Grief invites us to reflect deeply, but it does not always give us the words to express what lives within our hearts. I hope my story resonates with those feeling similar silence or numbness, reminding us we're not alone in this journey. or grieving parents, hearing our child’s name is often a gift. It tells us that others still see the person we continue to love. Kevin’s death did not erase the thirty-three years he lived on this earth. It did not erase his kindness, creativ

Kevin at a show, 2018 In Honor of Mental Health Awareness Month Mental illness is not something you can plan for. It doesn't offer warnings or wait for the "right" moment to arrive. It simply becomes part of your life, sometimes gradually, other times suddenly. I have learned this not from a textbook or a research study, but by loving my son Kevin and walking beside him through a twelve-year battle with clinical depression. When Kevin attempted suicide in 2008 and was diagnos

Have you ever felt a wave of frustration when someone has hurt or offended you? In those moments, even when laughter unexpectedly breaks through your sorrow, it can be hard to fully embrace joy. It’s natural to want to stay in that space of feeling wronged or upset. Grief can mirror this complex emotional landscape. We often think grief means being consumed by sadness every moment of every day. If we truly loved deeply, then sorrow should permanently overshadow joy. But grief

I began to understand why those who have experienced profound loss often communicate differently. There is an unspoken recognition between individuals who have endured similar grief—a quiet understanding that some forms of suffering permanently alter how you navigate the world. Great love and great suffering are intertwined because both can open our hearts wide. Sometimes, it is through those very cracks that compassion, faith, wisdom, and light can enter.

There is a quiet distance between who I once was and who I am becoming, a space shaped by love, loss, and a deeper awareness I did not carry

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.

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.