in an uncertain world.

Of course, Charlie is also the prankster behind annoyances and inconveniences like traffic snarls, glitchy wi-fi, and missing sunglasses. This can be nice. Instead of being frustrated by a burnt dinner, I can laugh at the idea that Charlie is reminding us that he’s hovering around, getting into our business.

Signs are for the Living

When it comes to signs, we get what we need when we need it. Signs guide us through the trivial and meaningful alike, reassuring us and protecting us and sparking joy when we feel down. When I’m standing before the mirror, facing a new day, Charlie appears in the light above the vanity. I greet the blinking blub as if he had walked into the room: “Hello, Charlie.”

I tell him what he’s missed (though of course he hasn’t missed anything – he’s always here): “Your team had a great win last night.” I provide an update on family news: “Your sisters are coming home this weekend.” I remind him that I miss him: “Sure do wish you were here too.”

Through the rollercoaster of change on this grief journey, I’ve never once questioned the veracity of these signs. Of course Charlie is the lizard lurking by the picnic table and the owl hooting at dusk. Of course he’s the rainbow in North Carolina and the butterfly on Long Island.

We carry him everywhere, so he is everywhere, and knowing he’s surrounding me and my family and his friends provides the most important thing a griever needs: inspiration to grow in love without leaving their lost loved one behind.

Betsy Thibaut Stephenson is the author of Amazon.com: Blackbird: A Mother’s Reflections on Grief, Loss, and Life After Suicide eBook : Stephenson, Betsy Thibaut: Kindle Store.

Read more about suicide on Open to Hope: Caring for Your Spirit after a Suicide – Open to Hope

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While we often miss these loved ones, Memorial Day is a special time to stop and remember them. Many people take this time to visit the graves of soldiers and pay their respects. It can be a solemn experience, but it can also be a positive one that reminds us of how fortunate we are to have people willing to defend our country.

Grieving a Soldier After the War

There are times, however, that the loss of a soldier comes in other very unfortunate ways. Take, for example, one family that came to our foundation for grief assistance. Their son, who had numerous tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq and who managed to survive the threat of insurgents and IUDs, came home only to be killed in a car crash.

It was a devastating experience for those he left behind, including his parents, his wife, and children. After all, the idea that their loved one came home safe from the horror of war only to die when a drunk driver crashed into his vehicle, was very difficult to reconcile.

Sadness and Anger While Grieving for a Solider

Grieving for a soldier an easy set of emotions to get through. Yet, losses like the soldier being killed in a crash caused by a drunk driver involve a further swirl of feelings. This includes a heavy dose of anger and frustration. It’s unfathomable just how unfair this loss was because of the poor choices of an individual who decided to drink and drive. There can be feelings of revenge and hurt. The pain can be so unbearable that it can literally swallow a person whole.

Coping with Grief Over Your Soldier

When these types of situations occur, there are some things to remember that can help you cope with this grieving process:

• Know that the shock, disbelief and deep sadness you are experiencing are normal responses. If you cannot function, reach out to professionals. They can provide you with coping strategies that help overcome the insurmountable loss.
• Consider meeting with others who have lost loved ones to drunk drivers. They know exactly what you are going through, which can provide comfort.
• The process can be dragged out further by participating in a court case.  It can be difficult to continually relive the whole experience throughout the trial. The anger and sadness may return, again and again, in waves. Continue to work with a grief counselor throughout this time.  They can offer good tips on controlling those emotions in what can be a very tumultuous time.
• Focus on your family and hold them close to you. They need you just as much you need them. The love and closeness can heal the loss. It’s important to carry on with your life as your lost loved one would want you to do.
• Work with others who have lost their soldiers. The healing process can be aided by helping others with their loss. Conversations and support are mutually beneficial. There are organizations that need volunteers when you are ready to participate.

Respect for Our Fallen

On this Memorial Day, whether you have lost a soldier to war, a car crash, or some other senseless situation, remember the good times. Your life has been enriched by their presence. Many others deeply respect their service to our country and are happy they touched so many lives.

Related reading on Open to Hope: Memorial Day After Loss: How to Honor Your Loved One Without Being Overwhelmed by Dr. Heidi Horsley.

Related reading on Open to Hope: Memorial Day After Loss: How to Honor Your Loved One Without Being Overwhelmed by Dr. Heidi Horsley.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

The post Grieving for Our Fallen Soldiers This Memorial Day appeared first on Open to Hope.

Following the death of my eighteen-year-old daughter Jeannine in March of 2003, I embraced non-ordinary phenomena to help me develop new insights. One of the things that became clear to me was that we do survive death, and that our deceased loved ones communicate their ongoing existence to us.

My willingness to understand the significance of signs and their underlying connections have allowed me to develop clarity and find my peace with Jeannine’s death.  There are many individuals who don’t believe in signs or for whatever reason have not received them.

However, there are different ways to walk the path of transformation following our loved one’s death. There are different ways to develop clarity after catastrophic loss.  One of those ways requires no more effort than walking out our front doors. 

Appreciating Nature While Grieving

Everyone needs beauty as well as bread

places to play in……

where nature may heal and cheer

 and give strength to body and soul. 

John Muir 

In the recent part of my journey as a parent who experienced the death of a child, I have learned to appreciate the teachings that our outside world reveals to us. I don’t spend the majority of my time outdoors, but when I do, I vow to pay attention to what is going on around me.

The direction that the wind blows, a particular animal that crosses my path, cloud formations — all are aspects of nature that have moved me and contain rich teachings that have allowed me to develop additional clarity.

We are all capable of observing what is going on around us and utilizing the teachings to embrace a higher level of thought. All that is required is for us to look at our relationship with nature differently. We need to collaborate with nature to benefit from the teachings that will ultimately be revealed to us. We need to see nature as a living breathing force, with a spirit all its own.

Embraced by Nature During Grief

In November of last year, I hiked my first, and to date, only mountain in my life. It was also the first introduction that I received to the teaching power of nature. Here is a picture of what I saw when I reached the summit, and my unfiltered impressions of what I saw. It was empowering as well as powerful. (The full article on my experience can be found at: https://thegrieftoolbox.com/article/reaching-summit-our-grief-journeys-teachings-bald-mountain.)

When I looked at this picture, I noticed the tree with its branches outstretched as if to welcome me home.  Native Americans believe that there is spirit in all of nature. For me, that tree symbolized the spirit of not only my daughter Jeannine but also every parent whose story of their deceased child touched my heart and my soul. That tree and all of nature also embodies the spirit of all of our ancestors who have died before us. They continue to live in pure, unadulterated form.

Nature is our true home. It is there that we can be one with the universe, for however long we choose. When we become one with nature, we become one with ourselves.  We become whole in a redefined way, our children physically absent, but spiritually alive. They live through us; within us and they guide us throughout the redefining journey that we will travel for the remainder of our lives. 

Maximizing the Power of Nature During Grief

I want to leave you with five suggestions for best utilizing nature as a teacher during your grief journey or other times of transition:

• Before engaging with nature, clear your mind of any thoughts that may interfere with that process. Brief meditation or other forms of healthy stress management can help.
• While walking or otherwise observing nature, look all around you as well as up above. Remember, we can discover teachings anywhere in nature…if we look.
• Write about what you see, either while outside or shortly after you get home. To make your writing more meaningful, you may want to take a picture or pictures of the scene from nature that impacted you. Look at that picture while you write.
• Use a format that will help you develop the most meaning. One that I use contains the following components: 1) Title of the scene, 2) Thoughts about what I saw (could also be simply a word or phrase) 3) Feelings about what I saw, 4) How what I saw and felt relates to what I am experiencing or challenges I am facing on my current life path.
• Write what is coming through you at the moment. Do not try to edit it or analyze it. Trust that your intuition will be your guide as you learn to utilize nature as a tool to achieve clarity and higher levels of thinking.

Read more by David Roberts on Open to Hope: Grief Lessons from the Wal-Mart Truck – Open to Hope

Read other writings by David: The Past can Teach Us to be Of Service to Ourselves After Loss

The post Nature and Grief: Empowering Teachings from the World Around Us appeared first on Open to Hope.

When you suddenly find yourself without your life partner, you don’t know what to expect. Your world’s been turned upside down. Like the mighty oak caught in a fierce wind, you feel uprooted. Your feet don’t touch the ground. You think you’re crazy. But you’re not. You’re just a new widow. Your husband is dead, and your life is forever changed.

Learning to expect the unexpected will help you get through this most painful time in your life. Here’s a list of things you need to know if you are to survive.

Top Five Things a New Widow Should Know

1. Expect people to say stupid things. “Don’t worry, you’re young, you’ll meet someone new.” No matter your age, this will sting like a hot iron on raw flesh. Your mind is on your husband and preserving His memory. The thought of another man in your life too soon after His death may cause you additional pain.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” If there is a “loss”? This makes you wonder where is found? For the new widow, there is no found.

“He would want you to find a new man.” Hmmm… On this one, this writer takes umbrage. Nobody can tell you what He wanted, except you, nor, should they.

“I understand. I’m divorced.” Not. Divorce is different than death. Though a divorced individual may wish her ex to not be here, it just isn’t the same thing. While divorce can be painful, and having experienced one personally, the death of a soul mate is different, as this writer will attest, there is no connection.

2. Expect to be asked out — by your best friend’s husband.

3. Expect to be asked, “Do you masturbate?” by your best friend.

4. Expect to break down in tears when you least expect it — at the sound of the doorbell, at the sound of the telephone, at the sight of a couple walking hand in hand. All too soon the reality of being without Him sets in and it will take time for you to let go of your past. But you will.

5. Expect to begin each day wondering how you made it though the day before. And end it thinking you just can’t do it any more.

More of What a New Widow Should Know

6. Expect to feel weak, strong, suicidal, angry, happy, euphoric, glad, sad, guilty, alone, lonely, trapped, free, tired, bored, overworked, overwhelmed, silly, puzzled, like you don’t belong.

Why not? You have just experienced life at its worst. I’m here to tell you, everything will be okay. Think baby steps. Think, I can and think, I will.

7. Expect all your friends to run away. They’re frightened, too. And they just don’t know how to handle your grief. Seeing you dealing with the death of someone near and dear is just too close for comfort.

8. Expect all your friends to come back. Give them time. The real ones do.

9. Expect to find yourself standing in front of an open refrigerator at 3:00 in the morning studying the expiration date on a bottle of ketchup. Give yourself permission to process your grief any way you need to.

10. Expect to laugh when the dog pees on the living room rug, when the garage door falls off its hinges, when the refrigerator makes a puddle on the kitchen floor, and when the woman next door goes out on a date–with the woman down the street. Your life is forever changed and so is your outlook. In the big picture, these things become miniscule.

More Expectations for New Widows

11. Expect to wish you were dead.

12. Expect to blame yourself for His death.

13. Expect to ask yourself questions that have no answers. What if? Why me? Why couldn’t I have died first?

14. Expect to make plans to run away.

15. Expect to cancel them, because you realize there is no place to run away to.

16. Expect to kiss a fool.

17. Expect to feel like you cheated. You didn’t.

18. Expect to wish for a giant eraser to erase away all the pain.

19. Expect the pain to never end. It won’t. But in time you will learn how to manage it. I promise.

Final Thoughts for New Widows

20. Expect to smile when you feel like crying.

21. Expect to not sleep.

22. Expect to not focus.

23. Expect to not eat. In the beginning you won’t be able to enjoy food. But it is important to drink plenty of fluids. If nothing else, drink water to keep your kidneys flush.

24. Expect to eat too much.

25. Expect to not be in the mood for all the things you once were in the mood for. Imagine. This writer didn’t want to eat chocolate!

26. Expect the sun to come out tomorrow, the daffodils to sprout in spring, every bird on the planet to sing, every oak, elm, and cottonwood to shed its leaves in autumn, the moon to glow, the stars to twinkle, the earth to spin on its axis, and then to wonder why.

27. Expect no one to understand. Though they say, “I understand.” They can’t. They don’t. And they never will. Not even another widow. Grief is personal. It’s just like a thumb print, no two alike. Expect to make mistakes.

28. Expect to forgive yourself.

Bottom Line

Okay. That’s it. And now I know what you’re thinking – She’s listed more than ten things.

But to make it through your grief, it’s important to realize you are not alone. What you are feeling is normal. Being informed is being prepared. It will help you survive.

Expect the unexpected.

And, like the mighty oak caught in a fierce storm bending in the wind to keep from being uprooted, you will learn to accept your plight. You will learn to remain grounded, and eventually you will be able to turn your upside-down world right side up again.

Linda Della Donna is a freelance writer and graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature. She writes for children, parents, adults, and widows. A student of Natalie Goldberg, author of “Writing Down the Bones,” Linda writes the tough stuff–cancer, dying, death–and she writes it from the heart. In 1986, Linda entered a writing contest with The Reporter Dispatch. Based on a childhood memory, her short story, “The Year That Christmas Waited” took first prize–she’s been writing ever since.

To learn more about Linda, visit her website, http://www.littleredmailbox.com and her blog, http://griefcase.blogspot.com

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Linda_Della_Donna

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The relationship that I continue to share with my daughter Jeannine following her death in 2003 has on most days allowed me to embrace a peaceful perspective.  As part of our ongoing relationship, she has regularly communicated signs of her presence. In the beginning, I longed for signs because the pain of her physical absence was unbearable. Today, I still welcome signs from my daughter but no longer rely on them.

Jeannine makes her presence known when I need it most or simply when she desires contact with me. I also know that I can communicate with her anytime and engage in activities that allow me to deepen the continuing bond that we share.  I can also recall positive memories of the father-daughter relationship that I shared with Jeannine; by simply looking at a physical object associated with those memories. What follows is my experience with one such object and what it taught me about my relationship with my daughter.

What Links Me to My Daughter

Dennis Klass, Ph.D and author of The Spiritual Lives of Bereaved Parents, defines linking objects  as “physical objects that seem to contain the child’s presence.”

My linking object to Jeannine

When Jeannine was approximately 15, she insisted that we go to our local auto store and buy an air freshener for the vehicle that I had owned at the time.  Jeannine even offered to pay for it. When I asked her why, she simply replied: “Your jeep stinks.”

She picked out an air freshener that she liked and that I ended up buying with my own money.  I am sure Jeannine offered to pay for it initially it because she knew that without some incentive, I wouldn’t have gotten one.

Shortly after Jeannine’s death, I found the air freshener in my garage. I thought it disappeared after I traded in my vehicle. The universe wanted me to find this item because it was another reminder of the wonderful relationship we shared during the 18 years she was alive. Today, I can still hold the air freshener or simply visualize it and vividly recall the events of that day. I can tell you, for example, where we were standing in the store, the physical features of the clerk that waited on us, and that it was summer.  Jeannine always comes alive through the story associated with that air freshener.

Empowering Ourselves to Script Our Own Grief Paths

Continuing bonds are a common, healthy, and enduring element in the resolution of grief. – Dennis Klass  et al. 1996

The death of our children is one of the most disempowering events we will ever experience. In the aftermath,we can choose to empower ourselves by consciously engaging in activities that deepen the bond with our children.  Here are some suggestions:

• Find an item that reminds you of your child. If it is a blanket, wrap yourself in it, or cologne or perfume, spray yourself with it. Whatever item you choose, find a quiet space and time and invite your child to spend some time with you. Reflect on the great times that you shared and wish to share in your new relationship.
• Light a candle or burn some incense. Look at a photo album, or photos that you have on your computer. They can be pictures of friends, family, or pets. Share your specific memories of those photos with your children quietly or out loud, whatever works for you.
• Take a walk in nature or a leisurely drive. Bring your child’s picture or your unique linking object with you. Allow the positive memories to flow.
• Choose an activity that reflects the relationship that you shared with your child when he/she was alive.
• Be aware of what you experienced .Did you have a sense of peace, a chill or chills or discover other evidence of your child’s presence?

Coming Under Scrutiny

You will find that certain individuals will question or scrutinize how you choose to transform your grief. They may believe that ongoing life long relationships with our deceased children are somehow unhealthy or even pathological. They may simply not understand .

Don’t let anyone script your path, don’t let anyone take your power away from you.

Jeannine’s favorite Disney character was Tigger because he bounced and was the only one. Our children were all Tiggers, bouncing to their own rhythm and sharing their own unique gifts with those who were fortunate enough to cross their paths. As you embrace the notion of continuing bonds in transforming your grief, be Tigger and bounce down your path any way that you see fit.  As long as you aren’t hurting yourself or others in the process, it is all good.

It is crucial that individuals experiencing catastrophic loss support and witness each other’s process of transformation , so that we can learn from each other, in the aftermath of catastrophic loss.

Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music- Frederick Nietzsche

My sincere and heartfelt thanks to both Susan Roback and Patty Furino for inspiring much of the content for this post.

Read more by David Roberts on Open to Hope: Grief Lessons from the Wal-Mart Truck – Open to Hope

Read other writings by David: The Past can Teach Us to be Of Service to Ourselves After Loss

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I was watching a promotional ad on television recently for the show “Intervention” and saw a quote from Ernest Hemingway, which read: “The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

Actually, this quote is a passage from Hemingway’s novel: “A Farewell to Arms.” Hemingway was one of the great American writers of his time, who died in 1961 as a result of suicide. As an aside, Neil Peart of Rush wrote the lyrics to a hauntingly beautiful song called “Losing It” which in part alluded to the rise and fall of Ernest Hemingway.

The first part of this quote: “The world breaks everyone,” may seem on the surface to be both morbid and fatalistic. The reality is that if we live long enough, we will become broken by events in the world that are tragic and painful beyond belief. I believe that loss breaks everyone to one degree or another.

Daughter’s Death Broke Me

When my daughter Jeannine died in 2003, at the age of 18, many parts of me were broken. My faith, my trust in a greater good, my values, my hopes for the future, were all shattered beyond recognition. During my early grief, I never fathomed that the broken parts of me could ever be fixed. I could not visualize experiencing joy again.

I am in the ninth year of my journey as a parent who has experienced the death of a child, and I have been able to find joy and meaning again. In essence, I became stronger at the broken places. I did it by reading about other parents who became stronger at their broken places after their children died and finding out how they did it. I also availed myself of the support of other parents who understood my pain and together we discovered how to fix the broken places.

Fixing the Broken Places Takes Time

Fixing the broken places of our grief does not mean that our world returns to the way it was before our children died, or that the pain of our loss ever truly goes away. What I believe we learn to do is fix the broken places of our grief in a way that allows us to find significance in a world that is different without our children. Understanding that our relationships with our children continue after they cross over and that they communicate signs of their presence has also helped fix the broken places of my grief.

There is no time frame for fixing the broken places of our grief. It will take as long as it takes. As long as you are willing to work through your pain of loss, you will eventually learn new ways of dealing with it. Also keep in mind that hope for the promise of a new world after the death of our children, can come from the most unlikely of sources. Just be open to it happening and embrace it when it does.

Read more by David Roberts on Open to Hope: Grief Lessons from the Wal-Mart Truck – Open to Hope

Read other writings by David: The Past can Teach Us to be Of Service to Ourselves After Loss

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My friend and I were recently having breakfast and talk turned to the upcoming Mother’s Day.  Both of us have lost our mothers recently and a look of sadness and “I miss her” tears began to fill our eyes.

As my thoughts drifted back to my years as a child, when I scurried to make Mom breakfast in bed and bring her flowers from the yard, I softly smiled. She pretended to be surprised and always ate my creations, whether they were tasty or not. Growing into a young woman, the gifts became more memorable of the connection between mother and daughter. A pin that included the birthstones of her children and a dress in her favorite color that she proudly wore to dinner that night.

I moved away from home in my twenties and unfortunately our visits and phone calls became less frequent as I got married, raised a family, and returned to work. When her health declined it was my brother, her first born who provided her care.  I was unaware of the time and effort being a caregiver involves and did not understand the emotional toll it was taking on him.

Early Signs of Dementia

Phone calls between us became even less frequent, and she would ramble on about her younger days and when I was little. I didn’t realize these were an early sign of dementia. I thought she was just “getting old”.

Kathryn shared that her mother’s days were just the opposite. She had lived her life as an independent businesswoman and only in later years did she moved back into her mother’s home to care for her.  Every family has skeletons and demons in their family.  For Kathryn, the demon was alcohol, and her mother’s life was filled with it.

She shared that the demons she had run from all her life, had now returned, as the alcohol escalated her mother’s dementia.  This happens because drug and alcohol use kill brain cells at a faster rate than simply age alone. One study found that people who consumed excessive alcohol in midlife were three times more likely to have dementia by the time they turned 65.

Progressing to Nursing Care

The relationship rekindled and they shared many years together in her mother’s condo. The time came however, when her mother required more care than Kathryn could provide. She placed her mother in an assisted living care community and they both adjusted slowly to the change of care and responsibility. Slowly her mother’s dementia progressed to her needing skilled medical care until her passing.

One year recently, my brother asked me to come stay with my mother while he took a week off for his birthday.  Before my arrival, I thought being a social butterfly all her life, she would also enjoy assisted living. But my brother, her Health Care Surrogate, insisted she remain in her home.

Dementia is Shocking

Upon my arrival, I was very surprised. I had no idea how difficult it had been for him to care for her. She refused to bathe, was very forgetful, and asked the same questions over and over. She also accused me of taking anything she couldn’t find and saying “maybe I should just go home and leave” her alone.

Under my covers in bed, I silently cried. Where was the mother I remembered?  Thinking to myself, “Why did I stay away so long?” I lost so much time with her.

The silver lining of that visit, I came to understand, was that people with dementia do have moments of lucidness. She never lost sight of the fact I was her daughter, and I learned to meet her where she was mentally. We shared wonderful stories about how she met my dad at a dance and all of her friends in school. Tears streamed down my cheek as she sang the songs she used to sing me to sleep as a baby.

Offering Hope to Others

Over coffee, Kathryn and I laughed, cried, and remembered our mothers with love. Thinking about our upcoming Mother’s Day, Kathryn said, “My one suggestion is to not watch television as much. Those Hallmark movies and commercials have me sniffling and missing her so much!

Offering hope to others who are without their moms this year, I agree to a point. Tears are important and so is grieving. Grieving is our body’s way of expressing our loss and admitting we were loved. Kathryn shared that when her mother was alive they would often go to the beach and have a picnic. This year she and her sister will plan a picnic, go to mom’s favorite spot and remember. Remember the good times, remember the “not so good” times, but most importantly, remember mom.

Find Mary Jane on Facebook: (2) Facebook

Read more by Mary Jane on Open to Hope: Healing after Murder – Open to Hope

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Have you ever wondered why the good die young?

I think about that all the time. It was a perfect Saturday. The couple went to the Bronx, walked around laughing and reminiscing. They went home watched a movie with their kids, but he couldn’t fall asleep. His chest was hurting, he didn’t feel well. Suddenly, he wasn’t breathing.

That great man was my dad. How could a perfectly healthy man just suddenly not be there when you get home from school? The thought of what happened that night is always in my head.

I wonder if dying hurts. Was there light? What was his last word?

It Hurts to Say Goodbye

Death is a part of life and sometimes it hurts to say goodbye when you had a great relationship with someone.

Months passed by and the feeling of loneliness and anger was taking over my body. I turned away from my family and friends and started harming my body. I never thought this was going to happen to me. It still seems so unreal and different that the big teddy bear I loved to cuddle with isn’t there anymore.

It’s hard to tell people that I don’t have a dad anymore, or to talk about him in front my friends. It’s great that I have a great family for support and friends, but sometimes you just want your dad.

I want my dad to walk me down the aisle. I want to call him from work. I want to eat ice cream with him. I want to ride in his truck and talk about the economy and history. I want everything I shared with my dad back. If I had one wish in the entire world, it would be to have him back.

Read more from Michelle Gallucci on Open to Hope: Therapy is Working for this First-Timer – Open to Hope

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Photo by M.T ElGassier on Unsplash

“No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear”– C.S. Lewis

This first line in C.S. Lewis’s book A Grief Observed , inspired me to reflect on how I experienced fear during the early days of grief following my daughter Jeannine’s death. Jeannine was eighteen when she died on March 1,2003 from cancer. My fear manifested in uncertainty about my ability to live again in a world without my daughter. I feared that my other children would also die. These fears were triggered because my once predictable ,orderly and safe world was a distant memory.

To me ,experiencing fear following the death of our children is expected, and a normal part of processing catastrophic loss. The length of time that we experience fear varies for everyone, because we move through grief differently and at our own pace. It is crucial to not let fear consume us because in time, there will be no movement through grief. Conversely, experiencing a little fear during grief readies us for significant  events by making us aware of the task at hand. The challenge that we face as grieving individuals is to strike a balance between motivating and debilitating fear. One of the ways that we can accomplish this is by learning what fear has to teach us about our grief and ourselves.

A Rabbit in My Yard

Photo by Christopher Paul High on Unsplash

Some time ago, I walked out onto the deck of my home, morning coffee in hand, and looked around my yard. I live in a quiet ,secluded rural neighborhood, where the only people that I see are my neighbors and the occasional visitors that come to our home and those around us. Our backyard is like a wildlife sanctuary where birds, deer ,groundhogs and squirrels regularly visit. My home provides me with many moments of peace, and the animals and birds that grace us with their presence reminds me of something that I have known for quite some time now:

“We are all one”

While drinking my coffee, a brown and white rabbit made itself known to me. I watched her as she cautiously explored my backyard. She would take a few steps, stop, look around, and then take a few more steps. She would also occasionally stop and rest in the grass.  Eventually, she scampered out of my immediate view.

I have learned that when an animal makes themselves known, we need to be mindful of their teachings. Subsequently, I looked up Rabbit in Jamie Sams and David Carson’s book Medicine Cards. Here is a passage from their book that sheds some light on the significance of rabbit.

“This card may signal a time of worry about the future or of trying to exercise control over that which is not yet in form—– Stop now! Write your fears down and be willing to feel them. Breathe into them, and feel them running through your body into Mother Earth as a give-away.” Sams and Carson-P.158

How Rabbit Taught Me that Fear Can Be an Asset

Here is how Rabbit’s teachings applied to me:

Approximately two-and-one-half years after my daughter Jeannine’s death, I became tired of living the life of a bereaved parent. So, one day, I just decided to disavow my existence as a bereaved parent. I just wanted everything to the way it was before Jeannine died.  I wanted her back.

My desire to suppress my bereaved parent status was motivated in part by the fear mentioned in the beginning of this piece about how I would continue to live my life without Jeannine. I was also too emotionally drained to continue to face an existence that I did not sign up for when I became a parent.

Suppression did work … for a while. But anything that we suppress eventually comes to the surface, because in part, we have leaked to much energy trying to keep it hidden. I also believe that my act of suppression was a misguided attempt to regain some form of control during the most chaotic time of my life.

In time, I became miserable because I cut myself off from meaningful grief support from other parents who understood the pain of losing a child.  In time, I eventually acknowledged and embraced my identity as a parent who experienced the death of an adult child. I took the necessary steps to achieve acceptance of my new reality and find meaning and renewed purpose because of it.

Rabbit also reminded me that our willingness to confront fear (yes, fear can be an asset) and other emotions that don’t constitute happiness can be an empowering step towards acceptance and embracing a peaceful perspective in the aftermath of facing all types of life challenges.

Some Final Observations

Here are 4 tools that have helped me effectively process fear and emotions other than happiness during my grief journey:

•  Being able to journal about it or talk it through with someone that I trust. This not only provided me with some physical and emotional relief from the fear itself but helped me better understand how to effectively deal with it.
•  Taking mindful walks in nature. Nature itself has the ability to calm our bodies and minds, even during the most fearful moments of our lives.
• Focusing attention on my breath by consciously inhaling, calmness and love and exhaling. fear and uncertainty.
• Understanding that emotions perceived as negative are actually in service to us. For me, effectively confronting my fears in early grief after Jeannine’s death promoted growth. I was also inspired to adopt perspectives that helped me accept that my life was permanently changed.
• Read more by David Roberts on Open to Hope: Grief Lessons from the Wal-Mart Truck – Open to HopeRead other writings by David: The Past can Teach Us to be Of Service to Ourselves After Loss

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Her husband served in the navy, she shared, and the flag reminded her of him. She came to see the flag many times, an object that linked her with her beloved husband, the man she loved and missed and admired so much. 

Objects that Link You 

Mother’s Day is coming, and if your mother has died, you may want to find items that link you to her. The linking object can be anything–a framed photo, wind-up watch, or rolling pin. I’ve moved several times since my mother died, so I have only a few linking objects. 

One is my mother’s cut glass water bottle, an antique that has been on many holiday tables. When the bottle is on the table, it’s almost as if my mother is eating dinner with the family. Using the bottle comforts me.

Kayla Waldschmidt writes about linking objects in her Grief Resource Center article, “Memory Tokens and Linking Objects.” She defines memory tokens and linking objects as visual reminders of deceased loved ones. These objects are powerful, powerful enough to make you cry.

Find a Link to Mom

Your mother is gone, but your love is not,  and may be even stronger than ever. Take some time to find your linking objects, Waldschmidt advises, and it’s good advice. If you haven’t found a linking object for Mother’s Day, start looking now. Your object doesn’t need to be large. A recipe card or bookmark will do.  

When my father was courting my mother, he gave her a friendship ring — common practice at the time. The 1920s ring is made of platinum, has a diamond in the middle, and blue sapphire chips on each side.

After my father died, my mother gave the ring to me. I will wear it on Mother’s Day and think of her. My mother was my rock, my role model, and biggest fan. I will always be grateful for her confidence and strength. Even if grief is raw, you and I can find comfort in linking objects. When I wear my mother’s ring, I will feel her hand touching mine. 

Harriet Hodson’s latest book, GRIEF DOODLING, is available at Amazon.com: Grief Doodling: Bringing Back Your Smiles (9781608082520): Hodgson, Harriet: Books

For more articles by Harriet Hodgson, click here.

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Losing my mother is one of the hardest things I have gone through. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. That day, I lost the person who was my support, friend, mentor, and confidant. She was my mom, a strong, brave, and ambitious woman. I know that my strength and resilience are largely because of her. Her being such an amazing role model gave me the tools to overcome many challenges in my own life.

For obvious reasons, since her loss, Mother’s Day has not been the same. The grief and challenges that accompany the absence of my mother on any day of the year are difficult to process but especially profound on moments such as Mother’s Day. Yet somehow, I found ways to bring me solace and strength.

After Losing My Mother

I vividly remember the day my mother left this world, leaving behind a void that seemed impossible to fill. It was an unexpected and devastating loss that shattered my world and changed the way I experienced life.

As Mother’s Day approached in the years that followed, I found myself grappling with a mix of emotions: sorrow, longing, and a deep sense of missing her. Yet my journey of grief taught me to feel these emotions fully, acknowledge that they are normal, and practice self-compassion along the way.

Healing Means Remembering

Over time, I discovered that healing is not about forgetting but rather about finding ways to keep my mother’s memory alive and honoring her impact on my life. While Mother’s Day and pretty much every day are difficult, I made a conscious decision to see these challenging days as opportunities for growth and reflection.

Cherishing memories proved to be a powerful tool in my healing. I take the time to reminisce about the precious moments spent with my mother. I share stories with my daughter and anyone who cares to listen.

In addition, I make sure to continue to cultivate gratitude for the time I had with my mother and the love she bestowed upon my brothers, daughter, and me. I also remember to nurture my soul at every opportunity, making time for activities that bring me joy and replenish my spirit. In my case, I take long walks, knowing that connecting with nature has always had a profound impact on my
well-being.

Helping Others is Healing

I have since shared my experience with others who have gone through similar losses. This provides me with an invaluable sense of understanding and support, as well as a sense of paying it forward. As I began to heal and gain a better understanding of my grief journey, I found comfort in offering support and guidance to others who were just beginning theirs.

Finally, I remind myself over and over again that my mother would want me to be happy and live my life to the fullest. The best way for me and my daughter to honor her memory is by living our lives in a way that makes her proud. Since then, I have pursued many passions, spent time with loved ones, and actively pursued moments or situations that bring me joy.

Life is precious, and as we know, tomorrow is not promised, so find joy in the simplest moments, practice gratitude, and be fully present in the experiences that unfold.

Visit Dr. Mankes’ website: www.drcarolmankes.com

Read more from Dr. Mankes: Positive Attitude and Faith in Grief – Open to Hope

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Unfortunately, many of us have experienced compound grief from multiple losses – either more than one sibling, a child/sibling, sibling/parent, sibling/grandchild, or partner/child. The death of my father three decades after losing my beloved sisters Margie and Jane, triggered feelings I kept dormant.

When Margie and Jane died, I didn’t know what grief was. Siblings are the forgotten mourners and take on the role of caretakers. I fast tracked life, ignoring my own grief. I don’t recall Margie and Jane’s funerals. With my father, the experience was totally different. I was present for his last breath, spoke at the funeral, and remember a rare October snowstorm.

The shock of Jane’s car accident in 1981 forever changed me. At age twenty-five, clueless about grief and with no one to talk to, I suppressed the emotions. Margie’s struggle with anorexia and bulimia for twenty years put her life at risk, but her death devastated me. I shut down emotionally. On the outside, I looked strong and resilient. But not dealing with the grief took a toll.

Father’s Death Echoed Earlier Losses

My father’s death shocked me to mourn Margie and Jane, understand grief, and the impact it had on my life. With a strong presence of my sisters, my life felt broken and splintered.

After thirty years to face the grief, going into intense therapy was one of the most challenging things I did. Scars remain, those echoes of earlier losses. but with the support of many, and digging deep into myself to better understand grief, I continued my grief journey.

I needed to find the parts of myself that got lost after Margie and Jane died. I took on the caretaker roll in all aspects of my life – personally and professionally. Part of the therapy involved restoration, carving out time for me. What gives me joy? After decades of caregiving, changing the pattern is not easy. Another piece was allowing myself to feel the emotions – sadness, crying, and joy. Talking about Margie and Jane, sharing the stories, bringing them full circle back into my life.

Funerals Still Echo Earlier Losses

Today, I am unable to attend funerals. When I attend, the moment I sit down, my body feels the tremors and shakes knowing a full tsunami of sobbing forthcoming. Going through wads of tissues, and red eyed, why am I am putting myself through this? The answer is I don’t have to. Piece by piece, I am learning the complexities of the grieving process. Taking care of myself is not an easy lesson to be learned.

Writing a daily journal keeps me centered. I find it keeps my feelings in check as I work on me and my grief. Having Margie and Jane a stronger presence, not in the chorus, but in a staring role, has helped me with remembering stories, and anchoring my life. I am, was and will be Judy, the middle of three sisters. Being the middle sister of Margie and Jane defines me.

Read more from Judy Lipson on Open to Hope: https://www.opentohope.com/selecting-songs-…honor-loved-ones/

Purchase Judy Lipson’s book at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1608082679/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

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In this reflective account, the conversation centers on personal loss, the steady process of healing, and the search for meaning after overwhelming tragedies. The discussion highlights the journey of a survivor who has experienced multiple heartbreaking losses in a brief period. Through honest storytelling and creative expression, the guest shares how she has managed deep sorrow while still remaining open to hope.

A Journey Marked by Sudden Loss

The narrative begins with raw recollections of loss that reshaped a life. The guest, a school teacher and writer, recounts the devastating impact of losing her daughter in a tragic accident. On what should have ordinarily been a routine day, her daughter was caught in a severe car wreck. This event marked one of many painful partings in her life.

Throughout a span of eighteen months, she suffered the loss of close family members. In addition to her daughter, she lost her mother, father, stepmother, and even experienced the grief of losing siblings. Each incident came with its own heartache, leaving her to cope with multiple layers of sorrow.

The loss of her daughter was especially shattering because, unlike the passing of parents that one might begin to expect as time goes on, the death of a child is profoundly unexpected. The shock of a sudden accident, compounded by subsequent family tragedies, left her struggling with the unimaginable task of facing life without those she dearly loved.

Personal Reflections on Coping with Grief

In recounting her experience, the guest paints a picture of the emotional chaos felt in the immediate aftermath of the accident. Hearing a frantic phone call with cries over the phone, she rushed to the scene only to be met with a surreal and heart-wrenching reality. The first image of her daughter was one shrouded by protection, as emergency personnel advised her not to see the scene. This decision was meant to spare her from an unbearable memory, although the emotional impact lingered.

“The last memory that I have of her is her walking into dance class, blowing me a kiss. That image remains pure despite everything.”

The scene, described in clear and simple language, conveys a mixture of shock, numbness, and sorrow. Such moments remind listeners that no amount of preparation can ease the pain of losing a cherished life.

Finding Solace Through Writing and Sharing

The guest explains that writing became her refuge during times of overwhelming pain. Already experienced as a freelance writer, she turned to journaling to record every emotion and thought. By posting her reflections on a blog, she provided a window into her inner world. This form of expression not only offered her relief but also connected her with others facing similar struggles.

Many reached out to thank her for her unguarded honesty. Through her blog, she realized that sharing her feelings could serve as a source of comfort for others in their grief. In a raw, unfiltered manner, she addressed the reality of loss, reminding readers that struggles do not detract from one’s ability to live a fulfilling life eventually.

In addition to her written work, she created a YouTube channel filled with more than 300 videos. Each video offers advice, insights, and practical tips on coping with loss. This multimedia approach provided another avenue for both self-expression and support. The guest’s work has also extended into lectures and workshops featured by local support groups and events.

Living With the Unseen Scars

As she recounted the day of the accident and its aftermath, details emerged that illustrate the profound impact that grief can have on daily life. While returning to her role as an eighth grade English teacher shortly after the accident, she wore a dual mask of professionalism and internal sorrow. In the classroom, she was required to maintain composure in spite of the overwhelming pain she felt.

An especially sensitive area of her professional life is the classroom environment where her daughter’s peers remain. Every school event or class activity can trigger memories and raise painful questions about what might have been. For instance, events that celebrate milestones, like a twinning day, stir memories of her daughter’s joy, intensifying the grief of her absence.

Being surrounded by reminders of her daughter’s vibrant personality has proven to be both a source of inspiration and a bittersweet challenge. She deals with these triggers by establishing moments for self-care each day. After teaching, she dedicates quiet time to decompress and allow herself moments of peace away from the constant reminders.

Overcoming Self-Sabotage and Finding Healthy Outlets

One of the key realizations in the guest’s healing process was her tendency to seek distraction by immersing herself in work. Initially, her approach involved throwing herself into teaching, writing, and other activities to avoid the heaviness of mourning. This overworking, however, became a form of self-sabotage.

Over time, she acknowledged this behavior and took steps to balance work with genuine self-care. She began to realize that while keeping busy is helpful, it is vital to allow oneself to experience and process grief. Adjusting her routine meant not only facing dark memories but also engaging in activities that uplift her spirit.

Her strategy for overcoming these challenges included setting aside time each day to rest and reflect. Whether it was watching a simple movie, taking a walk with a supportive friend, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation, these moments became essential. Such practices enabled her to slowly heal while continuing her responsibilities as a teacher and caregiver.

Building Community and Lifting Others Up

Throughout her journey, the guest found valuable support through established networks such as Compassionate Friends—a community of people who share similar experiences of loss. These relationships provided her with a space to share her story and find understanding among those who truly get what it means to mourn.

In addition to seeking help for herself, she advocated for community support by urging those in grief to talk about their own stories. According to her, repeatedly telling one’s truth, even if it becomes repetitive over time, can be an effective method of healing. The simple act of sharing experiences ultimately builds resilience and inspires others.

• Writing as Relief: Journaling helped her manage emotions and reach out to others in need.
• Community Engagement: Groups like Compassionate Friends provided comfort and guidance.
• Self-Care Practices: Dedicating time to decompress played a key role in her healing process.

Her approach to grief presents her reality with honesty and an unwavering commitment to finding light amid the darkness. This authenticity resonates deeply with others who are looking to understand and process their own experiences.

Channeling Loss into Creative Pursuits

In addition to her work with blogs and videos, the guest has managed to channel her personal struggles into creative projects. She completed a book that openly addresses loss and has earned recognition as a finalist for a National Indie Excellence Award. The book, with its straightforward title, guides readers through the emotional terrain of grief while ultimately suggesting that life can still be valued despite deep losses.

Not one to rest on her laurels, she is in the process of creating historical fiction aimed at middle school students. This new project is inspired by what her daughter might have experienced and is designed for young readers between the ages of 10 and 14. The creative venture not only serves as a tribute to her daughter but also transforms her pain into a narrative that may benefit others.

By using creative work as a tool for healing, she demonstrates that personal tragedy can lead to meaningful innovation. Her efforts show that while grief may leave visible scars, it can also sow the seeds of empathy and artistic expression.

Honoring Loved Ones Through Acts of Kindness

One of the more uplifting efforts in her journey is the establishment of a nonprofit dedicated to her daughter’s memory. The initiative focuses on providing scholarships to young dancers, a passion her daughter once cherished. Having awarded over $38,000 in scholarships to date, the nonprofit serves as a living memory of her daughter’s vibrant spirit and bright future.

This act of giving not only honors her daughter’s legacy but also makes a tangible difference in the lives of others. It reflects a commitment to ensuring that the memory of a lost loved one continues to inspire and support future generations. The guest firmly believes that by helping others, one can find comfort and a renewed sense of self.

The Endurance of Hope Amidst Loss

The conversation closes with a note of perseverance. Despite the immense challenges encountered over a short period, the guest remains dedicated to the idea that hope can coexist with sorrow. Her story is a powerful reminder that even in the face of profound grief, life continues and new paths forward eventually emerge.

Through her daily acts, be it through teaching, writing, or community support, the guest maintains that it is possible to nurture hope. The advice she offers relies on acknowledging the pain honestly while also embracing small moments of calm and personal care. Each day becomes a step toward rebuilding a life that still holds potential for happiness.

Her journey encourages others to consider that the process of healing is unique for everyone. By sharing the ups and downs of her experience, she invites people to seek support, to talk about their struggles, and to remember that even the darkest times can eventually yield light.

The weight of sorrow is undeniable. Yet, the guest’s message stands clear: by sharing one’s truth, leaning on trusted friends, and engaging in creative expression, it is possible to carry on in honor of those lost.

The conversation is a moving exploration of how tragedy and hope can exist side by side. The guest turns her personal hardship into a resource for healing that others can also draw strength from. Her journey stands as an invitation to acknowledge the pain of loss while remaining open to the promise of new beginnings.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How did the guest begin to cope with her overwhelming losses?

She turned to writing and journaling as a way of processing her emotions. Sharing her feelings on a blog and through videos helped her connect with others on similar journeys.

Q: What role did community support play in her healing process?

Community connections, particularly through support groups like Compassionate Friends, provided her with understanding and encouragement. This network was vital as she navigated the intensity of her grief.

Q: In what ways has she honored the memory of her loved ones?

By channeling her grief into creative projects such as books and films, and by establishing a nonprofit that offers scholarships in her daughter’s name, she transforms personal loss into lasting support for others.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

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When I was a little girl, I idolized my dad. The ease in which he moved through life, his gentle nature and compassionate soul made being with him feel like being tightly embraced, pulled into a warm hug that could cure the worst kind of day. I remember being in awe of him and his light, his steady hand, the way he made anyone he spoke to feel important.

From the joyful and lighthearted years of childhood to the trying, sticky years of adolescence, my dad was a place of solace for me, carrying my burdens and guiding me as I grew into myself, albeit at moments – begrudgingly.

The shift wasn’t overnight. It was gradual. He became more withdrawn, more self-isolating; he was different. The incremental changes we (my mom and I) were seeing were growing increasingly bizarre and we were becoming increasingly confused and incorrigible. Months of perplexity and pleading for him to see a doctor turned into years of his own denial.

A Little Blue Spell

Nothing is wrong, he would tell us. Just a little blue spell. Months faded into years as he became a shell of a person, keeping mostly to himself while continuously refusing medical care. He started drinking, pacing our block and repeating the same phrases, even when the situation didn’t call for it. I thought for sure I was witnessing a psychotic break or perhaps a midlife crisis (on a good day). I thought for sure once he agreed to see a doctor, it would be an easy fix.

And I have never been more wrong.

On December 11, 2011, my life was shaken to the core and immediately split in two. A time before, and a time after. I was 22 and my dad was officially diagnosed with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) via PET scan. After a short stint in jail, my dad was “sentenced” to a halfway house where he began eating from the trashcan and perusing other people’s belongings in their rooms. The director of the facility ordered medical support which led to intensive testing.

All these peculiar and unusual behaviors, the disengagement, the drinking, this 180-degree flip in his personality was caused by progressive neurological disease that has no treatment AND no cure. I remember never being more thankful for answers while simultaneously being so heartbroken.

A Decade of Dying

My dad lived with FTD for over ten years until his death in 2020. During his illness, I was thrust into a role I never thought i’d play in my 20’s. I became his voice, his feeder, his decision maker, his chauffeur, his hands. I became his caregiver; an all-encompassing position fueled by the deepest love and the strongest hope. And I made it my mission to make his remaining years so full of tenderness and peace.

As I look back now, I feel so genuinely honored that I was able to usher him through his disease and through a beautiful end of life experience. His journey with FTD is over, but the remnants of this experience have shaped my life in so many ways that I remain beyond grateful for.

Watching my dad’s mind slowly cave in while relentlessly losing him to this devastating disease was something I was not prepared to witness. Seeing my larger-than-life dad fade into the darkness of his deteriorating mind, I, more often than not, had to remind myself to stay present, remembering this won’t be forever.

No Handbook for Caring

But the days were hard, they were taxing and all consuming. There is no manual to provide the step-by-step directions on how to assemble the perfect caregiver. And let me tell you, that was one of the greatest gifts to come of such a colossal loss. I learned to lean into that little voice in my gut that already knew what to do. I didn’t need google, or medical journals. All I needed was to trust myself.

And that’s what I did. Sure, I listened to doctors, and never went completely rouge, but when a tough decision presented itself, I went inward instead of polling others and spending countless hours googling. I relished in the quiet and tuned in to the gentle, omnipotent voice inside me. My instinctual guidance was the most powerful tool in my toolbox.

Dementia Death Changes You

There is something so sacred about loss and grief, exposing the depths of heartache and leaving people different than they were before. Watching my dad through his journey with FTD cracked me wide open, taking me to my edges and allowing me space to rebuild, to find a deeper more meaningful life on the other side.

I see the world differently, it’s clearer now. It was both brutal and beautiful to experience and to witness and I can tell you now, I have never felt so lucky to have endured both. Observing a life ending is such an intense place to be. It has left a significant imprint on me as it, among other things, shifted my life’s normal. A ripple effect, if you will. It has affected more than one facet of my life

I will forever miss him and yearn for him to meet my children. He will always be the first thought that comes into my mind when someone tells me to make a wish. And I will forever be grateful to witness the beauty in the breaking and the beautiful feeling of coming home to yourself when the dust settles.

Read more about FTD: Day 8: Celebrate w/ Maria Kent Beers & Rachael Martinez of Remember Me for World FTD Awareness Week

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 A decade ago, I was fortunate to meet Heidi Horsley, a fellow surviving sibling and philanthropist. We bonded immediately. After years of being alone in my grief, I was grateful to connect with individuals who understand, are compassionate, speak the same language, and are members of the same club. Thanks to Heidi, who is executive director of Open to Hope, this year marks a decade of me contributing articles for this website.

Writing became a vital tool in my grief journey. The process began with journaling, progressed to articles, and ultimately a memoir. I never dreamed writing would become a passion alongside with ice skating.

A recent move forced me to sift through old papers. I located notes and thoughts from articles that led to sharing the story about the loss of my beloved sisters Margie and Jane. I never hesitated on the title, Celebration of Sisters, shred with the annual ice-skating fundraiser to honor my sisters. The subtitle is: It Is Never Too Late to Grieve; however, my initial concepts were: You Are Not Forgotten, Please Don’t Forget Me or Compassion/Caring for Lost and Surviving Siblings.

Writing for Surviving Siblings

I wrote the memoir to help other surviving siblings in their grief and share Margie and Jane. For thirty years, I suppressed the grief and spoke little about Margie and Jane. I love my original concept, and I don’t recall why the change. Don’t we wish both remain true? Surviving siblings want to hear our siblings, names, share their stories, so they are not forgotten. And we too are not forgotten in our grief.

When I started to work on the memoir, I jotted down a list of words for potential chapter headings. I knew chapter one to be the Celebration of Sisters fundraiser. And I initially broke the book into three sections – Awareness, Forgiveness, and Celebration.

I jotted down an initial list of words for each category. For Awareness: caring, not alone, what about me, unleash the silence, and uncover; Forgiveness: sadness, regrets, digging deep, rediscovery, rebuilding, and hard work; Celebration: enlightenment, peace, memories, joy, honoring, resilience, and giving back.

Grief Evolves, Hope Arrives

The list of words applies to my grief, grief process, and lessons learned. If I chose the top five from the list that resonate today: honor/giving back, forgiveness, loss, memory, and not alone.

The two pieces that are the most difficult to wrestle with are forgiveness for not doing the grief work sooner. Trying to make peace with regrets is something I work hard to do; my brain and heart are not in sync. The loss of my beloved sisters will have a permanent hole in my heart, and the grief will remain a part of me. Today I understand grief that I did not at age twenty-five and thirty-three when I lost Margie and Jane.

Do you have a list of words/feelings about your grief? I think today I will make a new list and see where it leads me. Margie and Jane, I will always love you.

Related reading on Open to Hope: Sibling Loss: Why Surviving Brothers and Sisters Are the Forgotten Grievers by Dr. Heidi Horsley.

Read more from Judy Lipson on Open to Hope: https://www.opentohope.com/selecting-songs-to-honor-loved-ones/

Purchase Judy Lipson’s book at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1608082679/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

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That cruel knock on the door was not my first introduction to grief, but it was, by far, the most brutal. My kind, compassionate, and very handsome 24-year-old son, my youngest of four wonderful children, had not come home that night. My mother’s heart was extremely worried.

But that loud knock shook me to my core, and something deep inside of me knew what it was. It was 5:30 AM. My daughter, Vanessa, who followed me downstairs to the door, was the only one home as my husband was out of town on business. I didn’t want to open the door, but I knew I had to face the inevitable truth. A women stood at the door, and a sheriff stood a few feet behind her. She introduced herself as the coroner.

“Is this the home of Eric Cruz?”

Hardly able to respond, I managed a powerless “yes.”

“Eric Cruz has passed away in a car accident.”

Hard to Imagine Living On

It was blunt, it was merciless, and it was bitterly true. I lost any control of my body as I had now lost any ability to control this situation. Gasping and wailing along with Vanessa, and using all my energy to stay standing, the woman gave me and Vanessa, whose very best friend was her brother, a minute to grapple with this news.

And just like that, my grief journey had begun.

There is no set of instructions for grief. And even if there were, no two people will grieve alike. This is a unique and personal journey. All the circumstances of our lives that led us up to this point of losing a loved one are very different, hence, we will grieve differently.

In my case, I spent a year and a half with an excellent grief therapist, participated in two online grief support groups, and read literally hundreds of books on grief, healing, spirituality, near death experiences, and the afterlife. This was what I needed. I organically followed what felt right for me, day by day, one step at a time.

Setting New Intentions

I now spend time with many parents whose children have passed on as a volunteer with the international support organization, Helping Parents Heal. At eight years now since Eric’s accident, I hear these same painful words of deep grief that I had cried during those early days and weeks after losing Eric’s physical presence. “I will never be happy again! My life is over, my reason for living is gone.”

Oh, do I remember that feeling, the brutality of that pain. But I must say that there was one difference in the way I said it. I don’t know exactly why, but for some reason, I did not say that I will never be able to live again or that I will never feel joy again. I was in a deep, dark abyss and could not see any light. But instead, I asked, “How. How will I live again? How will I find joy again.”

Looking back, I see that somewhere deep inside, I had hope. I allowed myself to have an ounce of hope that I might see light again. I realize now that I had an intention to find a way to live with purpose again. But back then, I didn’t know any of this.

Each Person Grieves Uniquely

When grief first makes its unwelcomed appearance in your life and the rug is pulled out from under you, you may find yourself flailing like someone who can’t swim. By the time you gain your footing, you may stand, though shakily. You have no idea what to do next. Some will venture out to connect with others who have lost a loved one. They will see others further along and will ask how they have survived, how they can now stand up tall, how they can smile, how they can live. Others will begin setting the intention to live again.

No one can tell you how to grieve or how to fix the pain. As mentioned, your grief journey is uniquely yours. However, you can listen to others who have been on this road ahead of you and decide what resonates. You can hear my story and hear others’ stories as well, and it is important to do so. These stories will work as a guiding light, but the steps to take on the path are your own.

Hope Will Arrive

I can explain to you how I paint a tree. You must paint your own tree. I cannot paint it for you for then it would not be your own. But when you paint that tree, it will have its own beauty precisely because it doesn’t look like mine.

I can show you the steps to a dance, but I cannot dance it for you. You must do it your way. It will not look the same as mine, but it will be lovely because it will be your own.

I hope you find a way to hold the intention for continuing to live your life with your loved one in spirit right by your side. I hope you know that honoring him or her in this way can bring forth a mutual joy between you both. As impossible as it seems when your loved one leaves the physical realm, there is always room for finding purpose again and for growing your love for them around the grief.

There is always hope.

Check out Dolores’ website: Home | Dolores Cruz

Read more about loss of a child on Open to Hope: Do’s and Don’ts of Self-Care After the Loss of a Child – Open to Hope

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“How many siblings do you have?” It is a dreaded question asked of many a surviving sibling. When I’m asked, my heart thumps out of my chest. I sense the heat rising on my face and struggle to breathe. How do I answer?

For me, the answer has changed over time. When asked, decades after I lost my sisters, I still experience the tremor in my body. Regardless of how ready I believe myself to be, the experience leaves me reeling when asked.

After my younger sister Jane died in 1981, was I now the youngest? After we lost Jane, I avoided the question; remaining silent, her passing was too shocking. When Margie died in 1990, now what? Am I an only child? I answered, “it’s just me,” and left it at that.

A Feeling of Dishonesty

Later, I experienced sickness and a sense of dishonesty, but apprehension about the other person’s response prevented a truthful disclosure.

If I was on a first date, the question was inevitable. Should I use this this as a test? Or should I falsely answer, “it’s just me.” Then what, if the date leads to a relationship? I started off with a lie.

Or should I answer, “I lost both my sisters,” or perhaps I say, “I had two sisters who died.” At that time, I never found the right words. What next? Judge the individual based on their reaction?

How to Divulge the Loss

I wrestled not only with the question, but how much to divulge to a stranger? A part of me protecting myself, fearful of a negative response, being hurt, and a part of me questioning the loss of two sisters as real.

Decades later and much later I arrived at, “I am the middle of three and sadly I lost both my sisters.” This is what feels right for me today. The reactions are mixed–from blank faces, to “I’m sorry,” to wanting to learn the details of my beloved sisters’ deaths, to sharing their losses.

There is no right or wrong answer. When I meet new people or in a situation when I foresee what will happen, I get that pang of anxiety–oh no, I think, that dreadful question, I want to hide under a rock.

I am, have been, am, and will always be Judy, the middle of three sisters. That is my truth. I cannot control other people’s reactions. I will never be comfortable answering the question, and my answer may change ten years from now.

What will I say to my three little grandchildren when they are old enough to ask their Nini? I hope for the truth and share precious memories of their Auntie Margie and Auntie Jane, the beautiful, special people who loved them dearly.

Read more from Judy Lipson on Open to Hope: https://www.opentohope.com/selecting-songs-…honor-loved-ones/

Purchase Judy Lipson’s book at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1608082679/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

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It was the best conversation we never wanted to have. I filled out an Advanced Directive with my dad. And it was fun!

I had asked family members to fill out Advanced Directives a few times before. I know feelings about your mortality change and, thus, your view of care shifts. And they needed an update. I decided to complete an Advanced Directive, the Five Wishes Document, for myself before asking my dad to complete his. I am not sure that was the right decision.

Often, my dad would ask me what I chose to put in my Advanced Directive before he decided what he wanted to choose. I think this may have altered his choices ever-so-slightly, and I wonder how his Advanced Directive would have turned out if he had filled it out without my input.

Dad and I Had Similar Feelings

Despite my curiosity about this “what-if” scenario, I am glad that we talked through things. I was able to inform him about specific topics (like feeding tubes and life support). He was able to help me think through family ideals and the cultural practices with which we are
accustomed. Going through the process of completing the Advanced Directive reassured me that I know my dad very well, and I was so lucky to be raised by someone with such a positive outlook on life and death.

My dad and I have similar feelings on almost every aspect of how we wish to be cared for at the end of our lives. Even so, a few key differences stood out regarding how we wish our remains to be dealt with. Here’s some of my experience with advanced directives with Dad.

Advanced Directive with Dad

In Wish One, both of us listed each other, and my mother was listed as our healthcare agent. This is not surprising to me as my immediate family is extremely close. In addition, neither my dad nor I crossed out any of the statements presented in Wish One or had any changes, additions, or limitations to the statements provided – likely a product of our similar moral outlooks on life.

On Wish Two, my dad and I had similar feelings about all of the questions and answered each of them exactly the same way. The questions about life-support did spark a long conversation about the definition of life-support and the success rate and necessity of feeding tubes. Initially, my dad said he wanted life-support if he had permanent and severe brain damage. But once we talked about the stipulation that specifies if the doctor has already determined you are not expected to recover, he changed his mind and said he would not want
life-support at all.

We both agreed that we would use more specific situations and diagnoses to make an official call, though. My Dad and I both found the statement “not expected to recover” critical in our decision of whether or not we would want life support. I answered this section
exceptionally quickly, as I felt I knew the answers without much thought. My dad, on the other hand, found this section more complex. He took time working through scenarios and analyzing all the language.

Working Through the Advanced Directives with Dad

I believe the difference may be accounted for by the general knowledge we both had surrounding life-support and what it truly means, or perhaps our age and our perceived closeness to death itself.

We went through Wish Three and Four easily and quickly. My dad did not ask what I decided before making his decisions, but we ended up crossing out almost all of the same statements. Both of us chose to cross out statement one in Wish Three, “I want my doctor to give
me enough medicine to relieve my pain, even if that means I will be drowsy or sleep more than I would otherwise.”

Religious Preferences Near Death

Our reasoning for this decision was also similar — he and Mom raised me in an agnostic household, and we want to make clear that none of our family members impose their religious beliefs on our end-of-life experience. In the same vein, we crossed out the language requesting prayers by our side and asking members of our faith community to pray for us in Wish Four.

Dad has a stronger aversion to organized religion than I do and questions its authenticity. But his beliefs have definitely influenced mine. Our desire to keep religiosity out of our death experience seems somewhat selfish to me. I know it would help some of our extended
family members, when they are grieving, to know they could pray with us, but it would make both Dad and me uncomfortable.

The only discrepancy between Dad’s answers and mine in Wishes Three and Four stems from my dislike of massages. Wish Three states that I may wish to be massaged with warm oils as often as possible. But massages usually bother me unless I specifically ask for them. I don’t believe I will be in a state to make that decision thoughtfully once this document comes into effect. It is important to note, however, that these seemingly small activities – massages, listening to music, or hair-brushing — keep us feeling like ourselves through our final days.

Finishing the Wish List with Dad

Finally, Wish Five brought forth the most discussion between my dad and me. Neither of us chose to cross out any of the statements, but we differed on how we want our bodies to be laid to rest after our death. Dad wants to be cremated, whereas I wish to be buried in a green
cemetery or terramated. I wish for a green burial or terramation because these options are less harmful to the environment.

Though I told Dad about these alternatives, he stayed with his choice of cremation. However, our decision rationale is similar. He believes it is more environmentally friendly to be cremated than to be buried conventionally.

He wants to have his ashes spread across three different locations: the New Jersey shore, a hiking trail in Utah near the house in which we grew up, and some in a wooden box buried at the base of a tree in a location to be determined by my family and me. I want to be buried naturally with a tree planted above me or through my terramated remains.

Sharing with Dad was Enlightening

I find it intriguing that Dad and I both wish to be made into trees. I think I may have gotten that desire from him. My parents have always taught me to love nature and its beauty, and part of me likes the idea that Dad’s remains will be added to the three locations he loves the most. Perhaps I lean toward terramation for similar reasons.

I know that birds and other animals will spread the seeds produced by any tree that grows from my burial ground. My body will return to nature and experience living in many different places after death. My Dad and I both believe it is important to have a place for those who live after us to visit. This is a large part of why we both want a tree to grow where our remains lie.

I also learned from my parents that life is to be celebrated. That’s why I believe Dad and I both want a large party celebrating the time we were given on earth rather than a somber event. My family has loud, crazy parties with all of us having the best time, and I think it
is important that our deaths be celebrated in the same light.

Planning Our Funerals

Dad was much more specific than me about the readings and songs he wants to be performed at his memorial service and the events and times he wishes for the afterparty to take place. But the funeral my dad planned for himself is no different than what I would have expected. My parents have shown me the beauty in nature, art, music, food, family, and friends, so it
is no wonder that all of those pieces are incorporated into the funerals we planned for ourselves.

Mine is modeled after Dad’s, though indirectly. I wrote mine first. I believe in my heart that I already knew most of what he was going to say. And I know Mom’s wishes as well. So, my funeral plan follows a similar positive tune. I feel so lucky that I was raised by people who
appreciate positivity and celebrate life.

The Advanced Directives with dad conversation was not hard for me to have with Dad. I loved learning, in detail, Dad’s wishes for the celebration of his life. I loved reading how Dad wants people to remember him because it is exactly how I would describe
him to anyone who asks about him.

Gratitude for my Father

It is a blessing that I was raised by someone who is so intelligent and has so much curiosity because it creates a safe space for me to explore many different fields and ask questions. It makes me feel at peace to know he wants us to celebrate his life rather than wallow in his
death because, in my opinion, it helps with grief to know that you are celebrating the way a person lived.

Everyone should sit with their parents over a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, and bond over what you wish to happen in your last days. I promise, it’s fun!

Read more from Symon on Open to Hope: Dying in Prison: The Need for Hospice – Open to Hope

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Recently, a grief counselor told me something disturbing. He had been describing my new memoir, Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, to one of his support groups. When he reached the point where I began to form a new relationship just a few months after the death of my beloved wife, several of the women stopped listening.

“Women grieve, men replace,” one said dismissively, and the others nodded in agreement. They assumed that my actions suggested emotional abandonment, or perhaps a kind of infidelity, both of which they found repugnant. They didn’t want to believe that I could continue loving Lynn while forming an attachment with someone else.

But that is exactly what happened to me.

Not Looking for Love

I wasn’t looking for another relationship. In fact, I couldn’t imagine looking for one. Lynn and I had been married for almost 35 years. During the last six of them we grew increasingly close, as we learned to live with Lynn’s incurable cancer and then shared the intimate grace of her departure from this world. During the weeks of home hospice, I bathed and fed her, and we talked about the mystery of what was to come. When Lynn said, “I want you to find another girlfriend,” we both assumed that would be years away.

After Lynn died, my grief shattered me. Even though I knew it was coming, I wasn’t prepared for its intensity. Nothing prepares you for the loss of your beloved partner.

About a month later, I realized that I had become more open when talking with other grieving people. I think I craved a connection with someone, anyone, who would understand what I was going through. And I wasn’t the only one. Just as my gay friends say they have “gay-dar,” the ability to spot another gay person in a crowded room, I’ve come to believe in “grief-dar,” the uncanny ability of grieving people to identify and connect with each other.

Meeting Someone New

I was talking to an administrative assistant at the firm that managed Lynn’s retirement savings when suddenly she started telling me how her father had recently died. Her mother had to sell the house and move in with one of her daughters because she could no longer stand to live in her own home. I had never spoken with this woman before, but we spent thirty minutes sharing stories related to our grief.

Then I exchanged emails with Cordelia, an acquaintance whom I hadn’t seen since we were children. I told her how much I had appreciated her stepmother’s recent memorial, and she sent me a lovely note with a poem, “When I die, give my love away,” that had been part of the service. In response, I told her about e e cummings’ poem “I carry your heart” that Lynn and I had chosen for her memorial.

Cordelia replied “Oh Dear, Dear Tony, that poem means a lot to me. My husband and I selected it for our wedding thirty-three years ago. But last month, he told me that he wanted a divorce, so now we’re figuring out how to live apart.” Her words were openly emotional, and I realized that she was experiencing her own deep grief, losing her life partner just as I had lost Lynn. We connected because of our shared loss.

Sharing Grief Brought Joy

Cordelia lived in Minneapolis, 1200 miles away, and I wasn’t attracted to her in the conventional sense. But we began exchanging emails about our grief, which quickly progressed to phone calls. We talked for hours, sometimes several times a day, about what hospice was like, what our spouses were like, what it feels like to be alone in a newly empty home, what we did that morning and what we hoped to do next. Our conversations didn’t replace my grief or make me miss Lynn any less, but they did comfort me, and I no longer felt so alone.

One day, Cordelia stopped in the middle of a sentence and said, “Tony, are you feeling what I’m feeling? Because I’ve got a crush on you.” It’s one of the bravest things anyone has ever said to me. And I had to admit that yes, I did, too—the feeling was mutual. We made plans to see each other the next time she came through New York. Then I went back to organizing Lynn’s memorial.

When I finally met Cordelia in person, we quickly fell into bed together. Neither of us had experienced physical pleasure in quite a while, and we both missed it. The sex was thrilling but also confusing. “How can I do this without cheating on Lynn?” I asked myself, again and again.

Guilt and Self-Doubt

It didn’t matter that Lynn had encouraged me to have another relationship; I was riddled with guilt and self-doubt. I still cried for Lynn several times a day – fierce, overwhelming floods – and I talked to her all the time. Now I needed to reassure her that my attraction to Cordelia didn’t diminish my love for her.

Cordelia was aware of my feelings; in fact, it’s part of what she found appealing. She encouraged me to tell her about Lynn and describe the experiences we’d had together. Rather than asking me to leave Lynn behind, she helped me find a balance in which I brought my memories of Lynn into my relationship with Cordelia. It took us several years to get there, with many setbacks along the way, but eventually I stopped feeling guilty and was able to enjoy this unexpected and improbable gift. Far from “replacing” Lynn, I continued loving her while making space for Cordelia in my heart.

When the women in the grief group assumed that I had stopped grieving prematurely, the counselor suggested a different interpretation. “Men grieve too,” he said, “they just grieve differently.” That’s probably true. But it’s not only men who grieve differently: everyone grieves in their own way.

Each Grief is Unique

It’s easy to believe, when you first experience shattering grief, that your grief is the same as everyone else’s. Even the great writer Joan Didion, in her book The Year of Magical Thinking, fell into that trap. After more than a hundred pages describing the specific contours of her grief, she summarized her experience in a long paragraph that begins: “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it,” and then went on to make a series of statements about grief that don’t match my own experience. Where Didion called grief an “absence,” a “void”, Lynn remained deeply present in my grief long after her body was gone. I’ve read several other memoirs in which the author assumed that their experience of grief applies to everyone. It seems this is a common misconception.

But that misconception becomes harmful when you assume, as did the women in the support group, that if other people don’t behave as you would, they aren’t really grieving. I’ve seen this happen in my own family. Two of my aunts began giving away their husband’s possessions as soon as the men died – in one case, a few days before he died. “He’s not even dead!” the rest of us whispered. “She’s moving on too soon.”

We didn’t want to believe her grief was real. But now those two aunts, shedding their late husbands’ possessions in order to make it through the day, remind me of the administrative assistant’s mother who had to sell her house.

Death May Bring Relief

When my cousin’s wife died, he told his daughter “I feel rescued” and began emptying his wife’s closets and drawers. His children were shocked; their father seemed to have stopped grieving even before he started, and they treasured some of the things he was eager to discard.

But he had accompanied his wife through six years of Alzheimer’s, a difficult journey both physically and emotionally. It’s possible that he had already grieved the loss of his wife for several years, and did indeed feel rescued, even if that’s not what anyone else wanted to hear.

“Women grieve, men replace.”

“How can she move on so quickly?”

“He must not really have loved her.”

We reach these conclusions because we expect others to experience grief and loss as we do. Yes, there are men – and women – who quickly start a new relationship, apparently moving past grief. But unless we ask them, none of us knows what they are feeling. Joan Didion was right that “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it,” but it is a place particular to the person who is experiencing it. We do ourselves a disservice when we project our assumptions onto them, without knowing what they really feel.

Tony Stewart is the author of  Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

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Monday, September 27, 2021

We consolidated Lynn’s clothes into a closet and a bureau, unearthed her beautiful scarves and handbags, and put them in a couple of baskets in the living room. We went through her family photos, collected her sketchbooks into one pile, and flipped through years of drawings.

The whole process was immensely sad. Every day brought dozens of touchstones of our shared life: photos that I examined, perfumes that I sniffed, and handwritten notes that I read until I couldn’t bear to read further. I was sad from morning to night and cried frequently. But it also seemed necessary.

The longer Cordelia worked at it, the better the place felt, until it reminded me of the apartment as it used to be. And in doing this, Cordelia and I were constantly talking about Lynn: what she wore, how she moved in the kitchen, how she interacted with all these objects. Again and again, Cordelia said she was getting to know Lynn through this process.

The Storm of Memory

One morning we lay in bed talking. I said I had felt sad from the moment I awoke, and Corde said, “Yes, I feel that way too.” I assumed she was thinking about her divorce, but she said no: “I realized that I’ve been cleaning and fixing up the apartment not only for me but also for Lynn, so that Lynn will smile when she walks in the door, will sit down, and feel comfortable. And it just hit me that she’s never coming back.” The magical thinking was affecting Cordelia, too.

That was a week ago. Corde drove back to Minneapolis, leaving me alone here for the first time in several months, and instead of feeling worse, I’ve felt stronger each day. I passed through a storm of grief and memory, but now, at least for a while, I can enjoy being in the home that Lynn and I created.

Remembering Our Hope

Before we accepted that she was dying, but after things started going very wrong, Lynn began tracking her vital signs. We bought a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter and a fancy thermometer, and Lynn used them four times a day, carefully recording the results in a small notepad along with each bowel movement and pain pill.

Every time her blood pressure spiked, we’d think, oh no, this is it, the drug has stopped working. Then her vitals would return to normal, and we’d breathe a sigh of relief.

When we saw Lynn’s doctors we brought the notes with us, but really, we wrote them for ourselves. We wanted to believe that she was getting better, and we hoped these records would demonstrate that we were going in the right direction.

Corde brought me that notepad. I knew it was something special: page after page in Lynn’s distinctive handwriting. But I couldn’t bring myself to read it. Remembering our hope was just too painful. I put the notebook away somewhere, and when I wrote the post on CaringBridge, I didn’t even mention it.

Tony Stewart is the author of Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart.  Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

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First comes denial.

I tell myself that because Lynn and I got to say all those goodbyes, because she knew how much I loved her, because we had no regrets about our choices, my grief should be shallower or shorter than most. In post after post, I emphasize the positives—as when, just two days after she died, I describe riding around Central Park looking forward to my life ahead.

But really, I am in shock, as when your body and mind conspire to shield you from the pain of an accident. For more than six years, I’ve been driven by one goal: To help Lynn stay as fully alive as possible. Now, in an instant, both the love of my life and the purpose of my life are gone. Suddenly I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do.

When the shock wears off, I discover that in fact I am no different from anyone else. I am adrift in a merciless sea, and the grief will have its turn.

Trying to Reassemble the Pieces

Sunday, February 28, 2021        

My desire for Lynn grows in the darkness. Each morning, I wake before 5 and lie in bed thinking of her, talking to her, calling her back to me. I want the tears; I want the grief; they remind me of my love for Lynn and all the ways she changed me.

We have acres of medical supplies scattered around the house, stacks of unopened packs of adult diapers. There is a hospice sticker on the refrigerator reminding me not to call 911 under any circumstance. Taking it down, removing any of these things, would acknowledge that Lynn no longer needs them. I am not ready for that.

In a comment to a post I wrote shortly before Lynn died, our friend Ann offered a metaphor and prediction that I now hold close to my heart: that, after sitting in my grief for a long while, I will assemble the shattered pieces of my life into a new mosaic, one that includes Lynn (how could it not?) and allows me to move forward. It is no surprise that I am nowhere near that.

I find myself moving between moments of calm and moments of extreme grief as if navigating between the shards, standing first on one and then another, trying to find my balance. But I am complicit in this. When I have felt okay for too long, I feel guilty. I am not ready to be at peace. I want Lynn with me, so I find another shard to stand on where I can feel her loss more keenly.

Sifting Through Pieces of Her Life

I kiss the hard plastic brace, now dirty, which supported her broken neck and cradled her head. And I smell her pillow, where the scent is already beginning to fade. I take out my phone and scroll through the photos in which Google has kindly identified her face.

When I knew Lynn was dying, I started paying attention to the traces of her—her shirt draped over a chair, her toothbrush in its holder, her boots where we dropped them the last time we came home. I was trying to desensitize myself, knowing that once she was gone, these things would trigger my grief. So far that is working; I can look at them without crying.

But grief finds its way in. Last night, friends in the building invited me for dinner. When I got there, I realized this was the first time I’d sat in their dining room without Lynn, the first time her place at their table was empty, and the grief welled up. I cannot desensitize myself from everything. I don’t really want to.

This excerpt is from Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart.  Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

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“Sometimes you have to say enough is enough.”

It is late afternoon. Lynn and I are in the living room, she in her wheelchair, me in a folding chair in front of her. There is one light on, leaving most of the room in shadow.

Dr. Hellman speaks calmly, gently. “If you go back to the hospital now, you will probably never come out,” he says. “The radiation may slow it a little, but there’s just too much cancer. We’re not going to beat it, and the treatments will make you even weaker. If there’s ever a time to stop treatment, this is it.”

Lynn lets out a long sigh, her eyes brimming. Then she nods and says, “Yes, I’m ready. Let’s stop.” Her voice is thick, the words come slowly, and for the first time I acknowledge that it’s not just the pain that is doing this to her but also the tumors in her brain.

Letting Go Together

Part of me can’t believe all our work is over. And yet, it is also a relief. Ever since the cancer began growing again, we’ve been winding a spring tighter and tighter, each turn more difficult than the last, until finally even one more twist is beyond our strength. Now, we can let go and just be together.

Dr. Hellman says he will put in the order for home hospice; we should expect to hear from a social worker in the morning. Lynn asks whether we need to tell Cynthia that she’s not coming in for radiation, and Dr. Hellman says no, he will take care of it.

We hang up and sit quietly for a minute, then I go into the office and write the post to tell our friends. When it’s done, I heat up a light dinner, and for the third time, Lynn and I sit at the small kitchen table holding hands and talking about what’s truly important. We did this seven years ago, after the initial phone call from Dr. Weinstein, and then again when we came back to the city last fall and had to start treatment all over again. Now I think we both know that this is the last time we will get to talk like this.

Getting Closer to Dying

Lynn is still in her wheelchair, clearly experiencing intense pain. She speaks haltingly, in short sentences, as we try to give each other comfort.

We imagine how hospice will play out, what dying will feel like, how I will be afterward, and what I will do. I promise Lynn that, to the extent possible in a state where assisted suicide is against the law, she will have control over her death. All she has to do is stop eating and drinking and the end will come fairly soon. “No matter what happens, I will never force food or liquid into your mouth. If you close your lips, I will understand what that means.”

It is the most important promise I have ever made.

Contradiction at the End

Then it’s Lynn’s turn to say a series of sentences that I don’t interrupt. We are talking about what will happen after she’s gone, when suddenly she says: “I want you to get another girlfriend.” Then she pauses and shakes her head: “No, I don’t want you to have a girlfriend.” Then: “I do want you to have a girlfriend.” And then: “No, I don’t ever want you to have a girlfriend.” And finally, after a longer pause and a more forceful nod, “I want you to have a girlfriend.”

Lynn wants to keep living but knows she can’t; she wants to hold on to me and the cats forever but knows she can’t, and she wants to take care of me as much as I want to take care of her. She wants to give me the comfort of another happy life, another girlfriend, and she also wants me to stay bound to her forever. And she is comfortable enough with the contradiction to let me know both.

This excerpt is from Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart.  Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

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Sunday, September 28, 2014

It’s an unseasonably warm Sunday in late September. I am working at my computer while my wife, Lynn, lies on our bed across the hall, sketching our elderly cat, Jack.

She’s spent a lot of time like that these past two months, feeling increasingly crummy for some reason the doctors can’t figure out. It began as chronic indigestion, then acid reflux, and recently bouts of diarrhea. She’s stopped enjoying her meals and is losing a lot of weight.

Her doctors have given her every kind of scope and scan they can think of— endoscopy, colonoscopy, and gastrointestinal CT—but her internal plumbing looks fine. She also had a spinal MRI last week because of a knot of pain in the middle of her back, but none of them expects much from that. They figure it is “referred pain,” experienced there but originating elsewhere.

When Lynn’s phone rings, I don’t think much of it, but as she speaks her voice tightens. She says, “Hi, Dr. Weinstein,” then, “Yes, I understand,” and finally, “What should I do?”

How Can This Be?

When Lynn hangs up, I walk into the bedroom, where she looks up with a puzzled expression. “That was Dr. Weinstein,” she says, “calling about the MRI. He says there’s something in my spine that shouldn’t be there, and behind it they can see something in my lung that shouldn’t be there. They can’t say for sure, maybe it’s myeloma or some kind of lymphoma, but more likely tumors. I need to see an oncologist right away.”

I am stunned. Lynn is a vibrant, youthful sixty-eight-year-old who moves through the world with a smile on her face. She doesn’t smoke, walks everywhere, easily climbs the five flights of stairs to her studio, and swims sixty lengths in the Columbia University pool five times a week. Just six months ago, she quit her part-time job so she could devote herself to painting full time. How can this be?

Lynn calls her sister but doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, so she asks me to email several of our closest friends and let them know the news. It doesn’t occur to us to keep it a secret.

Then I go to the pool to swim out my fear and frustration – why did these symptoms take so long to figure out? – while Lynn spends the afternoon on our bed, letting the news sink in.

Sweet Memories

Lynn and I met in 1985 at the Columbia University swimming pool in New York City. She was an artist, thirty-nine years old, who supported herself by waiting tables. She had not been in a relationship for some years and had reconciled herself to the likelihood that she would be single for the rest of her life.

I was twenty-nine, a filmmaker, ten years younger, and in the process of getting divorced. I was on the rebound, noticing all the women around me as I tried to reassure myself that my life was not over.

One day Lynn crossed from one lane to another in front of me and I said something like, “Why were you swimming in that lane? You usually swim in a faster one.” Those were the first words I ever spoke to her.

“I was kicking” she replied, so she chose a slower lane.

I thought nothing of it. The next day, when she was doing leg stretches at the end of my lane and I talked to her again, I assumed it was a coincidence.

Later Lynn told me that she was so surprised by this guy paying attention to her, aware of which lane she swam in, that she decided I must be wildly attracted to her. She deliberately stopped and did leg stretches so we would have an opportunity to talk. What she didn’t know was that I was talking to everyone—or at least, to all the cute women—and hadn’t noticed her in particular. This misunderstanding led to our thirty-five-year relationship.

Smart and Funny

I fell for Lynn during our second or third conversation at the end of the lane in the swimming pool. We admitted that we would like to see each other on dry land. I said, “I’m free every night this week except Wednesday, when I have to stay home because I volunteer for the Rape Crisis Intervention Program at St. Luke’s Hospital.” And without missing a beat, she said, “Oh, so you stay home on Wednesday nights and nobody gets raped?”

So quick, so clever, so confident. I mean, who would say such a thing to a near stranger, a joke implying that I must be a rapist, so my staying home would protect women. And how did she know I would find it funny?

This excerpt is from Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart.  Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

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When Ruby Cooper was 16 years old, she gave birth to twins, and she told this story as part of The Moth Radio Hour podcast, https://themoth.org/stories/giving-and-receiving. One baby died at birth and the other was a boy later diagnosed with cerebral palsy. In was 1960, and her son’s doctor recommended that Ruby place her son in an institution so that he could be “with his kind.”

Ruby responded that she was his mother and thus “his kind,” and she would raise him herself. Overwhelmed with the responsibility of raising a son with special needs, she told her mother that she didn’t know what to do. Her mother responded, “We don’t love him because of what he can or can’t do. We love him because he is ours.” And that is what they did.

Ruby outlived her son who lived a full life and died in his 40s.

Death of a Child is Unfair

We do love people because they are ours even when we are unsure how living that love should look. And we love them as they are even when, or if, we might hope that circumstances were different. But almost always if we are witnesses to their death, we wish they had more time and we had more time with them. And perhaps no group knows this better or feels this more deeply than parents who experience the death of a child.

When talking with new-grad nurses at the pediatric hospital where I work, we talk about when children die. I ask them what is different about a child’s death compared to an adult death. How is the death of an 8-day-old or an 8-year-old different than the death of an 80-year-old?  And it’s important to acknowledge that all are sad and leave those left behind with wanting more time.

The new-grad nurses and most people I know think there are differences between a child’s death and the death of an older person. There is an issue of fairness. The older person had the opportunity to make the best they could of life over many years. The child deserved many years, too. There is sometimes the comfort at the end of a long life that there are seasons for being born, growing, living, and dying. Perhaps the “circle of life.” But a child’s death comes too quickly. Bereaved father Gordon Livingston titled the memoir of his son’s brief life appropriately “only spring.”

Survivors Left with Many Questions

When a child dies before the parent, at any age, really, there is a feeling of being “out of order.” As many bereaved parents have commented, children are supposed to bury parents, parents are not supposed to bury children. For the surviving parent, how can the death of their child ever feel anything but wrong?

So, I would suggest that we concede a few things:

When anyone we love dies, almost always, we wish they had more time be that more minutes, hours, days, or years.

The younger the person, the more life and their death can feel unfair.

While we are, almost always, left with questions of why, mostly there are no good answers to be found. As bereaved father Nicholas Wolterstorff writes, to live without answers is “precarious” and our “net of meaning is too small.”

There are no good words to say to make sense of it all or to take away the pain.

All of the above is true, and there is more.

Short Lives have Great Value

The instrument has yet to be devised that comes close to measuring the worth of a single life. The value of a life, no matter how brief, is beyond measure.

There is a wholeness in a life because it is a life. It is not less whole because it is limited by quantity or quality. No single life, however notable, includes every possible human experience. We are all limited and yet can all be whole. Our lives can be whole even when we leave things undone and potential unfulfilled because this is fundamental to who we are, to being human. We are mortal and we are limited no matter how long our lives may be. In this way, in nature we are all the same.

In Tom Stoppard’s play, The Cost of Utopia, he has his character, again a bereaved father, say these words: Because children grow up, we think that a child’s purpose is to grow up. But a child’s purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn’t disdain what only lives for a day. It pours the whole of itself into each moment…

In the beautiful children’s book, Lifetimes, it is explained this way: There is a beginning and an ending for everything that is alive. In between is living…So, no matter how long they are, or how short, lifetimes are really all the same. They have beginnings, and endings, and there is living in between.

Every Life is Whole

There are limitations worthy of grief in every life no matter how brief or long because life is always limited. Every life can also be considered whole.

That’s because every life has unmeasurable value. Every life has meaning. Every life has its own wholeness.

These hard-won insights offer some comfort even as they do not erase the pain we feel when a life ends too soon.

For we bereaved parents, perhaps writer and parent Andrew Solomon says it as well as anyone…

Most of us believe that our children are the children we had to have; we could have had no others. They will never seem to us to be happenstance; we love them because they are our destiny. Even when they are flawed, do wrong, hurt us, die—even then, they are part of the rightness by which we measure our own lives. Indeed, they are the rightness by which we measure life itself, and they bring us to life as profoundly as we do them.

And bereaved mother, Ebony Cobin, speaks for so many of the bereaved, especially parents, as she writes of the much too short life of her daughter, Madison: “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about the life I had. If it was an option, I’d do it over and over again.”

Reach Greg Adams at the Center for Good Mourning: www.archildrens.org

Read more from Greg Adams: Hope is a Muscle – Open to Hope

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Grief is ugly. It is raw, relentless, and merciless. It does not come gently or leave quietly. Grief stormed into my life like a natural disaster, shattering everything I once knew and leaving me with a version of myself I no longer recognize. It did not ask for permission and knew no boundaries.

Grief is powerful and invades my entire body. It gives pain a new definition. Grief makes me cry until I am tearless and gasping to breathe. Until every muscle in my body aches from the sobbing, and I feel hollow. The emptiness it creates is indescribable. It does not let go quickly and clings to every fiber of my existence in ways I could never have imagined. It is inescapable and shows up in unexpected moments like a song, a scent, a sound, or a fleeting moment bringing waves that drown me.

Lesson One: Grief is a Felon

Grief is a thief. Grief stole my daughter. It robbed the future dreams, imagined and present, with no more memories to create. It stole my joy, my sense of security and stability. Grief took the light out of my days and left me lost in darkness with no hope. It lives in every corner, leaving a vacancy never to be filled. Grief gives a depth of loneliness I never knew I would experience.

Grief gives me anger and rage. Feelings that I never encountered in my life before. The screams of my Grief still echo in my mind, haunting me even after all these years. I am still learning how to deal with this emotion that lives deep in my soul, and it is like a spark of fire ready to be ignited at any given time.

Grief clouds my mind and makes me feel detached from the world. I get confused and can’t express my thoughts. My memory is interrupted by Grief, and I lose everything. I feel like I am crazy, and it is frightening. I don’t trust myself.

Lesson Two: Grief is Frightening

Grief fills me with daily fear—fear of loss and fear of living with its relenting presence. I am so afraid. And I feel frozen and vulnerable to life. I always say I am naked to the forces of life; the worst has happened. My daughter is gone. Grief devastated my world, and now I am I am at its mercy.

Grief makes me sad and depressed. It gives me anxiety attacks that control my movement, whether I am in a parking lot, shopping mall, or anywhere. The triggers of Grief are unpredictable and inescapable. I am still learning how to manage such a disaster. Grief, you are to blame.

Grief makes me not want to be here. I want to be with my Andrea, wherever she is. I even considered removing myself from my suffering of Grief, but My God heard my cries, and I stayed.

Lesson Three: Grief is Physical

Grief makes me physically sick. Some days, I feel weak with the profound effect of the heavy emotions. Some days I don’t eat, and some days I overeat. My physical needs are obsolete. I am sure Grief will be the reason for my new physical ailments. Grief took my decision-making away from those things. It is guilty of turning my world into chaos.

Grief destroys my sleep, and my bed is like a torture chamber. When I close my eyes, I see my daughter’s life and feel the vacancy in my heart. I have nightmares of sweating and crying. Thank-you Grief. Grief takes away my relaxation, my comfort, and need for rest. It is rude and disrespectful.

Grief has stripped me to the core and forced me to rebuild my life from nothing. I have no navigation for this road of Grief. All I have left are broken pieces that lay before me with despair unknown to many. I am at my weakest point. How do I find strength? How do I be the conqueror and win this battle? What do I have that will guide me on this unknown road and allow me to have power over Grief?

Lesson Four: Grief is a Teacher

Grief has stolen so much, but Grief is a great teacher. It has reshaped my world with lessons I never knew I needed.

Grief has changed me. I am more aware of the present. Today is our little piece of time, and it is what I choose to do with the present moment that defines success in my Grief. It has taught me that life is fragile and precious. I nourish life and love and carry Andrea with our relationship every step forward. Grief has taught me to be grateful, for life is a gift. My daughter is a gift, and I am blessed to be her mother.

Grief has taught me that we are all unique and grieve differently. No one’s Grief journey is the same, and that is ok. I can be gentle and compassionate with myself when I cry or withdraw and take as long as needed.

Grief is Inspirational

Grief has taught me that healing is about accepting that some days will be calm and others will bring unexpected waves that knock me off my feet. It is about holding love and loss in the same breath. I have learned that Grief and love can co-exist in my heart. Grief has taught me that love and loss are inseparable. The love my daughter and I have is eternal and untouched by death. It is my beacon that guides even the darkest day.

Grief has brought me to a place where I recognize strength that I never possessed before. Part of me died with Andrea. I had to re-grow, become a new version, and rediscover joy with Hope. As time pushed me along, I realized the power within that was always there. Now, I take the tiny moments, like a smile or the birds singing, and let them take space because I will not let Grief have the final say. I am grateful for life, I am courageous, and I am resilient.

Grief gave me a new motto: Embrace the Moments. Cherish the Memories. Hope for Tomorrow.

Linda Henderson is the author of Amazon.com: The Road of Love & Hope: The Journey of Child Loss eBook : Henderson, Linda: Kindle Store

Read more about hope: Finding Hope Through Breathwork – Open to Hope

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The discussion centers on the deep pain and continuing impact of losing a sibling. The conversation gathers heartfelt stories, personal reflections, and practical advice from those who have experienced such a loss. The dialogue touches on the challenges of grief, how sibling loss shapes personal identity, and ways to remember those who have passed. The speakers share how these losses have altered the course of their lives and offer inspiration for others dealing with similar emotions.

Sharing Personal Journeys

Several individuals recount their experiences with sibling loss. Among the speakers is a host who is a doctor, along with her daughter, who also co-hosts the conversation. They invite two guests, both of whom have lost siblings at a young age. Their honest testimonials bring forward the pain, confusion, and eventual acceptance that many feel in the wake of such a tragedy.

One guest, a seasoned writer, recounts the loss of her only sibling in 1999 when he passed away due to complications involving drugs and alcohol. At 24, she returned to her childhood home to support her grieving family, and soon observed that the loss was often minimized by others.

“People kept telling me to be strong for my parents. It felt like there was an invisible script that everyone recited at my brother’s memorial service,” she stated.

Her experience left her with the feeling that the grief of siblings is frequently overshadowed by the focus on parental loss.

Another guest recalled the tragic hiking accident that claimed her brother’s life when she was only 10 years old. Despite growing up surrounded by family, she was left with a lingering sense of isolation. The casual dismissal of her emotions by even close relatives deepened her sorrow. She remembered moments when her overwhelming feelings were met with impatience, as one cousin urged her to “get over it” shortly after the memorial.

The Enduring Impact of Loss

The conversation emphasizes that the loss of a sibling remains a long-lasting influence. The speakers remark that the pain does not vanish over time, but the space for grief can grow in such a way that it begins to coexist with cherished memories. One speaker poignantly noted,

“I miss him every step of the way—from family reunions to major life milestones like weddings and graduations. His absence is felt like a presence, a reminder of all that once was.”

The discussion highlights that the impact of a sibling’s death persists regardless of the time elapsed. Even after many years, the grief remains intertwined with the joy of remembering shared moments. The loss marks a permanent change: life milestones, celebrations, and even everyday moments feel incomplete without the presence of a beloved sibling.

Challenges in Grieving

One major theme in the conversation is the struggle to find proper space for grief. The grief of those who have lost a sibling is often minimized by friends, family members, and society at large. There is an unspoken expectation to suppress personal sorrow in favor of consoling others who are also grieving. This tendency forces individuals to diminish their own expressions of loss in order to uphold the emotional needs of others.

The guests describe the emotionally challenging process of learning to honor their own grief while being expected to support family members who are mourning. The feeling of being forced to “be strong” for others often results in a situation where personal sorrow is left unrecognized. The speakers share that this can lead to feelings of isolation and confusion about whether one’s own grief is valid.

Key challenges mentioned include:

• A strong expectation to comfort primary caregivers instead of processing the loss oneself.
• The minimization of the grief of siblings when compared to the loss experienced by parents.
• The emotional conflict of needing to remember a loved one while also being urged to move on quickly.

Living with Loss and Honoring Memories

The speakers discuss how memory and remembrance serve as powerful tools to keep the connection with lost siblings alive. They stress that speaking the name of a deceased sibling can evoke a comforting presence and make the loss feel acknowledged. One guest shared,

“When I started saying my brother’s name aloud, I felt a presence that brought me both tears and a sense of comfort.”

Another guest who lost her brother as a young child noted that over time, her life has become a living tribute to him. She explained that even though the pain has not disappeared, she has learned to live with it. The process has led her to develop a deeper appreciation for life and to treasure the memories shared with her sibling. These emotions demonstrate that while the sorrow of loss remains, it can also inspire personal growth and resilience.

The Role of Community and Shared Experiences

The conversation extends to the importance of finding and building supportive communities for those dealing with similar loss. One initiative mentioned involves a website that was created to provide resources and a sense of community for those who have lost a sibling. This platform offers information, shared essays, and virtual book clubs where people can discuss their journeys and learn from one another.

The guests highlight that when siblings come together to validate each other’s grief, it can pave the way for healing. They point out that the loss of a sibling is not only a personal tragedy but also a shared experience that many others understand. Through online communities, social media live sessions, and collaborative events, individuals can find comfort and validation for their feelings.

Some of the helpful community resources include:

• A dedicated website for those navigating sibling loss.
• Regular online gatherings and book clubs focusing on shared experiences.
• Social media series that give a platform for sharing personal narratives.

Transforming Tragedy into Inspiration

For many who have experienced sibling loss, the tragedy has also been a catalyst for creative expression and advocacy. The speakers have channeled their grief into writing and public speaking. One speaker has been published widely on topics related to sibling loss and even served as a columnist for well-known online journals for over a decade. Her writings have opened up discussions and provided solace for many experiencing similar grief.

Another guest has turned her pain into action by hosting weekly discussions on social media. Through her series, she helps others see that the memory of a lost sibling can be honored and carried forward. Both speakers have collaborated on an essay collection that draws on the experiences of grieving siblings. The book is described as a collection of thoughts on loss, love, and hope, and stands as a reminder that the bonds of siblinghood are lasting and deeply influential.

Reflecting on Life’s Milestones Without a Sibling

The speakers reflect on the bittersweet nature of life milestones. They discuss how moments such as weddings, graduations, and family reunions are permanently marked by the absence of a sibling. These events are filled with mixed emotions where pride and celebration are intertwined with a palpable sense of loss.

In recounting their personal experiences, one guest explained that she continually feels the gap left by her sibling during important moments. Another described the complex feelings that arise when a loss in one area of life reawaken memories of a sibling who is no longer present to share these experiences. The ongoing impact is a reminder that even as life moves forward, the memory of a sibling stays with us. Their influence persists in shaping values, memories, and personal identities.

Advice for Those Navigating Grief

The conversation also offers practical guidance for anyone struggling with the loss of a sibling. The speakers encourage individuals not to shy away from naming their lost loved ones. Uttering the name can serve as a meaningful act of remembrance. One guest advised simply, “Say their name.” This simple act can bridge the gap between loss and loving memory.

Another piece of advice offered is to recognize that the grief one feels, even if it seems overwhelming, is a natural and important part of cherishing the past. The speakers encourage others to accept that the pain may not grow smaller with time but that there can be more space around it as life moves on. This growing space provides an opportunity for finding comfort and building a life that still honors what was lost.

In addition to personal acts of remembrance, the guests also advocate for reaching out to supportive communities. They stress the importance of talking openly about one’s experiences and not feeling compelled to hide true feelings to meet others’ expectations. Even when the grief feels isolating, sharing it in a community where others understand can foster resilience and a renewed outlook on life.

The Broader Message

The discussion conveys a broad message about the value of acknowledging and respecting the pain of sibling loss. It challenges the expectation that one should quickly move past personal grief. The speakers make it clear that allowing oneself to experience the depth of that loss is an important step toward healing.

The dialogue underscores that the pain of losing a sibling is a lifelong companion. While the grief remains, it also offers a path to grow in strength, appreciate life’s moments, and cherish personal connections. The speakers assert that each memory, whether joyful or sorrowful, serves as a reminder that the lost sibling continues to influence their lives.

This conversation brings to light several important points:

• A single loss can affect every aspect of life.
• The importance of naming and remembering the lost loved one.
• The benefit of community support in overcoming feelings of isolation.
• Finding a way to let grief coexist with the life that continues.

Looking Forward With Resilience

The speakers demonstrate that while the loss of a sibling marks a permanent change, it also opens up paths to personal resilience. They have chosen to use their experiences to connect with others and provide support. Their efforts in writing, hosting live discussions, and leading community initiatives illustrate how personal tragedies can foster meaningful conversations about grief and healing.

Their work has created a network of support for those suffering from similar losses, ensuring that the voices of grieving siblings are heard and valued. The recognition of this kind of grief serves as a reminder that every form of loss is significant, and that those who experience sibling loss deserve time and space to mourn.

While the pain of losing a sibling remains, the speakers encourage others to find a way to honor that loss every day. Over time, the spirit of those who have passed on continues to live through memories, conversations, and shared human connections.

Moving Beyond the Pain

In reflecting on their journeys, the panel emphasizes that the experience of sibling loss does not need to end in despair. There is a possibility to transform the deep sorrow into a source of strength and compassion. Grieving individuals learn to live with the constant presence of loss and, in turn, become more empathetic and caring toward others facing similar challenges.

Their personal journeys highlight that growth and healing often come from confronting and accepting sorrow. One guest acknowledged that she has spent many years questioning whether she would ever overcome the loss, only to realize that living fully means integrating that absence into her life narrative. The resilience that emerges from such experiences can inspire others to acknowledge their own grief, work through it, and eventually find new meaning in life.

This conversation has shed light on the inexorable impact of sibling loss. It emphasizes that while grief may linger, it also contributes to a deeper understanding of life, relationships, and personal strength. The speaker’s narratives highlight that the memory of a lost sibling can guide future decisions, becoming part of a legacy that shapes who they are and how they connect with those around them.

A Final Reflection

The dialogue on sibling loss serves as both a tribute and a guide. It reminds the reader that every moment of loss is interwoven with love and that each individual’s journey is unique. The speakers urge others not to let societal expectations minimize their personal sorrow. Instead, they advocate for honoring the deep connections of sibling relationships without reservation.

The stories and advice shared in this conversation provide a compassionate outlook on grief and loss. Every story shared is a beacon for those who feel isolated in their mourning. The enduring effects of losing a sibling prompt an ongoing transformation in how life is experienced—with remembrance and a quiet strength that emerges over time.

Though the loss remains a constant reminder, the focus on building supportive communities and fostering open discussion helps ensure that no one has to suffer in silence. The speakers encourage everyone to seek support and talk about their memories openly.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How can one cope with the loss of a sibling?

Many find that speaking the name of the lost sibling helps maintain a connection. Seeking support from communities and sharing memories also provide comfort during grief.

Q: Where can someone find support or community after experiencing sibling loss?

There are dedicated online platforms, discussion groups, and book clubs that focus on navigating and sharing the journey of sibling loss. These spaces allow individuals to connect with others who have similar experiences.

Q: What advice is offered for remembering a lost sibling?

A common suggestion is to simply say the sibling’s name and honor their memory through regular remembrance. This act can evoke warm memories and help integrate the loss into one’s ongoing life narrative.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

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Dr. Melissa Red Hoffman, an acute care surgeon at Mission Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina, shares her powerful story of surviving two traumatic losses and finding meaning in their aftermath. As one of only 90 surgeons board-certified in hospice and palliative medicine, her unique perspective bridges the gap between acute trauma care and end-of-life support.

A Life-Altering Loss

At age 19, Dr. Hoffman experienced her first devastating loss when her father was murdered in Cairo, Egypt. He was 47 years old, on a business trip working on a pipeline between Egypt and Israel, when he was shot at a restaurant along with two colleagues. This senseless act of violence, perpetrated by a radicalized individual, would set Dr. Hoffman on an unexpected path.

While the immediate aftermath was overwhelming, Dr. Hoffman gradually discovered that her father’s death influenced her career choice as a trauma surgeon. This realization took nearly two decades to fully crystallize, but it demonstrated how profound loss can shape one’s life purpose in unexpected ways.

A Second Tragic Turn

Twenty-seven years after losing her father, Dr. Hoffman faced another traumatic loss when her partner of five years died by suicide following a severe traumatic brain injury. As a trauma surgeon who regularly treated patients with similar injuries, the irony was not lost on her. Despite witnessing this devastating event, her previous experience with grief provided her with crucial tools for survival.

Within days of her partner’s death, Dr. Hoffman sought professional help, understanding the importance of immediate therapeutic support. She engaged in intensive therapy for 18 months, demonstrating how prior experience with loss can inform healthier coping strategies.

Finding Purpose in Pain

Dr. Hoffman’s personal experiences have profoundly influenced her medical practice. She now divides her time between trauma surgery and hospice care, viewing them as complementary aspects of the healthcare continuum. When she cannot save a life in trauma care, she focuses on providing dignity and support in death.

Her work extends beyond direct patient care to supporting families through their grief journey. She recognizes that the care provided before a patient’s death significantly impacts how families process their loss. This understanding stems from her personal experience with traumatic loss and her professional expertise.

Navigating Traumatic Loss

Dr. Hoffman identifies several unique challenges associated with traumatic deaths:

• Increased sense of isolation due to the sudden and violent nature of the loss
• Complicated involvement with law enforcement, court systems, and media
• Difficulty finding others who understand the specific challenges of traumatic loss
• Heightened feelings of vulnerability and fear about personal safety

Essential Advice for Survivors

For those experiencing traumatic loss, Dr. Hoffman offers three crucial pieces of guidance:

• Trust in survival: Despite feeling overwhelmed, remember that you will survive this loss
• Allow time for meaning-making: Finding purpose after loss may take years or decades – there’s no need to rush the process
• Seek professional help: Connect with a trauma-informed therapist early in the grieving process

Through her podcast, “The Surgical Soul,” and her TEDx talk on making meaning after violent death, Dr. Hoffman continues to share her insights and experiences, helping others navigate their own journeys through loss and healing.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How can someone cope with the immediate aftermath of a traumatic loss?

The initial period requires acknowledging that the world may feel unsafe and scary. Focus on basic survival needs and seek immediate professional support from a trauma-informed therapist who can help process the experience and emotions.

Q: What role does professional therapy play in healing from traumatic loss?

Professional therapy, particularly with a trauma-informed specialist, helps survivors articulate their feelings, reduce isolation, and develop coping strategies. Early intervention can significantly impact the healing journey and provide essential tools for processing grief.

Q: How long should someone expect to grieve after a traumatic loss?

There is no standard timeline for grief, especially following traumatic loss. The process of healing and finding meaning can take years or even decades. It’s important to allow yourself to experience grief fully without rushing the process or comparing your journey to others.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

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The Grief of the loss of my daughter deeply embedded itself in my soul. The loss of a child is a profound, life-altering experience. The journey through this loss is one of unimaginable pain that seeps into every cell of existence. The unbearable despair of Grief makes Hope inconceivable and feels unreachable. The weight of Grief is suffocating, making it seem impossible to see any light.

Understanding Grief

Grief is a whole-body experience. The harsh impact attacks a person with changes that influence us physically, emotionally, cognitively, socially, and in every way possible. Depression, sadness, anger, fear, guilt, and many other emotions consume our existence. These emotions are unregulated and leave one feeling helpless. What we once knew as stability, confidence, and security has vanished. We must learn to navigate through the devastation and complexity of Grief, which is overwhelming and frightening.

Grief is like being lost in the forest, in unfamiliar territory with no navigation system or tools for guidance. The darkness is beyond comprehension with Grief’s confusion and fog; the task of survival feels insurmountable.

Finding Hope is not Linear

Remember, Grief is not linear, and there is no right or wrong way to grieve.

Grief is as unique as a fingerprint; the loss, family, personality, and many other factors influence the personal grief journey.

It is essential to know that you are not alone. Many have walked the painful road; some are ahead, and some are behind. Although the loneliness is individual, it is reassuring that there is a community of people who understand because they, too, are experiencing the painful process.

The Darkness is Normal

It is vital to know that what you are feeling is normal. Expect every emotion to be intense because the vacancy in your life gives a valid reason. Feeling overwhelmed and disorientated with the fierce emotions is normal. Grief has significantly disrupted the cognitive part of the brain. You are not going “crazy”. You are grieving.

Developing resilience involves learning skills, creating a positive outlook, and finding new meaning and purpose. Remember, Love is the most potent force in the universe. Grief is a continuation of Love and our connection with our loved ones.

What is Hope?

Hope is an anchor in the journey of Grief. Finding Hope isn’t about expecting the pain to vanish but believing you can find purpose again one day. It is not denying the loss but the quiet belief that a better future is possible despite the profound pain.

Hope is the key to resilience and rebuilding a changed life. It involves motivation and determination to achieve goals by identifying and planning them. By doing this, individuals focus on the positive and not the negative while moving forward to Hope.

The magic is believing in the power within. The depth of Grief and pain feels unbearable, leaving a person broken. I remember seeing only darkness, and there was no sign of light. Through the years, I have leaned into the fact that the sun is behind every dark cloud and will illuminate its rays through the storms of Grief.

Hope must be cultivated, like embers glowing that can ignite brightness in the dark, even amid unimaginable loss.

In my journey, I searched for a way forward while honoring my daughter and our Love. I realized three essential pillars that gave me a foundation for healing and Hope. What I call “The Triple A” framework has helped me navigate the darkness and step toward reclaiming Hope. Acknowledging the reality and emotions and taking actionable steps can shift one’s perspective to appreciation. When this happens, one can learn to appreciate life’s small joys, gain control, and discover that Hope exists.

Acknowledgment: the First Pillar of Finding Hope in the Darkness

Acknowledgment is facing reality with honesty and truth, no matter how painful. It is the first step in the healing process. The acknowledgment says, “This Love is real, this relationship mattered, and my loss will forever change my heart. Essentially, it is proof of Love.

I remember when I faced the reality that my daughter would never walk through my door again. The silence followed the shock in my brain. My world stopped, and I was frozen. I thought I couldn’t bear the never-ending tears, piercing screams, and emptiness”. As time progressed, I continued to express all the emotions: anger, fear, anxiety, all of it. I allowed the release of raw, intense pain without guilt or explanation.

When we begin the unthinkable process of feeling the emotions, it validates the pain, Love, and relationship. Identifying the feelings by naming them, “I feel sad and depressed, or “I’m empty, or I’m lost,” gives recognition to Grief. It is vital not to rush through or hide the pain; be patient and gentle when giving Grief space. Acknowledgment allows one to understand the pain as we regain control. It takes time and repetition with both good and bad days. Understanding that feeling every emotion is cathartic as we move toward Hope. Acknowledgment is challenging, but it is the first step in facing what it is and opening the space for light.

Action: the Second Pillar of Hope

Hope doesn’t just happen; it starts with a small glimmer in the darkness. It is like planting seeds that must be nurtured and cared for, and then we see the growth in time. We need to nurture Hope with actions, patience, and perseverance. Remembering action doesn’t have to be a grand motion is imperative. It starts with setting small, achievable goals that create momentum toward Hope and decrease Grief’s weight.

Whatever these small actions look like, it is the power of doing. It can be bed-making, stepping outside and feeling the sun’s warmth, brushing your teeth, drinking fluids to hydrate your body, or any action that moves you from the darkness of pain to the present.

It can be creating space for your loved one that gives honor, like volunteering or doing a memory project, reaching out for support, and being around like-minded people. Remember to celebrate progress as small victories; they move you closer to Hope. Give yourself compassion with respect, and accept setbacks. Tiny steps will lead to tomorrow and awaken your heart to Hope.

Appreciation: the Third Pillar

Navigating Grief is challenging, but acknowledging feelings and taking small positive actions will give clarity and strength. Embracing gratitude doesn’t mean it no longer hurts. It is moving through the Grief, knowing that it is possible to thrive even with pain to honor your loved one. Appreciation opens the heart to joy, and I learned that joy and pain can co-exist.

When I take the time to hear a bird singing, see the colors of nature, feel the sand between my toes, and touch my grandchild’s face, I am grateful for my life amidst the pain. When I say her name,” Andrea,” I am thankful to be her mom

Grief is ugly, and Grief is messy. Grief is a thief, and it stole my daughter a piece of my existence. But it is a teacher, and I have learned many lessons. The most significant one is that life is a gift.

Yesterday is gone, tomorrow may never come, and living today is a gift. I take my broken pieces and embrace the moments. I appreciate the present. Take the time to find beauty in the shattered places. When we nurture gratitude, we are nurturing Hope.

Linda Henderson is the author of Amazon.com: The Road of Love & Hope: The Journey of Child Loss eBook : Henderson, Linda: Kindle Store

Read more about hope: Finding Hope Through Breathwork – Open to Hope

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On January 11, 2003, I sat on my father’s bed chatting with him at the Mercer Island Care Center. At age 80, he was attempting to recover from a bout of pneumonia. At around 9:30 pm, I kissed him good-bye, got up from the bed and said I’d see him tomorrow. I can still see him lying in the bed, waving to me, both of us feeling assured that we would indeed be together tomorrow.

At 6:30 am the next day, I received a call from the nurse saying that he was having a hard time breathing and, since I had Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare, the medics would be calling me in a few minutes to confirm that they would intubate him. I hung up and minutes later the call came stating that he was otherwise okay and, with my permission, they would intubate him on the way to the hospital or when they arrived.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was shockingly informed that Dad’s heart had given out during the ambulance ride. A few minutes later, my siblings and I gathered in the emergency, sobbing as we touched and hugged the lifeless body of our father.

Guilt about Being Absent

A day or two later, in the throes of my grief, as I reflected back on the events, I felt an emotion begin to well up inside of me: Guilt. Yes, I was guilty. Of what? Of not being there when my father took his last breath.

I was his first-born. His son. He trusted me. I was always there for him. There when he had a massive stroke at age 52. There when the NBA Seattle Sonics lost game after game in the 80s and 90s. And there when my mother, his wife of 46 years took her last breath. And, here he was in an ambulance with strangers literally taking the last breath of his life, and where was I? Ten miles away.

Guilt spoke to me as it said, “What kind of son are you that would let his father die with strangers? He needed you to be there to be holding his hand, to be giving him words of comfort, telling him it was okay to go.”

I knew guilt well. I’d even written a small book on it. Yet, here I was immersed in it. During the early days of grief, I often revisited the guilt scenario: Why didn’t I tell the Care Center staff that I would jump in my car and meet the medic folks and ride with my dad to the hospital? The answer came in the form of something called Hindsight Bias, which of course says, “It’s easy to look back and say what you should have done, knowing what you know now.” All I knew at that time was that they needed to help Dad and asking them to wait for me would have delayed the process.

Guilt Not Always Logical

Did this logical explanation suddenly free me from feeling guilty? Heck no. To this day, years later, despite the logic, there are times when I still feel twinges of guilt. What has this taught me? That despite the facts, Guilt is still a feeling. And feelings often defy logic. One of the things that did help me was writing a letter to Dad, telling him how I would have given anything to have been there.

I still miss him.  And I’m sure, all these years later, he’s looking down at me as I type this saying, “Bobby, I know you did your best.”

Excerpted from The Crying Handbook: Bob Baugher, Ph.D., Darcie Sims, Ph.D.: 9780963597564: Amazon.com: Books

Read more from Bob: An Introduction to Crying – Open to Hope

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My son, Michael, was born 30 years ago today.  It would have been amazing to see what he would have looked like.   I often dream about what he would be doing with his life.  Married?  Kids?  Or…  still living at home?!?

Well, he is still at home.  His stocking is on my fireplace at Christmas.  His picture is on the mantle and in my home office.  Michael is also at work, in my wallet, and on the internet.  His rap CD, just recently created from old cassette tapes,  is being heard by others for the first time.  And people who never had the opportunity to know him, feel that their lives have been blessed through him.

So I do see what Michael looks like on this special day, his 30th birthday.   Together, we continue to share a story.  He helps me to grow and evolve from within. He is there to guide me when I feel down and there to celebrate my successes.  And he has blessed my family tremendously by helping them to heal.  Michael has a powerful presence in the lives of my friends, many of whom feel that they know him without ever having met him.

Peace on His Birthday

I can truly say that this is the first time in 12 years, that I feel at peace on his birthday.  Funny, it’s his birthday, but my son has given me a gift.  Knowing that,  what could I possibly give him today?  Well… I do have the perfect present for him.  It’s what he’s been asking for since July 22, 1998.  It just took time, patience, and a lot of real, hard, life-changing work to get this gift just right.

Today, I honor and celebrate the life of my son, Michael, by living my own life with more passion, purpose and pride than I had ever imagined.

Happy Birthday, Michael!  You continue to make a difference in my life, and now you do the same for so many others.  In more ways than you and I can imagine.

I love you Michael (Skeeter), my son, my friend, my love!  — Dad

Ron Villano 2011

Read more from Ron on Open to Hope: Heavenly Peace: How One Man’s Grief Journey has Taught Him Well – Open to Hope

Check out Ron’s website: Ron Villano | Counseling

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Question: I tearfully happened upon your website by chance this morning.  My dearest friend, my mom, died in my arms this past month.  I had brought her here to live with me after her colon cancer returned. From the moment of diagnosis, I watched her hurt and endure so much treatment, never giving up, always smiling, always gentle, humble. 

Since she died, I’ve received very little support from my husband or anyone else.   I joined an online grief group, but I do not feel as if I belong there.  My friends have faded away.  You would be surprised how people fade away, even in church, when someone is thrust into caregiving.  I feel little support for mother-loss. I do not understand. What am I doing wrong?  My heart is breaking—where do I turn?  I want to know it is okay to cry and that I will still be loved.  I want to know that I can be distant in my sorrow and still be loved—not rejected.  Can you help me to understand?

Response to Feeling Little Support for Mother-Loss

Please accept my deepest sympathy for the loss of your beloved mother, and for your feeling of little support for mother-loss.  I’m so sorry that you feel so isolated and alone.  I know that with an overwhelming sense of missing your mother comes the crushing awareness of all you’ve lost.  You’d give anything to be together again, if only long enough to be relieved of your loneliness, and to be reassured that your mother is still a part of your life.

You say that you’ve received little if any support from your spouse and others.  In the wake of loss, it is not unusual to feel isolated, different and apart from everyone else, convinced that no one understands, and you must grieve alone.   This is partly because our culture isn’t comfortable with the subject of death, and few of us know how to cope with the pain of loss and grief.  We don’t permit or encourage the free expression of sorrow.  Instead, we learn to control our feelings and hide our pain, so we won’t disturb other people.

You may be reluctant to turn to others, either because you haven’t learned to accept or ask for help, or because you’re afraid others won’t know what to do with your feelings. If they’re unfamiliar with the intensity and duration of grief or uncomfortable with the expression of strong emotions, they may offer only meaningless platitudes or clichés, change the subject or avoid you altogether.   Some people you know may be done with your grieving long before you are, expecting you to be “over it by now” or worrying that you’re somehow “hanging on” to your grief.

People are Afraid of Death

Your disappointment in your church reminds me of something I once heard at a conference, from a colleague who’s provided bereavement consultation and training to thousands of counselors and therapists the world over.  He told of a case he was struggling with because his grieving client felt completely alienated from her religious faith (she was a Roman Catholic).

Because the therapist was Jewish, he felt compelled to refer this woman to a colleague who happened to be a Catholic nun, as well as a fellow grief counselor at the hospice where they both worked at the time.  When the nun met with his client, she told the woman that if she never set foot in another church for the rest of her life, she was still a child of God and God still loved her.  That statement, coming from a nun, was exactly what the woman needed to hear, broke the log-jam and served to help her move along in her grieving process.

I share this with you because I want to normalize the alienation you are feeling, especially in the face of the rejection and neglect you felt from your church community.  I want to gently suggest to you that the rejection you felt came from the human beings in your church, not from God.  And I also want you to know that it is normal and healthy to question your own basic spiritual beliefs when you lose someone you love to death—please see, for example, my article, Religion and Spirituality in Grief.

Suggestions for Coping with Mother-Loss

I’d also like to offer some suggestions for coping with the loneliness and isolation you are feeling:

• Think about who is supportive to you in your environment and what gives your life purpose and direction (family members, pets, relatives, friends, neighbors, co-workers, teachers, colleagues, clubs, athletic activities, groups, church groups, support groups, bereavement counselor). With whom are you most comfortable, and who is the most comfortable (accepting and caring) with your grief? Look for those who will listen without judging you, or for those who have suffered a similar loss.
• Find time with others to talk, to touch, to receive support. Be honest with others about what you’re feeling. Allow yourself to express your sadness rather than masking it.
• Don’t expect your husband (or others) to guess what you need. When you want to be touched, held, hugged, listened to or pampered, say so.
• If all you want from others is help with simple errands, tasks, and repairs, say so.
• Let others (especially children) know if and when you need to be alone, so they won’t feel rejected.
• Go somewhere and have a good, long cry— and do it as often as you wish. You have every right to miss the person who has died. Accept your feelings as normal.

More Suggestions

• Find time alone to process what’s happened: to remember, to dream, and to think.
• Identify your loneliest times, and think of how you can alter your routines and environment (for example, rearrange the furniture in a room; plan your weekends ahead of time; use your microwave for quick, easy meals).
• While some folks really are thoughtless and don’t think before they speak, bear in mind that many well meaning individuals have yet to experience a significant loss, so they really don’t know what grief feels like, or how to respond, or what to say. They aren’t deliberately trying to hurt you. You can choose to bear with such people, you can enlighten them about what you know of grief, or you can look to others who are more understanding to find the support you need.
• Realize that no one can totally understand the relationship you had with your mother.
• Ask people to remember, talk about and share stories about your mother with you.

No Wrong Way to Grieve

You’re not doing anything “wrong,” my dear—you simply haven’t yet found the information, comfort and support that you need and deserve.  There is plenty of good help “out there”—you just need a little guidance in how to find it.  See, for example, Finding Grief Support That Is Right for You.

Make a commitment to yourself to learn all you can about the normal grief process, so you’ll have a better understanding of why you’re feeling as you do, and you’ll discover how to better manage your reactions.  See, for example, my Grief Healing Web site.  Check out my site’s Death of a Parent page and visit some of the resources listed there.

I hope this information proves helpful to you, my dear.  Please know that you are not as alone as you might think.  I, for one, am thinking of you this moment, and holding you in my heart.

Reach Marty through her Web sites, http://www.griefhealing.com and http://www.www.griefhealingdiscussiongroups.com/, or her Blog, http://griefhealingblog.com/.

Read more from Marty on Open to Hope: Widow Fears Sharing Thoughts of Suicide – Open to Hope

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I was taken captive by life and death at the age of twenty-one.

My identical twin sister Paula and I faced life together for twenty-one years. We never imagined life without the other. As twins, we had an unspoken pact to care for one another. When she died suddenly in a small plane crash, I questioned who I was in the world without her. Could I even function in life without my twin?

Our losses are as unique and personal as our love. All bereavement experiences are different. For me, grieving for my sister came many years after she died. This does not negate the importance of who she was in my life.

Twin Loss is Overlooked

Sibling loss can be overlooked at times. Left behind are a silent group of survivors – sisters and brothers who don’t feel entitled to their grief or are not capable of expressing it. Postponing grief can be the result. Children and teens are especially vulnerable, and post-traumatic stress syndrome can present a roadblock in their healing.

I am a veteran of loss. All of my siblings died when I was in my twenties. We all mourn in our own way and in our own time; each journey is unique. And mine is a perfect example of that.

A drunk driver killed my brother Peter. He was my protector, my all-knowing older brother. I looked up to him and we formed a close connection after my sister died. My newborn son had just met my cool older brother and instantly his uncle was removed from his life forever. To lose a twin is a compound loss.

Twin Loss Plus Sibling Loss

My brother’s death came eight years after I experienced the death of my identical twin Paula. The problem is I didn’t really experience the death of my twin at the time it happened. I cannot stress this enough; I did not cry and I did not mourn for my sister at the innocent, yet invincible age of twenty-one.

My two siblings both died in sudden accidents, of a traumatic nature. A decade later, my mother and father died from cancer. My entire family of origin was taken prematurely. I grieved for my parents and for my brother directly after theirs deaths. This was not the case when my twin sister died.

Neither the support nor the tools to grieve were available to me at the time of my sister’s death. A support group was not an option in the early 1970s. I was frozen in my expression of grief. My feelings of pain and sorrow were something I was not capable of owning. I ran away from the pain, only to have this delayed grief resurface years later. As I grieved for my brother, I simultaneously grieved for my twin sister.

Stifling the Pain of Twin Loss

Mourning two people at the same time proved a challenge, especially when one died many years earlier. My world became my grief, consuming most of my energy for a time. Its hold was relentless; I had no choice but to feel the stifled pain and sorrow from the loss of my twin sister. I questioned my sanity as I grieved for a death that happened eight years earlier. Still deep in grief for my brother, this newly surfacing expression of grief for my sister took hold of me with unyielding strength. These feelings appeared from another time in my life; it was as though Paula’s plane crashed yesterday.

A decade later, my parents died of cancer, one right after the other. As my last link to my sister and brother, their death took on new meaning. With each new loss, the delayed onset of grief for my twin sister surfaced. Grief will lay dormant, affecting your emotional and physical well-being. Once exposed, it cries out to be heard. My unfinished grief was prompted by the death of my brother, mother and ultimately my father. With caution I shared my inner world with only a selected few.

It could have been a survival mechanism or self preservation instinct that prevented me from emotionally facing my sister’s death at the age of twenty-one. Delaying my grief could have been a positive thing. I was not prepared to deal with the magnitude of the loss of my twin. What I do know is that delaying the grieving process is more common than we think. And I had absolutely no conscious choice in the matter.

When Twin Loss is Sudden

Looking back, I can define traumatic moments that caused me to further repress my feelings of grief. My sister died in a head-on collision into the ocean. The physical mutilation, along with the sudden and violent nature of the airplane crash contributed to my overload. Waiting for her body to wash up and chosen to be the one to sign for my twin’s coffin at the airport proved to be traumatic for me.

I was not given permission to grieve as a mere sibling. Other relationships were deemed more important. I was counseled by more than one person to “take care of your mother.” These well-meaning people were just showing concern for my parents as they faced the tragic loss of their child. But they unknowingly took away my right to grieve. My role model, my older brother, did not show his sorrow and was probably protecting me by never mentioning my twin again. I will never know the impact this loss had on him.

Communication is essential for a healthy bereavement experience. Isolation comes with grieving a devastating loss. Telling your story, sharing with others in support group settings, and talking about your loved one is part of the healing process. I learned this the hard way.

Retrospectively there were signs, manifestations of a pain not yet felt in my life. When I was finally ready to mourn, every one of my family members had died. I was alone; my isolation was painfully magnified. Mine was a hidden grief. I feared others would not understand. A safe environment is crucial to opening your heart to unfinished grief.

Turning Points Toward Healing

These were turning points in my avoidance of grief. I walked the road solo until I found a support group for twinless twins www.twinlesstwins.org. Other twins who had experienced the death of their twin gave validation to what I was feeling. During meetings, I saw my emotions mirrored in other twins. With this support came understanding. I moved forward in my expression of grief.

Sibling loss is misunderstood. Freedom to grieve may not exist for many siblings. And obviously, freedom to grieve can come many years after a death occurs. A brother or sister’s pain can be easily buried; it is not expected or deemed necessary. This can slow healing or delay it completely.

Involved with a Hospice program, I learned to give myself permission to grief for my sister. To express these feelings buried in time was liberating. Moving toward the pain, not running away from it, was the key. Being present to experience the pain without judging myself was of great importance.

It has been a healing journey like no other. Being able to work through my grief and reach out to help others is the reward. Reaching out to another grieving person can make a difference in their journey and our own. Healing comes in wondrous ways.

Linda Pountney is Vice President of Twinless Twins Support Group International http://twinlesstwins.org offering support for twins and other multiples who have lost their twin due to death or estrangement.

Read more by Linda: Read more from Linda on Open to Hope: Sharing the Experience of being a ‘Twinless Twin’ – Open to Hope

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Dad died suddenly in my early fifties. At the funeral, I will never forget the feeling of being 6 years old in a 50-something-year-old body. Mom died just a few short years later; I was strong until the end with her as she battled breast cancer. My years in hospice made me acutely aware of how quickly she would be leaving us. At her funeral the same feeling took over; as the pall bearers walked past me with my mother, I became a child inside. A lady once said to me many, many years ago, I don’t care how long you do hospice. Nothing will prepare you to lose your parents. She was right.

The question I think many of us face with the death of our parents is, who am I now without them?  Daily phone calls with mom were always there, and if I didn’t call her she would call me and say I haven’t heard from you.  She could always tell by the tone of my voice if I was happy or troubled. What now? How are those kinds of experiences just gone?

It has been the strangest feeling for me to be on this earth without parents physically in my life. Especially when I see other women lunching, walking, laughing, talking with their moms and dads still.  It used be painful for me to witness. I would want to say, “Do you know how lucky you are? He or she will die someday, and you will be alone like me!”

Letting Go, Feeling Lost

Time calmed all that down; now I can view those people with love and think back to a time in my life when I had close relationships with my parents. Aging is about reminiscing, recalling moments in time with people we loved.  I thought my mom and dad would live forever. Part of grieving our parents is to try not to hold on to the way it was, by that I mean getting to the point of acceptance. Moving forward in our life without our parents is about opening up to the loving memories; this truly is what keeps us going. Granted it may take time to get there.

Back to my original question… Who am I after both parents die? It has been such a journey for me, I still get lost sometimes. Like an orphan that never gives up looking for her mother. I know she is in everything; I believe that. Yet, she is not physically here. During the holiday season feelings really bubble up, she died on December 31^st.  One never forgets the day their mother died. Her death hit me harder than dads, I am not sure why it just did.

Remembering Brings Solace

What I have learned through my own grief is that now I am a woman who resembles her mother, I have been told that. Her eyes, her heart, her kindness, I am me, but I am also the daughter of a great lady. I can move through life knowing the gifts she imparted on me will continue on forever.

I am a woman living a life, trying to be a good example to my children and soon grandchildren. I am a woman that will leave my mark the way she did on this earth, loved by so many with a generous heart.

My parents’ love made me who I am; I will forever be a part of them. Even after both parents die. When you are feeling lost with the loss of your own parents, please remember your childhood, your milestones with them and all the traditions that you celebrated. All of these things make you the beautiful person that you are now even though your parents are no longer here.

Peace to you on your journey.

Read more from Nina: How Massage Heals Grief – Open to Hope

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You are at the end of your rope, and you can’t take it any much longer. You are in pain and you are suffering and you feel there is no hope. The first thing that you need to do is to seek the services of a professional counselor. As a published author of a managing fear book and as a layman, here are five reasons why suicide is not an option to your problems.

Things Change Over Time

Regardless of your situation, things do not stay the same. You may feel very bad today, but it won’t last forever. Remember this fact:  Regardless of your current situation, everything changes over time. This includes your current situation. Nothing remains the same forever. Ending your life is not the answer.

You may feel lost and confused but the answers to your specific problems are out there. The key is that you have to find the answers. The answers to your problem will not come to you. As mentioned before, the first step in finding the solution to your problem is to seek help from a qualified professional.

Can’t Predict Future

You are fearful, confused and do not know where to turn. You think that there is no hope for you. When you are in this situation, remember the 99% rule. The 99% rule states that that no one can predict the future with one hundred percent certainty. Even if the thing that you are afraid of does happen, there are circumstances and factors that you can’t predict which can be used to your advantage.

For instance, you miss the deadline for a project you have been working on for the last few months. Everything you feared is coming true. Suddenly, your boss comes to your office and tells you that the deadline is extended and that he forgot to tell you the day before. This unknown factor changes everything. We may be ninety-nine percent correct in predicting the future, but all it takes is for that one percent to make a world of difference. Ending your life is not the answer.

Focus on the Facts

When people are depressed, they rely on their fearful, depressing, and negative thoughts.  That is a huge mistake. Your fearful thoughts are exaggerated and are not based on reality. When you are depressed, focus on the facts of your current situation and not on what you think. Do not assume anything regarding your current situation. Seek help from a professional immediately.

Go to the Hospital When It’s That Bad

If things are so bad that you are unable to function, drop everything and go to your local hospital or crisis center immediately. The people there will take care of your situation right away.

No situation is hopeless. Your loved ones, friends, relatives, God, mental health counselors, priests, ministers, etc. are all good sources of help. They are all willing to help you and they can make a difference, but you must be willing to take advantage of this help. Regardless of your situation, take advantage of the help that is around you. Remember: Every problem has a solution. You just have to find it.

Ending your life is not the answer. Ever.

Stan Popovich writes elsewhere on Open to Hope: What People Don’t Know About Losing A Pet – Open to Hope

Learn more about Stan at his website: Stan Popovich’s Popular Mental Health Website

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The double doors are closed to Three North at Stanford Children’s Hospital, where my daughter Madison is supposed to get her chemotherapy. It’s our second session, Maddy is seven months old sitting patiently in her stroller as I come up to the thick double doors.

This is a very bad sign, these door being closed. Maybe Maddy shouldn’t get chemo today. These doors haven’t been closed before, something’s wrong.

The hair stands up on my arms, a tingling sensation crawls up my back, sits on my head like a hat. My partner Nancy is down stairs jumping through the legal piece of admissions. Our strategy is for one of us to sign in while the other runs upstairs to hopefully beat the rush and secure a private room. The double doors block our entry, erodes my conviction.

A Parents’s Nightmare

Since Maddy’s last chemotherapy, I’ve been looking for any excuse to stop the “treatment.” The idea of tearing my baby open to remove a tumor that lay inside her pelvis, then injecting her with poison designed to kill all her fast growing cells in hopes of curing her of cancer is a torture too horrible to imagine, but here we are doing it anyway because it’s all we got.

Suddenly, as if by divine intervention the doors part. A child is being wheeled out the doors on a gurney. In spite of myself, I push Madison’s stroller towards the open doors; if I can steal past them without the gurney or the doors touching us, we we will be destined to have a successful stay in the hospital. The chemotherapy will attack Maddy’s cancer cells, her heart will continue to beat, she will not die today.

Rushing past the gurney, trying not to look at the child on top of clean white sheets, I can’t help but wonder where his parents are. The side of the heavy door almost brushes against my arm but I lunge forward and escape its touch.  I arrive at the nurses’ station breathless, just in time to get a private room.

Maddy’s Lucky Hat

The nurses comment on Maddy’s outfit. She is wearing her electric pink onesie with matching baby gauchos and of course her lucky hat with the lavender flower pattern. This too is calculated. Madison cannot be without her lucky hat. If during our hour long drive through the hills of Santa Cruz to Stanford Children’s, we were to notice that we didn’t pack Madison’s lucky hat, we would turn the car around or have to call for back up.

We must always have Madison’s lucky hat with us, the floral cotton fabric is all that stands between us and a long drop off the edge of the world. We use her hat to fight off the cancer cells that the chemotherapy misses. The lucky hat helps to guide the hands of the surgeon as he resects the tumor that grows inside Maddy’s pelvis. The lucky hat hangs on Maddy’s IV pole, ensuring the nurses give Madison precisely the right dose of fluids and pain medication.

Maddy’s lucky hat is all powerful. It calms our nerves in the evening when Maddy’s fever spikes, reminds us to breath, walks us through the protocol for fever and neutropenia.  The lucky hat is just one of the many touch stones we have that help us navigate the horrifying world of pediatric cancer.

Symbols of Hope

We parents hold on to our talismans with dear life. We keep them in our pockets, on our shelves, in the glove box of our cars. And we tape rose quartz stones to our children’s feet before we hand them off to clinicians for the cutting and poisoning. They are our symbols of hope when hopelessness presses against fear.  We can’t not resort to the unproven when proven methods aren’t one hundred percent certain. So we pray to whomever is listening, we hold on to our talismans, drink our elixirs, participate in healing ceremonies, beat our drums, burn our sage and hope.

Nancy and I carry the special binder the nurse gave us after Maddy was diagnosed. We’ve already packed it full of discharge orders, information on primitive neuro ecto dermal tumors, protocols. Between random pages,there are pressed flowers, handwritten notes from friends, prayers and poetry.

Between Spirit and Science

I open the book, a hawk feather glides to the ground, reminding me of our walk through the forest; Maddy taking in nature from the comforts of her back pack. Hope fills my chest that we will again hike in the forest, feel the sand between our toes at the beach and maybe, if we’re lucky, be able to swim together in the ocean. I survive these times in the hospital because of the touchstones and rituals I’ve created.  Every day that my child breathes, I walk the line between spirit and science.  I give everything I can to fill in Maddy’s missing percentage.

Madison’s results were in and the surgeon was going to meet with us. The thought of sharing an elevator with another parent or hopeful relative sent waves of nausea through my gut. I stomped on Maddy’s cancer cells with every step I took until I got down the stairs to the waiting area that was bursting with our friends and family.

The doctor came out with Maddy’s results; there was no visible sign of tumor. In my mind, Maddy’s sixty percent survival chances increased because I took those stairs. You can bet I took the stairs every time Maddy’s results were in. I didn’t want to mess with fate.

We are back in the hospital for yet another chemotherapy.  Here in the hospital cafeteria, I scan the chafing dishes for the Mexican casserole I  eat during Madison’s chemo treatments. It’s become yet another ritual, a way of grounding myself in this sea of uncertainty. I’ve never thought there might be a day that they weren’t serving the casserole. I don’t know if I realized how much I’ve counted on this casserole being here.

Head Games

Today, the Mexican casserole is nowhere to be found, and there is nothing that can serve as a substitute, not even a quesadilla!  My heart races. The tuna melt, spaghetti, minestrone all seem to be saying: “You’re screwed.”

All the things I’ve used to right myself along the path of pediatric cancer get jumbled up in my mind. The floor is starting to fall from under me. I am desperate to ask the chef. I imagine what that conversation would sound like and decide not to. Know one else has to know how crazy I’ve become.

I bet hospital cafeterias don’t even have chefs. Do I think I am at the Ritz or something? Uh, oh; the berating voice inside my head has escaped from its box. It’s a matter of seconds before it wreaks havoc on my psyche. The double-dipped bin of chocolate malt balls calls to me like the drug it is. I want to feel anything but this, panic is not my friend.

Resisting Sweetness

I resist the malt balls, which is no small feat. Sugar has been my soul mate since I can remember, but I’ve remained sugar-free since Maddy’s diagnosis.

Fumbling for the smooth lavender stone that rests inside my pocket, I remember to breathe. Thoughts of Maddy’s lucky hat, the three prayer chains she is on, the fact that she is a strong little spirit infuses me with hope. They are all rungs in the ladder I am building myself. I climb from the bottom of my fear and despair, up to the surface where the light is clear and crisp. I take the stairs two at a time back to Madison’s room.

Part of me still wants to smuggle Maddy out of her cold metal hospital crib, but we have nowhere to go. Deep down, I know this is our best chance at beating the cancer. I stroke the side of Maddy’s velvety face, follow the profile of her nose with the tip of my finger. Next chemo, I will bring the Greek evil eye our friends gave us and place it above the hospital room door; we can’t take any chances.

Ten Years Later

Ten years after Madison died, the lucky hat continues to rest on the corner of Maddy’s picture. In the photo, she is three months old, pushing herself up from the sheepskin rug, looking right through the camera, with those dark eyes, into our souls. Below her picture are two more photos, the similar poses, similar faces, of our two babies, Delaney and Hayden.

They never got to meet their sister, but she lives in their hearts and the stories we share.  Maddy’s paintbrush still lays in front of a picture of her painting pots. Her tiny hand holds the brush so precisely. Memory rests beneath the layers of thick dry paint. Every talisman has become a concrete example of her life, jarring our memory as the cloud of time passes over.

Read more by Lisa Buell: Couple Grieves Lost Child at Different Pace – Open to Hope

The post Lucky Hat: Rituals Keep Parents’ Hope Alive appeared first on Open to Hope.

Two months ago, my 21-year-old nephew, my sister’s only child, was killed in a car accident.  I was 19 when he was born.  I have feelings of love for him almost as if he were my own son.  But I can’t find others like me.  I have searched a few online forums, and it seems there isn’t a specific place for me to go.  Where do I fit in?  Also, I feel so guilty — something similar to “survivor’s guilt.”  I wonder how my sister can stand to look at me, at my 20-year-old daughter, at my 17-year-old son.  Yes, I am heartbroken, I am destroyed, but I know it can’t come close to how she is feeling. It seems there is nothing I can say to her — there is nothing to say.

My Response

Oh, my dear friend, you do fit in right here, right now! You fit in for the same reason all the rest of us fit in here, because we all are bound by the common experience of loss. You fit in because you have experienced the death of someone you love dearly, and you are hurting in the deepest regions of your soul. So please know that you’ve come to the right place, and you are most welcome here.

You say that whatever it is you’re experiencing, it cannot come close to the loss and pain your sister is feeling  but I want to suggest to you that it is appropriate and healthy to honor your own loss of this nephew you loved so much as worthy of grief too. The worst kind of grief is the grief you are experiencing right now.

Don’t Compare Grief

Don’t compare your grief with anyone else’s. At this moment, your loss is the worst thing that could happen to anyone. Where there is great loss, there is great pain. Where there is deep love, there is deep grief. Accept that these are your feelings, that they are very real, and that you have a right to feel them. Respect your own reactions to this loss. Take time to look, listen, experience and understand them, and honor the sorrow that is yours.

Know, too, that feelings are not right or wrong, good or bad — they just are, and we cannot always help what we feel. There isn’t a person among us who would judge you for holding your own children close and for being grateful that they are not the ones who died. And the fact that you are grateful that this horrible accident did not happen to one of your own children does not mean that you are grateful that it did happen to your sister’s child!

Keep His Memory Alive

We live in a death-denying culture, after all, and most of us couldn’t get through an ordinary day without deluding ourselves that we are safe, we will continue to be safe, and all our loved ones will be safe at home waiting for us at the end of our busy day. Now that this death has happened, you are no longer able to hold on to the illusion that your world is safe, dependable and predictable. Your assumptive world is forever changed, and it is frightening and overwhelming to know that you must come to terms with that.

I understand your not wanting to upset your sister. But I seriously doubt if expressing the love you continue to feel for her son would be upsetting to her. Talk with your sister about this young man you both loved so much. Share stories about him, reminisce together and remember him. Find ways to keep his memory alive. You need not suffer this alone, and in silence, separated from each other at a time when you need each other most.

© by Marty Tousley, RN, MS, FT, DCC

Reach Marty through her Web sites, http://www.griefhealing.com and http://www.griefhealingdiscussiongroups.com.  She blogs weekly at Grief Healing  and can be found on Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook and Pinterest.

Read more from Marty on Open to Hope: Death of an Ex-Spouse – Open to Hope

The post Bereaved Aunt Asks, ‘Where Do I Fit In?’ appeared first on Open to Hope.

Today there are 1.9 million people incarcerated in the United States, with 1 out of 6 prisoners serving a life sentence (Sawyer and Wagner). While the sheer number of prisoners is concerning, so are the unethical practices, lack of resources, and dearth of rehabilitation
opportunities endemic to the prison system. Substantial research supports the positive impact of rehabilitation programs for those with addiction and mental illness on the mitigation of mass incarceration. Nonetheless, most programs neglect one inevitable reality. What happens to those who are terminally ill and dying in prison?

There is very little research on how to support those prisoners with bereavement services, end of life care, and funeral planning. Hospice, or end of life care, is a relatively new concept, with the first prison hospice programs created in 1993. These programs have yet to be widely implemented despite evidence that they foster a positive death experience for terminally ill prisoners and allow other prisoners to work as hospice volunteers, giving them a sense of purpose while serving out their sentences.

Not Enough Hospice

Existing prison hospice programs are addressing the issues of dying in prison on a limited basis, but there are still insufficient resources to care for dying inmates. Even existing legislation makes it challenging to implement prison hospice programs. While there are financial and legislative forces driving the lack of prison hospice programs, the core issue is that these inmates are part of a population that is deemed permanently criminal and forgotten and neglected until they die, and even afterwards. Given such a high percentage of the population incarcerated, The United States naturally sees a shocking number of people die in prison.

Each year, nearly 7,000 inmates die in U.S. prisons, many from suicide or terminal illness. Add in the countless number of individuals serving sentences with a chronic or long-term illness and in need of constant medical attention, and we have a serious problem deserving of significant attention.

In fact, the lack of services is illegal. “In 1976, the US Supreme Court ruling Estelle vs. Gamble found that deliberate indifference to health care for inmates constituted cruel and unusual punishment and was thus prohibited by the US Constitution.” Prisons have worked to
implement better health care for their patients. Still, efforts have been focused mainly on more superficial physical needs, rather than desperately needed mental health and addiction therapy.

“Doctors working within corrections often find themselves caught between the punitive aspect of the institutions’ mission and the best interests of their patients,” leaving medical staff with inadequate facilities and resources, and the patients with inadequate care (Allen, et al. 100). Though there has been a steady improvement of overall healthcare in prison, there is still a very long way to go before the level of care is sufficient.

More Prisons in U.S. than Russia

Beyond the lack of primary health care, prisoners face an even more significant deficiency in hospice and palliative care options. The
National Prison Hospice Association was founded in 1993 to provide appropriate levels of care in prisons, arguing that “establishing an effective hospice/palliative care program in prison begins with the candid and respectful exchange of views between corrections and hospice
professionals about how best to serve those who face death in prison,” maintaining respect for both institutions (“Prison Hospice Operational Guidelines” 1).

Sadly, the association has achieved limited success. More recently, the Humane Prison Hospice Project was established to promote the creation of prison hospice programs, though they have yet to get many more systems into place (Humane Prison Hospice Project).

Currently, “there are 4,575 prisons in operation in the U.S., more than four times the number of second-place Russia at 1,029” (Lennard). Yet only 75 U.S. prisons and jails in the country have any type of prison hospice program (Schoenly). The numbers shed light on both the sheer number of prisons and jails in the U.S. and the extreme scarcity of programs for prisoners and their grieving loved ones who face death and bereavement separated by the barrier of prison bars.

Solutions are Available

With limited U.S. prisons and jails implementing hospice programs, there are minimal services available to terminal inmates and their bereaved friends and families. The NPHA explains that the application of hospice programs, “while rare, has been successful and is an
exciting area for correctional health care” (“Prison Hospice Operational Guidelines” 4).

Not only does prison hospice supply terminally ill patients with sufficient end of life care, but it also gives those prisoners assisting them with a sense of purpose while serving their time. Though prisoner volunteers go through extensive training to be certified to care for the dying, outsiders still question their motivations. However, many volunteers are serving life sentences themselves and take their new position as a hospice volunteer with the utmost respect and appreciation. As one volunteer comments, “hospice gave us an avenue to take care of each other… you’re not helping them to live, you’re just making their passing easier” (Prison Terminal: The Last Days of Private
Jack Hall).

Inmates Helping Inmates Die

Though there is compelling evidence from personal anecdotes that prison hospice programs work, there are not enough programs to provide care for every dying inmate. Many terminal inmates are left improperly cared for as they approach the end of life, as even the best prison physicians often do not have training in thanatological practices. The NPHA explains that “one advantage to the institution is that the inmate volunteers carry back to the general inmate population the news that competent end-of-life care is being provided by correctional medical staff,” both promoting the program and generating goodwill within the prisoner community
(“Prison Hospice Operational Guidelines” 5).

Yet even with overwhelming evidence that prison hospice programs are a viable and valuable service for terminally ill prisoners, little progress has been made in widely implementing such programs.

While healthcare in United States prisons, and the United States as a whole, has been inadequate for centuries, legislators have only recently sought to address the issue, and it is unclear the fate of future efforts under the Trump administration.

While death in prison may seem like a distant issue to many, each American plays a role in mass incarceration and the prison system since prisons are funded through tax dollars. Our elected officials set prison budgets, and since the current funding is barely enough to provide sufficient living conditions, hospice programs are left out of existing budgets almost entirely.

I do not believe a singular action dictates your character. If the United States used prisons as rehabilitation facilities rather than cages, crime rates would decrease dramatically, and we would have a safer and more empathetic society. We claim to be a country based on ‘Christian
values,’ yet we neglect one of the most important of those values — forgiveness.

Work Cited

Parts of this blog were taken directly from research conducted at the University of Southern
California by Symon Braun Freck, 2019.
Allen, Scott A., et al. “ Physicians in US Prisons in the Era of Mass Incarceration.” Int J Prison
Health, vol. 6, no. 3, 1 Dec. 2010, pp. 100–106.
Duffin, Erin. “Incarceration Rates in OECD Countries 2019.” Statista, 20 May 2019,
www.statista.com/statistics/300986/incarceration-rates-in-oecd-countries/.
“H.R.1447 – 113th Congress (2013-2014): Death in Custody Reporting Act of 2013.”
Congress.gov, 18 Dec. 2014, www.congress.gov/bill/113th-congress/house-bill/1447.
“Humane Prison Hospice Project.” Humane Prison Hospice Project,
humaneprisonhospiceproject.org/#dignity.
Hyle, Ken. “Annual Determination of Average Cost of Incarceration.” Federal Register, 30 Apr.
2018, www.federalregister.gov/documents/2018/04/30/2018-09062/
annual-determination-of-average-cost-of-incarceration.
Lennard, Natasha. “US Has More Prisoners, Prisons than Any Other Country.” Salon,
Salon.com, 15 Oct. 2012, www.salon.com/2012/10/15/us_has_more_
prisoners_prisons_than_any_other_country/.
Oliphant, J. Baxter. “U.S. Support for Death Penalty Ticks up in 2018.” Pew Research Center,
Pew Research Center, 11 June 2018, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/06/11/us -support- for-death-penalty-ticks-up-2018/.
“Prison Hospice Operational Guidelines.” National Prison Hospice Association, 1998,
view.officeapps.live.com/op/view.aspx?src=https%3A%2F%2Fprisonhospice.
files.wordpress.com%2F2011%2F11%2Fprison-hospice-guidelines-revised3.doc.
Prison Terminal: The Last Days of Private Jack Hall. Dir. Edgar Barens. 2014. HBO, 2014.
Prime Video.
“Private Prisons vs. Public Prisons.” Criminal Justice Programs, 15 Nov. 2018,
www.criminaljusticeprograms.com/articles/private-prisons-vs-public-prisons/.
Sawyer, Wendy, and Peter Wagner. “Mass Incarceration: The Whole Pie 2024.” Mass
Incarceration: The Whole Pie 2024 | Prison Policy Initiative, 14 Mar. 2024,
https://www.prisonpolicy.org/reports/pie2024.html
Schoenly, Larry. “When Prison Is an End-of-Life Sentence: Hospice in Corrections.”
Correctional Nurse . Net, 4 May 2018, correctionalnurse.net/when-prison -is-an-end-of-life -sentence-hospice-in-corrections/

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Question from reader: I am currently dating a widower who feels the need to publish a picture of his ex-wife in the local newspaper twice a year, on her birthday and date of death.  He has been doing this for five years.  We have been dating for four-and-a half-years.  My husband died suddenly of a heart attack just a month after my companion’s wife died following a two-year battle with colon cancer.  At this point, I’m not sure how I am tolerating these very public displays of grief. Would you be willing to comment on the phenomenon of repeated mournful pictures being published ‘in memoriam’ in the newspaper?  I can find nothing on the topic of this behavior.  Intuition tells me there is considerable stuckness and guilt involved. Is my partner stuck in grief?

My Response

On the face of it, I can tell you that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the need to honor the memory of a deceased loved one on a birthday or a death day.  Years ago, those of us in the field of mental health worried about folks who engaged in such behavior, interpreting it as their having difficulty “moving on” or “letting go” in their grief. But in recent years. we have come to understand better the need for the mourner to maintain some sort of continuing bond with a loved one who has died.

As Carolyn Ambler Walter writes in her book, The Loss of a Life Partner (Columbia University Press, 2003, p. 251): “In the postmodern approach to grief, there is skepticism about the concept of closure, since there are serious questions about whether people ever ‘recover’ from a loss.  This gives the clinician permission to allow the bereaved partner to work on his or her grief, regardless of the amount of time that has elapsed since the death of the partner. 

“This approach to grief encourages ‘circularity’ rather than ‘closure’ and frees the bereaved partner to experience feelings and thoughts about the deceased partner at any point in his or her life.  A circular approach can normalize, for bereaved partners, the ongoing or intermittent painful feelings about their loss, which friends, relatives, and society tend to believe should be worked through to a point of closure.  Perhaps this need for closure is related to our society’s tendency to deny the process of death and to discourage people from discussing death and all its ramifications.”

Everyone Grieves Differently

Additionally, although you are a widow yourself and have experienced the death of a spouse, I urge you to be cautious when evaluating your partner’s grief responses as normal or abnormal.  It’s important to keep in mind that, although certain patterns and reactions are universal and fairly predictable, everyone’s grief is as unique to that individual as his or her fingerprints.

There is no right or wrong way to grieve, and there is no specific time frame. Furthermore, everyone grieves differently according to their age, gender, personality, culture, value system, past experience with loss, and available support. Some folks experience grief in primarily emotional ways, having all sorts of feelings such as anger, guilt, sadness or loneliness. So, is your new partner stuck in grief? Maybe not.

Others react in physical ways, feeling a need to keep busy as a way of handling the unpleasant feelings of grief. Neither way is right or wrong; they are just different from each other. (For a more thorough discussion of this, see my article, How We Mourn: Understanding Our Differences.) The behavior you’re seeing in the widower you’re dating isn’t necessarily unhealthy; it may be perfectly understandable and normal under the circumstances in which this man finds himself.

Honest Talk about Grief

Clearly you have a problem with his behavior in his continuing to publish the pictures of his late wife, but does this man see it as a problem?  Has he shared with you any concerns about his progress in coming to terms with this death?  Is there any evidence that he is unhappy or unable to function normally in his life (e.g., having trouble at work, or in his relationships with you and with others)?  Keep in mind that this is his loss and his grief process, and only he knows where he is with all of this.  So I encourage you to have an honest talk with him and discuss your concerns directly with him.

I also think you need to pay attention to what your own heart and mind are telling you.  You are the best judge of what you are willing to tolerate in your relationship with this man, regardless of how “normal” or how “abnormal” he (or anyone else) considers his behavior to be.  You say that this is causing you concern not only for your health and that of the man you are dating, but for your relationship as well.  If you feel that strongly about this, perhaps you’ve already made your decision.

I hope what I’ve said is helpful to you, my dear, and whatever you decide, please know that I’m thinking of you and wishing you all the best.

© 2011 by Marty Tousley, RN, MS, FT, DCC

Reach Marty through her Web site, http://www.griefhealing.com.

Read more from Marty on Open to Hope: Widow Fears Sharing Thoughts of Suicide – Open to Hope

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From Business to Spiritual Practice

Ryan’s journey into the spiritual realm began thirty years ago when she discovered Carolyn Mace’s book “Anatomy of the Spirit.” As a successful entrepreneur in the hospital supply industry, she maintained a scientific mindset while exploring the possibilities of medical intuition. After six years of formal study and a successful business career, she dedicated herself to helping others through her psychic abilities.

Understanding Spirit Communication

According to Ryan, everyone possesses the innate ability to connect with spirits. She explains that our heads function like satellite dishes, receiving and transmitting frequencies. The key elements for successful spirit communication include:

• Raising one’s vibrational level
• Setting a clear intention to connect
• Trusting the first thoughts that come to mind
• Maintaining an open mindset
• Time doesn’t exist in the spirit world. Time’s a human creation.

The 12 Phases of Transition

Ryan’s book, “Angelic Attendance: What Really Happens as We Transition from This Life Into the Next,” outlines the process of dying and the spiritual support present during this transition. She describes how individuals are surrounded by angels, deceased loved ones, and pets during their final moments.

This knowledge has proven particularly valuable for families dealing with terminal illness, as it provides comfort knowing their loved ones are not alone during their transition. Ryan’s work has been adopted by various religious institutions and hospice organizations to help families understand and cope with the dying process.

Connecting with Lost Loved Ones

For those grieving, Ryan suggests several approaches to maintaining connections with departed loved ones:

• Requesting dream visits, as sleep allows for natural elevation of spiritual frequency
• Recognizing everyday signs and synchronicities
• Working with qualified mediums for initial contact
• Maintaining awareness of subtle communications

Research supports the healing potential of these connections, with studies showing that 90% of people near death experience visions of deceased loved ones. Additionally, communication with the departed has been shown to aid in the grieving process.

Finding Legitimate Spiritual Guidance

When seeking professional spiritual guidance, Ryan recommends:

• Trusting your intuition about practitioners
• Seeking recommendations from others
• Reading verified reviews and watching demonstrations
• Avoiding social media solicitations
• Only working through official websites

The conversation concluded with an emphasis on hope and healing, reminding listeners that no one dies alone and that connections with loved ones continue beyond physical death.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Can anyone develop psychic or medium abilities?

Yes, everyone is born with the ability to connect with spirit. While some may have a natural inclination, these abilities can be developed through practice, study, and maintaining an open mindset. The key is learning to trust your intuition and raise your vibrational frequency.

Q: How can I tell if a spiritual message is genuine?

Genuine spiritual messages often come as immediate thoughts or feelings and may include specific details that would be impossible for others to know. The key is to trust your first impressions and look for validation through specific details or meaningful coincidences that resonate with your personal experience.

Q: What should someone expect during their first medium reading?

During a first reading, you should expect the medium to provide specific, evidential information about your loved ones without prompting. The experience should feel comfortable and authentic, with messages that provide comfort and confirmation of your loved one’s well-being. Be open to receiving information but maintain healthy skepticism of any requests for additional money or services.

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It’s early in the new year, and social media is flooded with posts about resolutions and plans for self-improvement. However, for those who have faced a significant loss, the new year often brings a heavy reminder of loved ones who are no longer with us. It can feel as though the future holds little promise for those who are grieving. It’s important to create a new vision after loss.

After losing my son, Josh, when he was 20 years old, I struggled to find joy in a new year, or really about anything in my life. The thought of holidays and birthdays without him filled me with dread. My future had vanished, leaving me staring at a blank slate. How could I begin to imagine a new life without my child? It was necessary for me to take small steps aimed at looking ahead.  

Creating a New Vision is Intentional

Planning for the future, or feeling excited about it, doesn’t come easily after loss. It’s necessary to be intentional. 

In the support group I lead, we do a writing exercise that encourages us to think about things that feel impossible right now.

Here are the instructions. All you need is a journal and something to write with. 

• Empty your mind 

First, clear your mind. Write for 10 minutes about what your grief is telling you in this moment. What thoughts are going through your mind right now? 

• Write about what your grief is not saying to you

 In other words, what are you not thinking about? It’s difficult to think about doing the things we used to do with our loved ones, like taking a trip or moving forward with life in any way. This exercise helps bring those thoughts up to the surface so that you can consider taking a step forward. 

• Make a list 

List a few things that you may want to do at some point this year. You could try something creative like painting or crocheting. Volunteering is another great option. You might consider picking up a hobby you used to enjoy; list trips your loved one wanted to take and plan to go there and spread their ashes or paint a stone to leave at that location. 

Why Envisioning the Future is Important

It encourages us to consider new possibilities. What seems impossible today might change in the future. In his Making Meaning Workbook, David Kessler recommends writing postcards to our future selves, which inspired my journal prompt. This exercise helps us look ahead and question our belief that we will “never” do certain things. As he puts it, “never” doesn’t have to mean forever; it can simply mean “not now.” So I urge those who are grieving to think about what might be possible, even if it seems unattainable at the moment.

 Read more by Nalda at https://substack.com/@livingagainafterchildloss

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The devastating impact of fentanyl poisoning has touched countless families across America, leaving behind grieving parents searching for understanding and hope. Mark Banarczyk’s story of losing his 17-year-old son Thomas to fentanyl poisoning offers a powerful perspective on grief, forgiveness, and finding purpose after tragedy.

Thomas Banarczyk was an Eagle Scout and Christian who died after taking what he believed was Xanax purchased through Snapchat. The pill contained a lethal dose of fentanyl instead. His death in May 2021, during the COVID-19 pandemic, highlights a critical distinction in how these deaths should be viewed – not as overdoses, but as poisonings.

Understanding Fentanyl Poisoning

Mark Banarczyk emphasizes the importance of terminology in the journey through fentanyl loss. “A lot of people call this an overdose, but an overdose is when you take too much of something. This is a poisoning. My son was poisoned under false circumstances,” he explains. Thousands of young people believe they’re taking common prescription medications like OxyContin or Adderall, only to receive lethal fentanyl-laced counterfeits instead.

The Path to Forgiveness

In a remarkable turn of events, law enforcement identified and arrested the seller within days of Thomas’s death. The individual, who knew Thomas from high school, had no idea he was selling fentanyl-laced pills. When confronted with the consequences of his actions, he broke down weeping.

During the court proceedings, Mark and his wife made the powerful choice to forgive the seller. “My wife and I forgave him right there in the Santa Clara County Courthouse,” Mark shares. “Forgiveness is as much about releasing you from it as the other person.”

It takes a hook out of your chest… I felt cleansed. I’ve not really had a bad thought about the guy since.

Processing Grief Through Multiple Channels

Mark’s approach to processing grief involves what he calls the “outer labyrinth” of day-to-day life and the “inner labyrinth” of dream work. His background in Jungian analysis and Christianity provided him with tools to navigate his loss. He and his wife share their dreams and process their grief together, strengthening their relationship through their shared experience.

Creating Legacy in Journey Through Fentanyl Loss

The Banarczyks established the Thomas Larsen Banarczyk Memorial Fund to honor their son’s memory. Mark authored “Finding New Life After the Death of My Son,” sharing his journey and insights with others facing similar losses. He reflects, “I am a much better person for the life and death of my son. I am more empathic. I refuse to squander the pain and grief on being bitter.”

Through their experience, the Banarczyks demonstrate how tragedy can be transformed into purpose, helping others while preserving their son’s memory. Their story offers hope to those navigating similar losses, showing that healing is possible through forgiveness, understanding, and purposeful action.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How can parents protect their children from fentanyl poisoning?

Parents should educate their children about the dangers of purchasing any medications through social media or unofficial channels. Even pills that appear legitimate can contain lethal doses of fentanyl. Open communication about drug safety and the risks of counterfeit medications is essential.

Q: What role does forgiveness play in the journey through fentanyl loss?

Forgiveness can be a powerful tool in healing from loss. It helps release the emotional burden of anger and resentment, allowing the grieving person to focus on healing and remembering their loved one. However, forgiveness is a personal choice and should occur naturally in one’s grief journey.

Q: How can couples support each other after losing a child?

Couples can strengthen their relationship by processing grief together, maintaining open communication, and creating shared healing practices. This might include attending support groups together, sharing dreams and feelings, and working as a team to honor their child’s memory through meaningful projects or foundations.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

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Situated on the grounds of Paramount Pictures Studios, Hollywood Forever Cemetery has served as a cultural landmark in the Los Angeles area since it was taken over and revamped by actor Tyler Cassidy in 1998. With the fires recently scorching the Los Angeles area, I felt
compelled to share research I conducted on Hollywood Forever Cemetery a few years back.

While homes and lives have been burned to the ground, community has strengthened, proving love is more powerful than destruction. This
ongoing grieving period is crucial for the Los Angeles community, and I hope my research into one of their most iconic cemeteries can bring some positive memories back of the connection between life and death, the universe’s ultimate equalizer.

Hollywood Cemetery Adapts to Times

While there is a plethora of unique cemeteries in Los Angeles, most notably Forrest Lawn, the history and lasting impact of Hollywood Forever Cemetery drew me in and made it irresistible as case study. The once antiquated cemetery became a burial destination for many celebrities and now acts as one of the stops for not only dark tourists but all tourists in Los Angeles.

Hollywood Forever is deservedly celebrated for its beautiful grounds and elaborate headstones. But what sets Hollywood Forever apart from other cemeteries is its willingness to adapt to the needs of the times. In addition to its use as a burial ground, Hollywood Forever Cemetery proudly hosts a wide range of cultural events and exciting activities that bridge the world between the living and the dead. Hollywood Forever never passes up the opportunity to open its gates to the Los Angeles general public, from movie nights to concerts.

Rural Cemetery Movement

The explanation for Hollywood Forever’s beautiful grounds and desire to be part of the community as a tourist attraction has its roots in the Rural Cemetery Movement. During the mid-nineteenth century, cities were becoming overpopulated, and available land was sparse. As a result, cemeteries moved from inner cities to the outskirts of town.

This shift in location changed how people thought of a cemetery. Once a depressing piece of land in a crowded city, the cemetery now becomes an out-of-town oasis that showcases open space and greenery. However, as the outskirts of the town turned into suburban neighborhoods, the “rural” cemeteries were once again integrated into everyday life.

The Rural Cemetery Movement began with Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Mount Auburn was the first cemetery to invest in its scenic beauty and become a widely known tourist attraction. Cemeteries transformed from unmaintained plots of land to open spaces with glorious landscapes, shifting the role of the cemetery in America and altering the American view on death.

Cemetery as Tourist Destination

Along with Mount Auburn, Hollywood Forever Cemetery is revered for its beautiful grounds and its establishment as a destination for tourists. Alongside rows of palm trees, peacocks stroll out of their large pens that line the interior of the cemetery walls and roam the
grounds. There are monumental fountains with elaborate water effects and colorful flowers of various types, all helping to elevate the aesthetic of the grounds.

The Rural Cemetery Movement changed the landscaping of cemeteries, but it also reinvented the typical headstone. Older headstones were used as a simple marker to identify the interred. However, the shift towards an emphasis on the aesthetics of the cemetery introduced
elaborate headstones and mausoleums to the mainstream as a signifier of the family’s wealth and respect for the deceased.

Paying for Funerals

Remarkably, the average consumer was now willing to invest their hard-earned savings into plaques and markers for their loved ones as a way to fall in line with the new trend and show that they too can give the same type of respect to their loved ones as wealthy families. Many families in the United States go into debt when a loved one dies. They believe “the degree to which you loved someone or the degree to which you are grieving someone who died is mapped by how much money you’re spending on a funeral” (Murphy).

Hollywood Forever Cemetery is known for its intricate and elaborate headstones that range from statues of celebrities, like Johnny Ramone, to rows of large fountains with long reflective pools at the end. Part of what makes Hollywood Forever stand out among the innumerable cemeteries across the world is its impressive array of headstones and intricate mausoleums, allowing the grounds to serve as a unique tourist attraction.

Many of the tourists came to the cemetery to see the graves of celebrities buried at Hollywood Forever, specifically Johnny Ramone and Rudolph Valentino. The number of celebrities interred in Hollywood Forever is a known attraction, and the cemetery uses this unique quality to its advantage. Each year, the cemetery puts on an annual memorial for Valentino, attracting many community members and tourists, thus increasing the foot traffic to the grounds (Levitt, 2018).

The Lure of Dark Tourism

Much of the advertisement, specifically to dark tourists who travel worldwide to gravesites or haunted locations, is based on the sheer number of celebrities buried under the grounds. Though my interviews were short and sporadic, mimicking more of a general survey, seeing that most of the interviewees were tourists who only visited the site once, I discovered that there had been previous research that suggests people have the desire to visit the graves of celebrities as a way to get a taste of stardom and feel closer to the celebrity (Levitt, 2010).

Hollywood Forever Cemetery has done a spectacular job of recognizing its marketable qualities, specifically that many celebrities are buried there and continue to be buried there. The re-labeling of this space has allowed them to function as a site for cultural and entertainment
events.

Marketing for Cultural Events

Digging into Hollywood Forever’s marketing, their website boldly emphasizes their desire for the space to be multifunctional, stating first and foremost that “Hollywood Forever is a full-service funeral home, crematory, cemetery, and cultural events center in the heart of
Hollywood, Los Angeles”. They end by signifying they are a cultural event space, separating themselves from most other cemeteries.

A few lines below, the text reads that Hollywood Forever Cemetery is “the final resting place of hundreds of Hollywood legends… and hundreds of others, alongside thousands of neighborhood residents and individuals from across the globe”.

However, what is most striking to me is the last paragraph of the opening page. The website reads, “As Los Angeles’s most dynamic cultural event center, Hollywood Forever welcomes families and visitors to concerts, films, and events each year.”

Cemeteries Changing

Hollywood Forever acts as a model to inspire future burial grounds and cemeteries to act in response to the public’s needs and be malleable enough to stay relevant in the cultural underpinnings of its community. When cemeteries function as multipurpose spaces, the narrative
around death and dying shifts, and conversations about the end-of-life process become healthier.

Burial grounds take up large swaths of land in cities around the world, and they have the potential to act as a gathering space that encourages cultural growth and community. The Rural Cemetery Movement allowed the public to understand that there can be beauty alongside death. Hollywood Forever Cemetery has the ability to, and does, further this notion by allowing the public to come into the cemetery gates and interact with the gorgeous architecture and landscaping while learning about the people who have been laid to rest in this space.

New Options for Cemeteries

As more innovative cemeteries and methods of burial seep into the mainstream, my theory is that death will become less stigmatized. When people learn about the plethora of options that are available at the end of life that span far beyond conventional burial and cremation, hopefully there will be a shift in the conversation. It may foster a death positive attitude on the small scale. When Hollywood Forever hosts a movie night or concert, they allow attendees to gather in a stigmatized space and break their preconceived notions of death.

The more spaces that function in an effort to foster death acceptance, the more the conversations will become mainstream, and death positivity can be the normalized state of being. When we face death, life becomes easier to accept. And that acceptance can start when at a yoga class or picnic in the cemetery, thanks to Hollywood Forever.

Bibliography

Parts of this article were taken directly from research conducted by Symon Braun Freck in 2022.
Bender, Thomas. “The ‘Rural’ Cemetery Movement: Urban Travail and the Appeal of Nature.”
The New England Quarterly, vol. 47, no. 2, New England Quarterly, Inc., 1974, pp.
196–211, https://doi.org/10.2307/364085.
French, Stanley. “The Cemetery as Cultural Institution: The Establishment of Mount Auburn and
the ‘Rural Cemetery’ Movement.” American Quarterly, vol. 26, no. 1, Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1974, pp. 37–59, https://doi.org/10.2307/2711566.
“Hollywood Forever Cemetery: Funeral & Cremation Services in Hollywood.” Hollywood
Forever, 31 Oct. 2021, https://hollywoodforever.com/.
King, Susan. “Celebrating the Dead Is No Grave Undertaking.” Los Angeles Times, 2002.
Levitt, Linda. Culture, Celebrity, and the Cemetery : Hollywood Forever. Routledge, 2018.
Levitt, Linda. “Death on display: reifying stardom through Hollywood’s dark tourism.” Velvet
Light Trap, no. 65, spring 2010, pp. 62+. Gale OneFile: Fine Arts, link.gale.com/
apps/doc/A221020992/PPFA?u=usocal_main&sid=bookmark-PPFA&xid=7dd6e6ad.
Accessed 30 Mar. 2022
Murphy, Sara. Personal Interview. 25 March, 2022.

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‘They’re in a better place.’ ‘It was their time to go.’ ‘Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.’

These statements are fillers that Americans are taught from a young age to avoid discussing death. Although every person will inevitably experience death, at a minimum their own death, the American norm of death avoidance is perpetuated in our communities without much thought to the impact it has on those grieving. These simple, relatively superficial one-liners are embedded into our conversational vocabulary with the intention of helping the bereaved, but all of these pat statements simply further the notion that death avoidance is the proper and natural way to deal with death.

Everyone grieves differently and faces death in their own personal way, so common catch phrases cannot serve as a panacea for anyone working through the grieving process or even just contemplating death — their own or that of a loved one. The concept of a grieving period from Kubler-Ross’ work has been largely misinterpreted, with many taking away the idea that comfort is only needed immediately after death, neglecting the range of possible responses from grief as a life-long process to a complete lack of the need to grieve.

Fear of Death is American Norm

Although it may seem that Americans have always been uncomfortable with the topic of death, this attitude developed only in the last 120 years. Before the commercialization of modern medicine, overall life-spans were also much shorter, with the average person only living until age 30, less than half of today’s average (Roser). This was in part due to astonishingly high infant mortality rates.

In the 1800s and earlier, death was a prominent part of everyone’s daily life and a process that happened primarily in or near one’s home. As the United States entered the Civil War, mortality rates rose and life expectancy dropped even further as young soldiers were killed
in massive numbers. Now however, many deaths were happening far from home. Getting a dead soldier back to their family for burial required preserving the body to allow it to survive long train trips without decaying.

Death Moves Out of the Home

To achieve this, wartime morticians adopted the practice of embalming the soldiers’ bodies (“History of Embalming”). This normalized embalming for the U.S. public and the process has remained one of the most common post-death practices in the country. Where previously, families would care for and bury the deceased’s body shortly after death and most funerals were held at home, the adoption of embalming meant that families were unable to perform burial preparations themselves.

Home funerals were replaced by funeral parlors or funeral homes. Trained professionals now embalmed and prepared the body for a
viewing. Bodies could now be made to appear beautiful, almost alive, moving the reality of death even further away from focus.

As death and funerals moved out of the home, so did the discussion of death and dying. Becoming more and more taboo as a topic of public conversation, death and dying moved into academia. Scholars who took an interest in death and dying created the field of study known as
Thanatology (Fonseca). Death Education, the study of death, dying, and bereavement, became increasingly popular among Thanatologists and scholars such as Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and Ken Doka developed theoretical frameworks of grief (Hymovitz).

Death Positivity is Growing

Other academics took an anthropological approach, such as Ernest Becker’s investigation of death avoidance in his book, The Denial of Death. Scholars including Heflick, Heidegger, and Diggory and Rothman started to explore the reasons why Americans experience death avoidance and denial, creating the infamous Terror Management Theory (Castano).

Today, the field has progressed to the point that there is an annual Thanatology conference; interested people can access significant resources in the form of publications, seminars and classes; and for those so inclined, there are Thanatology certification programs. One school, Marian University, even offers a Master’s degree program in Thanatology. With the emergence of Thanatology as an accepted academic field, the popularity of the Death with Dignity movement skyrocketed.

What is Death with Dignity?

The Death with Dignity movement promotes the belief that everyone should be allowed to choose how and where they die. The movement also emphasizes the importance of wills and trusts as tools to ensure the proper treatment of one’s body and property after death. A related
development is the rise of the Death Positivity Movement. Though death avoidance and denial are heavily integrated into American life, the Death Positivity Movement fosters a narrative surrounding death and dying that is open, inclusive, and tolerant of all perspectives.

An organization called The Order of the Good Death has sprung up, promoting the value of having conversations surrounding death, rather than celebrating death per se (“Welcome to the Order”). The Order of the Good Death conducts online and in-person meetings known as Death Salons or Death Cafes, first held in 2013. The field of Thanatology and the momentum of the Death Positivity Movement and the Death with Dignity movement continue to grow.

Acceptance of Death is Healthy

As a member of the Thanatology community, I often face backlash explaining my passion to others. Although I know I am combating widely held norms of death denial, I feel my actions in rebelling against death narrative norms promotes a healthier view on life.

I am often confronted with awkward reactions from people asking what I study and why I chose to study death care. When I tell people, many of them shut down and the conversation ends. In contrast though, I have also had people divulge their story of grief and ask for advice, as though my course of study gives me individualized answers for everyone’s loss.

What I will say about my learnings in Thanatology is that everyone grieves differently, every loss can be grieved, and grief does not pertain only to death itself. Just as grief is ongoing, losses are as well. Dealing with each new loss may require completely different tactics, but with a death embracing outlook, working through loss feels much more attainable. I hope that one day everyone will subscribe to a more neutral view of death and dying as it has helped me and those around me be more comfortable with accepting death as a normal, and even healthy, part of our lives.

Works Cited

Parts of this blog were taken directly from research conducted at the University of Southern
California by Symon Braun Freck, 2019.
“Achievements in Public Health, 1900-1999: Healthier Mothers and Babies.” Centers for
Disease Control and Prevention, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 1999,
www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/mm4838a2.htm.
Castano, Emanuele, et al. “Ideology, Fear of Death, and Death Anxiety.” Political Psychology,
vol. 32, no. 4, 2011, pp. 601–621. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41262882.
“Death Salon.” Death Salon, deathsalon.org/.
Fonseca, Luciana Mascarenhas, and Ines Testoni. “The Emergence of Thanatology and Current
Practice in Death Education.” OMEGA – Journal of Death and Dying, vol. 64, no. 2,
Mar. 2012, pp. 157–169, doi:10.2190/OM.64.2.d.
“History of Embalming.” National Museum of Funeral History | Beneath the Surface: Funeral
History Museum Explains Embalming, www.nmfh.org/exhibits/permanent-exhibits
/history-of-embalming.
Hymovitz, Leon. “Creative Teaching Strategies in Death Education — Thanatology.” American
Secondary Education, vol. 8, no. 1, 1978, pp. 7–18. JSTOR,
www.jstor.org/stable/41063199.
Roser, Max. “Life Expectancy.” Our World in Data, 23 May 2013,
ourworldindata.org/life-expectancy.
“Welcome to the Order. Welcome to Your Mortality” The Order of the Good Death, 27 Sept.
2019, www.orderofthegooddeath.com/.

Learn more about Symon at her website: Video Editor | Symonbraunfreck

Read more from Symon on Open to Hope: https://www.opentohope.com/cemeteries-as-cultural-landmarks/

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McClendon, currently serving as the community engagement specialist at Kansas State University’s Beach Museum of Art, brings a unique perspective to grief and healing through his background as a musician who has worked with prestigious organizations including the Grammy Foundation and the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

The Evolution of Love and Understanding

Ten years after his daughter’s passing, McClendon reflects on how this profound loss has reshaped his understanding of love and life’s meaning. “My capacity to love has increased,” he shares, noting the paradoxical reality that his love for Naomi has grown even after her death. This expanded capacity for love has influenced how he views all human connections and relationships.

Music and Grief after Losing a Child

As a musician, McClendon’s grief journey has been deeply intertwined with his artistic expression. For nine years following Naomi’s death, he found himself unable to write music, the trauma too overwhelming to translate into melody. However, his approach to performing underwent a significant shift, focusing less on technical perfection and more on creating meaningful connections with his audience.

Music has the ability to capture time and feeling or emotion. When I play, there’s a certain warmth that overcomes me. There’s a certain place that I go to in my mind where I just feel I’m with her.

The Four Phases of Grief

In his book “The Emerging You: A New Approach to Grief and the Griever,” McClendon outlines four distinct phases of the grief journey:

• The Storm – The initial phase where everything feels chaotic and painful, typically lasting several years
• New Normal – A period of adjustment and acceptance of changed circumstances
• Action Phase – Making conscious decisions about life direction based on new perspectives
• The Emerging You – Ongoing personal growth and discovery

Professional Transformation

McClendon’s grief journey led to significant professional changes. After much consideration, he made the difficult decision to leave his beloved career as a music teacher at age 52. This choice exemplified how profound loss can lead to radical life changes as priorities and perspectives shift.

Lessons in Time and Living

Among the most significant insights McClendon gained is the precious nature of time. He observed how this understanding affected his perception of how people spend their moments, particularly in relationships with their children. This awareness has fueled his mission to help others live more meaningfully and create positive change in the world.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How long does it typically take to process grief after losing a child?

While everyone’s journey is different, McClendon suggests that the initial intense phase of grief often lasts several years, much longer than the month or year that society typically allows for grieving. The process of adapting to a new normal can take many years.

Q: Can music help in the healing process after losing a loved one?

Music can be a powerful tool in processing grief, offering both emotional release and a way to maintain connection with loved ones. As demonstrated by McClendon’s experience, music can capture memories and emotions, providing comfort and a means of expression during the healing journey.

Q: How does losing a child affect one’s identity?

The loss of a child often leads to a complete reconstruction of personal identity. It affects not just parental status but challenges fundamental beliefs about life’s meaning, personal values, and future direction. This identity shift can lead to significant life changes, including career transitions and altered relationships.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

The post Music and Grief After Losing a Child appeared first on Open to Hope.

• Ponder the Vows you made to each other. Every “love” adventure steps into the great unknown . Your vows challenge you to work through life together. Celebrate the adversity you overcame as you weathered the storms of life. Be grateful for the milestones you accomplished together. As a Valentine’s Day ritual, acknowledge your journey—the trials and the triumphs!
• Make a List of your Happiest Times Together. Review it every time sadness overwhelms you and threatens you into despair. Use the list to ignite the flame of love and connection. It’s a promise that heals and renews.
• Retrieve that box of letters, notes or maybe even text messages you saved that made your heart sing because you knew he or she was “the one.” Let your heart swell with the same kind of attraction you felt then.
• Create the Story of Your Life Book. Meant to be passed on, cherished and a record for posterity. Record the story of your life together in pictures, words, and stories, including the ups and downs. This is meant to be shared and read by your family, children, and grandchildren. Your name will not be just a name on the family tree. Instead, it becomes a written legacy of who you were, the life you lived, and what you want them to know about you.  This Is Our Life Story. You’re Still the One

More Rituals

• Write a Poem or Letter to your loved one and title it “If I had to do it all over again, I would still choose you!” Gary bought me a balloon for an anniversary with the words, “Your Still the One.” That feeling never changed. No regrets!
• Borrow beloved characteristics of your loved one that bought you together in the first place. Another Valentine’s Day ritual: Decide which characteristics of your loved one you want to “borrow,” and “adopt” them for yourself. Practice them every day. Let them become a part of you.
• Use Connecting Bonds to subtly remind you of heart and soul connections through objects, habits, rituals, and memories. Valentine’s Day rituals are healthy and healing.
• Remember Others. Send a Valentine to F
• friends who shared your experiences together. And don’t forget those special people who supported you in mourning.
• Buy Yourself a Bouquet of Flowers and if it suits you, add a single red rose.

Read more by Nan on Open to Hope: Son’s Suicide Reorders Family’s Life – Open to Hope

Learn more about Nan’s work at Wings – A Grief Education Ministry

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“Random memories tell the stories of our lives…the difficult and joyous times that reveal who we are now, how far we’ve traveled, and who we’ve become because of our experiences.”

Valentine’s Day dawned, and I awoke keenly aware that my first year without my husband was predestined to be an emotional one. It occurred just one month after his unexpected death.   I wouldn’t be creating any new memories. Gary’s absence filled the house, and the relenting ache of early grief was overwhelming.  I craved having just one more time. One more memory. Hearing his laughter and feeling his hug! And one more Valentine’s bouquet.

Later that day, when I went to the mailbox, a neighbor driving by signaled for me to stop.  I expected she wanted to chat, and I wasn’t really in the mood. She reached into the back seat of her car and handed me a single red rose in a vase. She said, “We had these left over at church and I knew there was someone that needed this today.”

A Single Red Rose

My heart leaped and the tears flowed—not just for the token of such kindness but for the significance of the single red rose on this special day.  There is no way she would have known what it meant.

Though married for decades, Gary and I always observed the day in a special way. Gary always brought me flowers tucking a single red rose in to each bouquet. That rose held a romantic attachment to our dating days.  I loved a bouquet of mixed flowers. But the rose popped up in our story so many times that I can’t disregard its significance and symbolic meaning of the love and commitment Gary expressed in this simple ritual.

Random memories tell the stories of our lives…the difficult and joyous times that reveal who we are now, how far we’ve traveled, and who we’ve become because of our experiences. They sometimes catch us by surprise and remind us of private, unshared moments. They expose our challenges, our triumphs, and victories.

Capturing Valentine’s Day Memories

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could rewind and capture the impact that memory made in our life? It is through those displaced memories that we “survive” when a significant loved one dies. We should never deny or reject those reflections of the past.

Difficult memories remind us of our courage and tenacity to deal with and overcome them. Happy memories provide energy and strength that fuel our mental health and endurance in the face of loss.  In reality, we know very little about each other’s lives because we don’t take time to share the stories.

The greatest measure of support I have from family and friends is when they allow me to share my memories and listen intently with curiosity, and patience, even if I told the story ten times before!

Valentine’s Day Memories of Roses

So what ‘s the story of the single red rose?  It’s a Valentine love story that began decades ago.

Gary once told me I was a rose in a field of wildflowers and hence he always included a single red rose in every bouquet of fresh flowers, a frequent occurrence. Thus, my first Valentine’s Day alone was bittersweet but warmed by my cherished memory and the unbelievable coincidence delivered by a neighbor.

Although you may be thinking my husband was a “romantic,” he really wasn’t in the usual way.  He was a quiet sentimental kind of guy. He used to say, “Still water runs deep”. That’s exactly the kind or romanticist he was.

Not the kind that showered me with surprise gifts, embellished words, or romantic gestures. But rather one that showed love in his own unique ways such as: bringing home a rock with “character” that sometimes made me wonder. Or buying me a bakery-made birthday cake in my favorite lemon poppyseed flavor that cost 3 times the price of one from a grocery store. Each time, I quickly reminded myself, “It’s the love that counts.”

Roses pop up in the life stories of both my son and my husband. The day before my son, Chad, died, he bought red roses for his fiancé. And a bouquet of red roses appeared on the table at his funeral with no card. I later dried them, and the buds were fashioned into a special keepsake item. And someone left roses months later at the cemetery.

Valentine’s Day Memories May be Painful

Valentine’s Day pulls at the heart strings after the death of your loved ones.  Happy couples sharing a special day celebrating their love can be very painful and may intensify the sadness you feel. You might silently wish for just “one more time”. Family and friends may not understand how your connection to your loved one could still affect you many years after your loss.

The answer is quite simple. These memories remind you about what you are missing. It’s okay to remember the love. You’re not clinging to your loss. You are honoring the covenant of your love.

Memories of Love Rituals

I believe that deep love really never dies. When our loved one dies, the love we shared with each other continues for as long as we want it to. Perhaps for the rest of our lives.  When we love someone in absence, we continue to honor the affection and commitment we shared and that continues our bond. I believe that nurturing bonds gently nudges us forward with hope to live in our newly defined world.  Honoring connection through rituals can be healthy and healing.

You choose to still live actively in the present moment reminding yourself that you are who you are in part because of growing through the stories of your life with all its twists and turns. You don’t allow past memories to consume you. Instead, you use pleasant memories to build the kind of resilience that beckons and gives you permission to experience joy once again.

Personally, the way I see it, my memories are the stories of our life together that gave us purpose and choosing to remember them gives me peace. Everything we did, we did for each other. Everything we experienced together prepared us for the moment when we would be apart. Memories allow us to persevere.  Love to guide us through. Hope for better days ahead. And silently say, “Thank you for being a beautiful part of my life.” I wouldn’t trade those random memories for a field of roses.

Valentine’s Day may be a ritual wrapped up in roses, candlelight, fine dining, and an abundant display of tangible elements to impress loved ones. However, when a loved one dies, all that truly remains are the spoken words we store in our minds and our lifetime of memories that linger beyond the veil of death. They create a connection that can be renewed whenever we wish.

Memory of a Crushed Rose

Recently, I pulled out a tub of photo albums hidden in the corner of the basement which hasn’t been opened in years. (yes, this was before digital and selfies which makes it even more significant). I was looking for a particular photo and found a large white “scrapbook” of memories throughout our dating years. I chuckled as I picked up a letter and could still repeat with great clarity Gary’s military ID number that was part of his mailing address when he was stationed at Fort Knox.

Opening the chronical of early days, memories flowed filled with warm feelings of cherished times and the newness of love. A first anniversary card with a large red rose on it and a red velvet ribbon included the verse: “How Do I Love Thee. Let me Count the Ways.”   Crushed between the pages, was a single red rose. Dried and withered but a testimony of the legacy that continued for over 5 decades.

On the first anniversary of Gary’s death, a dear friend of his delivered flowers to me. Included in the bouquet was a single red rose. With tears, I asked, “how come?” He said, “Gary told me the story.”

The story of our life and our love wouldn’t be complete if I left out the rose.

Read more by Nan on Open to Hope: Son’s Suicide Reorders Family’s Life – Open to Hope

Learn more about Nan’s work at Wings – A Grief Education Ministry

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One of the most charming questions I ever received in one of my second-year spousal-loss classes came from a middle-aged man named Sam. He said, “If I were to invite a woman over to dinner, how many framed pictures of my deceased wife would be too many?”

His question was a good one. Sam, like most people who have lost a mate, had increased the number of framed photos around his house so he could feel his late wife’s presence. I answered his question with one of my own: “If you went into a widow’s home, how many photos of her deceased spouse would it take for you to feel uncomfortable?”

He laughed and said it was time to dismantle the shrine. He went on to say that he was going to invite a woman over to his home for dinner because he missed having a meaningful conversation with the opposite sex. And he was open to entering a new relationship.

Entering a New Relationship Can Promote Self-Esteem

Social connections are key to emotional health. They remind us of our value. Research supports that those of us who are socially connected are healthier, have fewer stress-related problems, and recover from trauma and illness faster.

Yet many widows and widowers are reticent to seek a new partner because the quality of the relationship – long term- is uncertain. Occasionally, a class member is brave enough to express her or her apprehension by saying, “What happens if I remarry and find I’m unhappier than I am living alone?” It’s a good question and a valid concern.

However, I recently sent a questionnaire to 90 widows and widowers I have worked with over the years. Of the 60 percent who responded, more than half are happily remarried or in a committed relationship. Many reported that their current relationship was more loving and rewarding than the one they had with their deceased mate.

Thinking About Dating

You might say that you are not interested in a relationship because you don’t want to be a caregiver again. However, that same relationship can become a positive when you think about another person caring and supporting you.

Let me list a few of my own observations about widows and widowers, and the subject of a new relationship.

• When the building of a relationship is rushed, it often fails, throwing the individual back into a grief cycle. I often draw a round peg in a square hole on the white board to remind people that a round peg can be put into a square hole if you make the round peg small enough. In other words, you can make yourself fit into someone else’s world. But does that sound appealing?
• Many who insist they are not going to date change their minds immediately after meeting someone interesting.
• A few individuals strongly believe it is morally wrong to commit to another relationship. They wrestle with thinking they should remain alone because of their prior commitment. I ask them to review the last line of their traditional wedding vows: till death do us part. Wisely, no restrictions were placed on how to live after they have completed their vows.

No Right Answer

No matter what you want or don’t want, expect people to talk to you about dating. Try to understand and be kind. It is normal for others to think you might be interested in another relationship.

Lastly, what you ultimately decide you want is most likely be the right thing for YOU. Therefore, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you if you are not interested in committing to a new relationship. Period.

Read more from Vicki: Spousal Loss: What Legacy of Loss Are You Passing on to Others? – Open to Hope

Related reading on Open to Hope:
Five Years Into Widowhood: Life Goes On
A Life Alone: Adjusting to Being a Widower
Ten Things Every New Widow Should Know to Survive
Surviving the Shock of Widowhood

Check out Vicki’s website: Vicki Panagotacos | Grief & Loss Counseling

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A Personal Journey of Loss and Recovery

Leslie Lagos brings a unique perspective to grief support, having experienced both personal recovery from substance abuse and the loss of her brother, Timmy, to an overdose in 2013. Her brother’s death on Thanksgiving marked a turning point that would lead her to dedicate her life to helping others navigate similar losses.

Before his death, Timmy struggled with substance use following a football injury that led to chronic pain. Despite periods of improvement and family support, he faced ongoing challenges. The circumstances of his death remain complex, with family members holding different perspectives about whether it was intentional or accidental.

“He was this carefree, fun loving, genuinely just this personality that you just were endeared to. And he was funny as all heck,” Lagos recalls of her brother.

Breaking Down Stigma

Deaths related to substance use often carry a heavy stigma that can complicate the grieving process. Families frequently face judgment, blame, and misunderstanding from others who view addiction as a choice rather than a disease. This stigma can create barriers to seeking support and openly discussing loss.

The Sun Will Rise Foundation addresses these challenges through their RIVER approach:

• Relating to others who have experienced similar losses
• Inviting open dialogue
• Validating feelings and experiences
• Empowering individuals in their grief journey
• Reassuring those who are struggling

Support Through Peer Connection

The foundation holds 32 monthly peer grief support groups for adults who have lost someone to substance-related causes. These groups provide a safe space where people can share their experiences without judgment and connect with others who understand their pain.

Lagos emphasizes that grief support comes in many forms. Some people benefit from attending support groups, while others prefer receiving newsletters or watching educational content. The key is finding connections that work for each individual.

Making Meaning Through Service

Lagos has transformed her loss into purpose by helping others find hope and healing. Through the Timothy Patrick Morrissey Memorial Fund and her work with SAD OD (Support After Death by Overdose), she provides resources and support to those navigating similar losses.

The foundation also assists people in recovery with career services and life skills, helping them build stable futures. This comprehensive approach addresses both the immediate needs of grieving families and the broader issues surrounding substance use.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How can I support someone who lost a loved one to substance-related causes?

The most important thing is to listen without judgment and allow them to share memories of their loved one. Avoid offering unsolicited advice or making statements that might suggest blame. Simply being present and acknowledging their loss can provide meaningful support.

Q: What resources are available for families dealing with substance-related grief?

Organizations like the Sun Will Rise Foundation and SAD OD offer peer support groups, online resources, and educational materials. These organizations provide both virtual and in-person support options, making help accessible to those who need it.

Q: How can families cope with different interpretations of a substance-related death?

It’s common for family members to have different views about the circumstances of a substance-related death. The key is to respect each person’s perspective while focusing on supporting one another through grief. Professional counseling or peer support groups can help families navigate these complex dynamics.

Read more by Dr. Gloria Horsley: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

The post Navigating Grief After Substance-Related Deaths appeared first on Open to Hope.

The long winter months can be especially confining, isolating and challenging when grieving a loss. But you can also engage in unique ways that will help you bear your loss. Here are some winter grief activities and projects (or for any time of year):

• start an indoor gardens/terrariums/terrarium memorial garden
• take up a new hobby/craft, learn new skills/enhance existing ones
• enroll in an online class (many are self-paced)
• write your autobiography or a biography about your loved one
• start a Blog (many free options with public/private settings)
• volunteer at church, care-facilities and non-profits
• plan and gather materials for spring projects
• give a room(s) in your home a new look makeover
• learn “scrapbooking” to create frames, albums, greeting/postcards, etc.
• write letters & post cards the old fashioned way to connect/reconnect
• hobby photography (create beautiful photo gifts)
• chart your genealogy using online resources
• plan some trips that give you something to look forward to
• collect, taste-test and self-publish a family recipe book
• sort through your “stuff” and sell on eBay
• join a weekly grief support group (hospice, hospital, church, community)
• join a social group that attends local events together

You can find things that will truly help you to better cope with the absence of a loved one and can help you to regain more control of your days, rather than letting your days control you.  –

Learn more about John Pete: John Pete Official Website

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Maybe your family is like mine. When a crisis strikes, you go into action to make things better. First, you want a better understanding of your situation, so you’re off to search the internet. After a good deal of searching, you go through your mental rolodex (remember those) to ask for additional information and suggestions. After making your contacts, you’re on your way to developing your “to-do” list of how to get a handle on the situation, or better yet, how to whip it into shape.

A good crisis knocks us off balance and perhaps even off our feet. But that’s not going to be the last word for us. We’re getting back up, finding our balance, and taming this wild, unruly thing. We’re willing to work as hard as needed, talk to anyone we can, lose as much sleep as required, and truly sacrifice, if necessary, to get this situation under control. To get our lives back under control.

This is how it goes for much of our lives, and much of the time, maybe even most of the time, this approach works pretty well.

When an Accident Happens

But sometimes it doesn’t. An accident happens and there are consequences well beyond our control. A biopsy comes back positive and we’re in a new world where the old ways of coping are not very helpful. Someone important has died and despite our bargaining otherwise with God or the universe, being dead means you stay dead (at least in this life).

And this is so hard and hard to accept. It is not how we roll in our lives. We are accustomed to solving problems through hard work and marshalling the troops. We don’t like and won’t take “no” for an answer. We’re willing to do whatever it takes and pay any cost to change the conditions we’re facing and the trajectories of pain that they have brought.

When faced with unchangeable losses of health or life and realities impervious to correction, we may feel more angry than sad (although we feel sad, too). What has happened to us is not only terrible, it is not right. That there is nothing we can do to change the fundamentals of our situation can feel offensive to our sense of order and justice. It is not how life is supposed to be.

And yet, here we are.

Helplessness is Human

The helplessness of grief can be one of the most disturbing parts of our experience. We desperately want to change things. We want the accident to have never happened, the diagnosis to never exist, the dying and death to be reversed. It’s human to want these things and human to desire to control more than is possible.

We’re not wrong for feeling the protest of the situation and wanting to snap our fingers and make it all go away. That we want such things just means we’re hurting and we’re human.

Confronted with unchangeable loss, we can feel that there is nothing we can do to make things better, but this is not true. How we respond does matter for us and for others. We want more choices than this, of course, as we most want to change the unchangeable. We don’t want to settle for less.

Helplessness Can be Overcome

We are left with a sorting challenge among three general options. One is to keep trying to change the unchangeable. Another is to give up and stop trying to make anything better. And the third is to work to let go of trying to change the unchangeable and to focus our efforts at the margins where the unchangeable meets the changeable.

So much good in the world and in our own personal worlds is this work at the margins.

At the margins is the father holding the hand of his sick and frightened child.

… the daughter sitting in the waiting room with her mother.

… the friend listening across the coffee shop table.

… the nurse bringing medication to help the nausea and make sleep possible.

… all those who avoid offering cliches and give a hug instead.

Life at the Margins

Maybe your family is like mine and you’ve had your share, or more than your share, of crises and losses. And you’ve fought to control what is out of your or anyone’s control, to change the unchangeable. Then you learned, and you’re still learning, as you put more and more of your precious time and efforts into impacting life at the margins. It’s not all you want, but it really matters, and it’s worth doing.

I’m not glad that your family has had to face such things, but I’m glad that your family and my family are not alone. Not being alone is part of what makes the unchangeable bearable. Another of the consolations at the margins of life and living.

Reach Greg Adams at the Center for Good Mourning: www.archildrens.org

Read more from Greg Adams: Hope is a Muscle – Open to Hope

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In the early stages of grief, sadness was all I could think about. I viewed my life—indeed the world—from the lens of sadness. Each day, I felt like I was drowning in sadness and there was nothing to be happy about. Unfortunately, when I did this, I made my life darker and turned it into a future without hope.

What might happen if I changed my thinking?

I had read about the human mind and how miraculous it is, how we may be the only living species capable of consciously changing our thinking. Dr. Heidi Horsley and Dr. Gloria Horsley write about two techniques in their book, Teen Grief Relief. I purchased the book when I was caring for my orphaned twin grandchildren.

One idea: “Select a pleasant thought and hold it in your mind as you touch your thumb and index finger together to make a circle, or link,” they write. The Horsleys call his “The Happiness Link” and I tried it. “The Happiness Link” worked, and I continue to use it.

What am I Learning from Grief?

“Thought-Stopping” is another of their ideas. When concentration is needed and grief set aside, you wear a rubber band on your wrist and snap it when you need to focus. I tried this technique, and it worked. In a sense, I was snapped to attention. Like “The Happiness Link,” this requires a physical response, and I think that’s why it works for me.

I live at Charter House, a retirement community owned and operated by Mayo Clinic. Charter House offers a continuum of care. Though my apartment is in Independent Living, I know Assisted and Supportive Living are available.  Residents talk about health issues and death freely. We also discuss the importance of a positive attitude.

What I Learned from Grief

Since I’m a list-maker, I made a list about the things I learned from grief, and it may help you.

• You become acutely aware of the blessings in your life: food, clothing, shelter, occupation, interests, grandchildren, and more.

• You practice mindfulness—the non-judgmental awareness of the present, your body, surroundings, and what is going on.

• You are more compassionate than you were before learning from grief.

• You make good things from grief. Examples: Help fund a scholarship, donate books to the public library about your loved one’s occupation and/or hobbies, donate to a national health organization.

• You volunteer in the community in memory of your loved one. Every time you volunteer you think of him or her.

• You ask family members to contribute written memories of your loved one and make these into a book.

• You gather family members to a dinner comprised of your loved one’s favorite foods—some healthy and some not so healthy.

• You treasure objects that link you to your loved one: wind-up watch, antique rolling pin, woodworking tools, etc.

• You give yourself permission to laugh and treasure every moment of life.

Life is the Winner

After my husband died in 2020, I made a conscious decision: Death will be the loser. Life will be winner. I will make it so. I created a new life based on the foundation of my husband’s love. And I remain open to hope and open to happiness. As Heather Lende writes in her book, Find the Good: Unexpected Life Lessons from a Small-Town Obituary Writer, “Find the good. That’s enough. That’s plenty.”

Learn more about that and her other books: www.harriethodgson.net.

Read more by Harriet Hodgson on Open to Hope: https://www.opentohope.com/get-a-grief-buddy/

The post Learning from Grief appeared first on Open to Hope.

Grief has a way of seeping into every part of our lives, even when we think we’ve moved on. For years after my sister’s death, I lived in the fog of grief. Mentally, I was coping as best I could, but because I was active in sports, my body found a way to release some of the tension after every practice. Still, even two decades later, I realized that grief was still lurking in my body, even though I believed I was in a good place—or so I thought.

I remember attending my first grief and loss conference five years after Stacy died. I felt like a deer in headlights. For a while, I engaged in small talk with a few people and attended two workshops, but I didn’t feel present. I felt like I wasn’t fully in my body, like I was floating outside of myself.

Even now, two decades later, I can’t fully explain why I felt that way, but I just remember feeling off or maybe just disconnected. Sometimes we get so caught up trying to make sense of our grief that we forget—it isn’t always something that needs to be talked about.

Where Does Somatic Breathwork Play Into All of This?

As a social worker, I’ve spent years listening to others share their grief and trauma. While talking can be incredibly healing for many, I’ve also seen cases where it felt like talking wasn’t helpful. Some people seemed stuck, retelling the same story over and over, and for others, revisiting their pain only deepened their wounds. I wanted to find a skill that could help those who didn’t want to talk about their grief and trauma—or for whom talking wasn’t enough.

I first encountered somatic breathwork two decades after Stacy’s death, during a time when I was searching for something deeper—something to address the parts of me that felt stuck and unresolved. My first few sessions left me skeptical. I stayed in my head, wondering when the magic was going to happen. At the end of each session, others often shared profound breakthroughs, while I simply felt calm and grounded. I honestly wondered if I was missing out and when I would have a breakthrough.

At first, the practice felt mechanical, like I was doing it wrong. But as I learned to trust the process, focus on my breath, and allow it to deepen, something shifted. It wasn’t during my first, second, or even third session, but by my seventh session, my body finally began to soften. With each exhale, I felt a deeper connection to my body, allowing it to express the grief it had been holding onto for decades. Tears came—not from sadness, but from release. I wasn’t just remembering my grief. I was letting it move through me, out of the tight places where it had been lodged for so long.

A Lifeline to Healing

That session was transformative. I walked away feeling lighter—not because my grief was gone, but because I was no longer alone. Somatic breathwork gave me a way to connect with my body as an ally in healing and transforming my grief, rather than seeing it as a barrier to overcome.

This experience ultimately led me to become a certified somatic breathwork practitioner. I wanted to help others access the same kind of transformation and renewal I had found. For me, somatic breathwork isn’t just a practice—it’s a lifeline. It’s a reminder that even in the midst of pain, we have the power to find relief.

Reach Stephen Stott through his website: Somatic Breathwork for Grief, Trauma, and Emotional Pain (embracethedarkness.org)

Check out Stephen’s appearance on Open to Hope Radio.

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Understanding the Impact of Pregnancy Loss

Dr. Rose’s journey into exploring pregnancy loss began after witnessing two women discussing their miscarriages in a coffee shop restroom. This encounter sparked her mission to create a space where women could openly share their experiences and find healing.

The author’s research reveals that the connection between parents and their unborn children runs remarkably deep, even in cases where the pregnancy ends early. Both women and men often maintain profound bonds with their unborn babies, carrying stories that can reshape their life trajectories.

“I just didn’t feel like it was okay for women to not be able to talk about their experiences in general,” shares Dr. Rose, highlighting the need for open dialogue about women’s health issues.

A Global and Multicultural Perspective

The book presents diverse viewpoints from multiple cultures and traditions, including:

• Native American indigenous knowledge and perspectives
• International experiences from France, Canada, the United States, and Argentina
• Buddhist perspectives on incarnation and the spiritual aspects of pregnancy
• Various healing modalities including shamanism, craniosacral therapy, and hypnotherapy

Healing Approaches for Pregnancy Loss

Dr. Rose outlines three essential steps for those navigating pregnancy loss:

1. Self-Connection: Cultivate a gentle relationship with yourself and your experience. Allow space for processing emotions without judgment.

2. Trusted Support: Share your story with carefully chosen individuals who can provide appropriate emotional support and understanding.

3. Spiritual Connection: Develop a relationship with your personal sense of the divine, whether through meditation, nature, or other meaningful practices.

Breaking the Silence

Dr. Heidi Horsley, who has experienced two miscarriages herself, emphasizes how common yet unacknowledged pregnancy loss remains. Many individuals only discover shared experiences when someone else speaks up first.

The transformation from secret to sacred represents a crucial shift in how society approaches pregnancy loss. This evolution allows for more open discussions and proper acknowledgment of the grief process.

Through her work, Dr. Rose demonstrates that pregnancy loss often leads to significant life changes, with many individuals redirecting their professional paths to support others experiencing similar losses or making other meaningful life adjustments.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How common are miscarriages and pregnancy losses?

Miscarriage and pregnancy loss are more common than many people realize, affecting numerous women worldwide. However, due to the stigma surrounding these experiences, many individuals don’t share their stories openly.

Q: What are some healthy ways to process grief after pregnancy loss?

Healthy grieving can include connecting with trusted support systems, engaging in gentle self-care practices, and exploring spiritual or emotional healing methods that resonate with your personal beliefs and comfort level.

Q: When should someone seek professional support after experiencing pregnancy loss?

Individuals should consider seeking professional support whenever they feel ready to process their experience. There’s no timeline for grief, and professional guidance can be beneficial at any stage of the healing journey.

Read more about child loss: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

The post Steps to Heal from Miscarriage and Baby Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

An Unexpected Turn

Vanessa and Rick’s love story began through a matchmaker in 1994, leading to nearly 20 years of marriage and the adoption of their daughter. Rick, described by colleagues as “jovial” with a quick wit, showed no obvious signs of depression. The morning of his death began like any other – with a family breakfast before Vanessa and their daughter left for the day. When they returned, Rick was gone.

“He wasn’t diagnosed with depression at all,” Vanessa explains. “We didn’t see anything coming. It was completely out of the blue.” Even Rick’s doctor confirmed he had never discussed mental health concerns during his visits.

Navigating the Unique Challenges of Suicide Loss

The aftermath of suicide loss presents distinct challenges compared to other forms of sudden death. Survivors often grapple with questions about why it happened and whether they missed warning signs. For Vanessa, this manifested as an internal struggle with guilt and self-doubt.

“You have all those questions about the why. I think that is the big thing – why and how did I miss the clues.”

Finding Healing Through Multiple Pathways

Vanessa’s healing journey incorporated several key elements:

• Immediate support from family and close friends
• Consistent therapy sessions, which continue eight years later
• Hot yoga practice, which helped process trauma stored in the body
• Involvement with Camp Widow and Soaring Spirits Canada

The practice of hot yoga became particularly significant in Vanessa’s healing process. “I really believe trauma is held in your body,” she shares. “There’s something about being in that hot room, getting all those toxins out, getting all that bad energy out and getting in touch with yourself.”

Parenting Through Grief

Raising a teenage daughter while processing her own grief presented unique challenges. Vanessa’s daughter, who was 13 at the time of Rick’s death, had pre-existing mental health concerns. This required careful navigation of both their grief journeys.

“The high school years were difficult for us, but we made it through,” Vanessa reflects. Her daughter, now 22, has found her way to healing and is thriving, though the path was not always straightforward.

New Chapters and Hope

In 2019, Vanessa met Greg, also a widower, at a meetup event. Together, they volunteer with Soaring Spirits Canada, helping others navigate loss and find meaning in tragedy. Their shared experience has created a deep understanding and connection.

Through her volunteer work with Heartache to Hope and Soaring Spirits Canada, Vanessa has become an advocate for suicide loss awareness and support. She now openly shares her story on social media, working to reduce the stigma surrounding suicide and mental health.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How can someone support a friend who has lost a loved one to suicide?

The most important thing is to be present and listen without judgment. Create a safe space where they can share their feelings and memories. Practical support with daily tasks can also be invaluable during the early stages of grief.

Q: What resources are available for people who have lost someone to suicide?

Organizations like Heartache to Hope and Soaring Spirits offer support groups and programs specifically for suicide loss survivors. Professional therapy, grief counseling, and local support groups can provide additional assistance in processing the loss.

Q: How long should someone wait before considering dating after losing a spouse?

There is no set timeline for dating after loss. Everyone’s journey is different. Vanessa waited two years before considering dating again. The most important factor is feeling emotionally ready to open your heart to new connections while honoring your past relationship.

Read more about child loss: Kathleen Gilbert: Couples Coping with Child Loss – Open to Hope

Visit Dr. Gloria Horsley’s author page on Amazon: Amazon.com: Dr. Gloria Horsley: books, biography, latest update

The post A Journey Through Suicide Recovery appeared first on Open to Hope.

Question from Barbara: Is it normal to grieve over someone you have not seen in 30 years? Recently, a guy who was my first boyfriend when I was 15 was murdered. He was 47.

I have not seen him since we were 15. I did not expect to feel so much loss. I do not remember how or why we stopped seeing each other, or how long our relationship lasted. I only have 4 or 5 memories. I don’t understand why I feel such a deep loss.

He was a great guy then, and I know he grew up to be a great man, but I have lost other people that I had seen more recently, and did not grieve like this. It is close to the loss I felt when my father died 4 years ago. I have diaries I kept when we were together and I want to read them, looking for answers but afraid of what I will read.

Is it normal to grieve over someone you have not seen in 30 years?

Response to Grieving the Death of One’s First Love

Dr. David Daniels responds: Barbara, what an interesting and provocative question you ask. Well, it may not be normal “to grieve over someone you have not seen in 30 years,” but it likely is natural and healthy. This was your first love and love generates strong and enduring connections to our limbic system and to the prefrontal lobes in our brains.

Newborn infants have strong limbic connection to their mothers and their early caregivers long before there is explicit memory. These connections are measurable physiologically. And infants that do not have loving contact and nurturance don’t grow and thrive. I just mention this to make explicit how enduring, vital, and important early bonds are.

Early Romance is Powerful

Then along comes adolescence and our first romantic love connections. These too are rooted in our physiology, in our limbic system and prefrontal cortex, and serve to bond us. So it is not surprising that the passing of your first boyfriend evokes strong and unexpected feeling of loss. Remember the sadness of grief reminds us of how much we care, yes even for someone we have not seen for these 30 years. Thus your grief here likely points to how much this connection means to you. It resembles your feelings concerning your father’s death 4 years ago which simply points to the depth of this connection to your first love. Should it even be otherwise?

I can still fondly remember my first girlfriend at age 13. We only even kissed once or twice. She is still in my heart. So I suggest that you go ahead and read the “diaries I kept when we were together.” This is nothing to avoid. Let yourself feel grief, joy, love, disappointment – whatever feelings were there. Remember that which is avoided tends to persist. Grief is natural and goes hand in hand with love and care. Thank you for this question that represents the core themes of love and loss.

Dr. David Daniels, MD is clinical professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Stanford Medical School, a leading developer of the Enneagram system of nine personality styles, and co-author of The Essential Enneagram (Harper Collins). Visit www.enneagramworldwide.com for additional information.

Read more from Dr. Daniels: Unconditional Love: Our Hope For Immortality – Open to Hope

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