How do we handle the road stretching before us when we are grieving? Erika, my daughter and only child, died at 32 in 2002 from a rare sinus cancer. A year later, with the love and support of many people, I started griefHaven.

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.