But perhaps I am not supposed to be. Perhaps the work of grief is not about finding our way back to who we were, but learning how to become who we are now while carrying the love, memories, and losses that have shaped us.

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

For the past couple of weeks, I have felt the weight of anticipatory grief. Birthdays, especially milestones, have a way of stirring memories that seem tucked away on ordinary days. Suddenly, memories flood in, catching me off guard. A photograph, a song, or a fleeting thought transports me, making grief feel immediate and real. Sharing this helps others see how grief ebbs and flows, keeping the focus on personal experience. One minute, I was smiling as I looked at some of th

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.

The suffering is real, the scars are visible, and the weight of loss lingers across generations. Yet alongside this sorrow is a powerful determination to continue living, rebuilding, and loving despite what has been lost. Perhaps what resonates with me most deeply about Vietnam is not only the reminders of humanity's capacity for destruction but also the enduring strength of the human spirit. Even after immense suffering, division, and loss, people continue to find ways to c

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

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

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