For almost two weeks, I sat staring at a blank screen. I knew a story was waiting to be written, but the words refused to come. One morning, while out for a walk, the fog lifted. As my feet found their rhythm, so did my thoughts. I realized I wanted to write about Father's Day, June 21, the day we chose to celebrate what would have been Kevin's 40th birthday. Looking back, I understand why it took so long. Some stories are not written by determination alone; they wait until t

Grief is a universal yet deeply personal experience, and it’s crucial to recognize that it cannot be fixed or solved. In a world that often demands quick answers, this reality can feel unsettling. Consequently, many people choose silence, fearing they might say the wrong thing. However, leaning into vulnerability and fostering open conversations can create profound connections and support healing for both the grieving and those who care for them. In everyday moments, I’ve not

Boundaries help us protect our emotional energy and serve as reminders that it’s okay to prioritize ourselves during this season. They are not about shutting people out but about creating space to breathe, heal, and simply be. My time, emotions, and peace are precious. And it’s okay to protect them with care. During grief, certain areas often need boundaries, especially around privacy, time, emotions, and personal belongings. When there has been tension or conflict in any

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

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