I didn’t truly grasp the complexity of suffering until I lost my beloved son, Kevin. Before his passing, I experienced pain like many others—disappointments, heartaches, and challenging times. Yet the kind of suffering that burrows deep into your soul and reshapes your view of the world was entirely foreign to me. Suffering, in its essence, transcends mere pain. It embodies the profound emotional, mental, or spiritual distress that weighs heavily on our hearts when something

Brain Fog and Grief Brain fog can be a significant challenge during grief. When we lose someone we love, the body perceives emotional pain as trauma and instinctively shifts into protective mode. The loss of a loved one affects every area of life, including our physical and emotional well-being. While emotional aspects of grief are often discussed, the physical responses can be just as powerful. According to research, many people experience fatigue, sleep disturbances, and wh

Sleepness Nights Grief is exhausting. It drains the body, clouds the mind, and settles deep in the bones. Yet even when we are utterly worn out, sleep may still refuse to come. After Kevin died, my husband and I experienced insomnia in ways we had never known before. We were tired all the time. Grief made simple tasks feel heavy. But when night fell, and the house grew quiet, sleep felt impossible. Our bodies were weary, yet our minds remained alert. The silence magnified the

The hardest part of losing my son is living in the “after.” Suicide divided my life into before and after. I replay our final conversations. I wrestled with guilt. I questioned God. I lived in a fog of disbelief, moving through days that felt heavy and unreal. Yet what has sustained me is not trying to conquer grief, but learning to walk with it. I rediscovered faith. His death by suicide still leaves me grappling with how someone so gentle and creative could suffer so deeply

And in both, God was there — not explaining, not fixing, but holding me and whispering that He remains my refuge and strength, my ever-present help in every season. Psalm 23 comforted me then, and it comforts me still. I now offer that same comfort to my sister-in-law. When you attend a funeral, remember that you are stepping onto sacred ground. The person in the front row is not only burying someone they love; they are also burying their life. Grief is not always loud. Somet

After my son Kevin died by suicide, I learned that niceness may acknowledge loss, but true kindness stays, remembers, and walks beside those who grieve, offering presence, listening, and unwavering love. Kindness respects that love continues. It allows stories to be told again and again. It knows that remembering is not dwelling, and that speaking a loved one’s name is not reopening a wound. It is honoring a life.

Some days, the emptiness feels overwhelming. I trust God, yet I remain human. I grieve. I long for what might have been. I know death does not have the final word and that Jesus conquered the grave, but faith does not erase the ache. It gives me permission to bring my brokenness honestly before God. Scripture reminds me, “See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). I hold onto that promise, even when I cannot yet see the new thing

Hope did not arrive for me as something bright or immediate. It came slowly, almost imperceptibly, shaped by loss, memory, and faith. It did not erase grief, nor did it demand that I move past it. Instead, hope learned how to live alongside sorrow, breathing gently in the spaces where pain once felt overwhelming.Hope has taught me to trust what is unfolding, even when I do not yet recognize its shape. To believe that God is at work not only in what is restored, but in what is

Motherhood taught me patience I did not know I had. It invited me to notice beauty in small, ordinary moments, a tiny hand holding mine, a laugh that could fill an entire room. It shaped me with humility and showed me how deeply a heart can stretch when rooted in love. Now, decades later, my firstborn is a mother herself to two beautiful little girls. They have been, and continue to be, sources of deep joy and steady light, especially on days when life and grief feel overwhel

It feels like everyone is tired right now. Not just physically, but soul-tired—the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much for too long without a safe place to set it down. In 2026, this isn’t the exception; it’s the shared human experience. Grief, anxiety, illness, uncertainty, loneliness—these weights aren’t always visible, but they are felt deeply.

Stepping forward is not about forgetting the past or pretending that pain doesn’t exist. For those of us who have walked through grief, loss, or difficult seasons, moving forward is a delicate balance of honoring what has been while opening ourselves to what can be. It’s the recognition that while we cannot change what has already happened, we can choose how we respond to it, how we let it shape us, and how we carry it with grace rather than allowing it to weigh us down.

Advent becomes the spiritual framework for this slower, more intentional season. Rather than skipping ahead to joy, Advent asks for waiting,sitting with longing, expectation, and hope. This reflects on how the Christian story itself unfolds this way: before celebration, there was darkness; before joy, there was waiting; before the birth of Christ, there was love preparing to arrive. Christmas, at its core, is not about perfection or excess but about God choosing closeness,ent

The reflection closes with a deeply personal truth: joy is felt in time spent with family, even as absence is felt more sharply. Loving one child does not replace loving another. One presence does not erase another’s absence. This Advent, both grief and joy are held together—yearning for what is missing while making new memories with those who remain. This is the heart of the message: joy and grief can coexist. Love is large enough to hold them both.

December feels heavier when grief walks with us. Advent reminds us that peace doesn’t erase pain—it grows slowly, quietly, alongside it. Read my reflection on finding hope, love, and presence during this season.

Grief teaches us how to see the world differently. It softens us, reshapes us, and calls us to live with a deeper awareness of what matters. Gratitude, surprisingly, grows in the same soil. They seem like opposites, yet they lean into each other. Gratitude doesn’t erase grief; grief doesn’t smother gratitude. Somehow, they make room for one another. I felt both intensely, joy as I watched my grandchildren create new memories, and sorrow as the empty spaces reminded me of the

From the moment we boarded, reminders of my son Kevin surfaced in the gentlest and most unexpected ways. Our room steward also named Kevin and suddenly we found ourselves saying Kevin’s name over and over throughout the trip. At first it felt jarring, but then something softened. We couldn’t avoid speaking his name, even if we wanted to. Maybe God knew this was the one place where we needed to say “Kevin” without fear, without stumbling, without apologizing. Even my daughter

But reframing isn’t easy for everyone—especially for those who struggle with depression, like Kevin did. Depression is invisible but powerful. It lies. It whispers: You’re worthless. You’re a burden. You don’t matter. Grief, like depression, also distorts thinking. After losing Kevin, my thoughts were full of what-ifs and should-haves. What if I had done more? Should I have seen something different? Why didn’t I save him? These thoughts feel true, but they are grief’s attempt

We spend so much of our lives worrying. Replaying what happened, what could have been, or what might still go wrong. When my son Kevin was struggling with depression, I worried myself sick trying to anticipate outcomes — as if I could somehow protect him through my thoughts alone. But worry never saved him. It only exhausted my heart. The word worry comes from the Old English wyrgan, meaning “to strangle.” And that’s precise what it does — it strangles our peace, when we fixa

When we experience a deep loss, our first question is often why? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why them, why now, why me? Those questions mark the beginning of grief. But eventually, another question emerges: Now what? That question points us toward integration—the lifelong process of learning to live with loss and allowing it to shape who we become. Integration takes time and patience. It means accepting that your grief will always be part of you, but it can coexi

Why do bad things happen to good people? It’s one of life’s most difficult and enduring questions—one that touches the heart of every person who has ever experienced loss, pain, or injustice. When tragedy strikes, we naturally ask, “Why me?” or “Why would a loving God allow this?” This blog post explores those profound questions through the lens of grief, faith, and the human experience, offering compassion and hope to anyone navigating pain.