Cruising after trauma: Memories, Grief, and Grace

Alaska 2000

First cruise - April 1994

After five years, I stepped onto a cruise ship. February 28, 2020, was the day we returned from vacation and found our world shattered forever. I never imagined being back on the ocean, where so many of our family memories were made, memories that now feel like both gifts and wounds.

This time, we joined my daughter and our two granddaughters, now 10 and 9—almost the same ages my children were on our very first family cruise back in July 1994. Kevin was just 7, and his sister was 11. Those moments felt light, simple, and full of wonder, and that 1994 cruise remains a cherished memory. In 2000, we went to Alaska to celebrate my daughter’s high school graduation, where my children, bundled in warm jackets, enjoyed the beauty of nature, witnessing glaciers, whales, schools of salmon, and the awe-inspiring aurora borealis. These treasured memories are stored deep within my soul, waiting to be relived time and again.

Cruise after 5 years without Kevin 💔

As I watched my granddaughters explore the ship, I couldn’t help but see my children in them—curious, joyful, innocent. So many similarities. So many echoes. And then the grief hit me in a way I knew it would, but still wasn’t ready for.

Families were joyfully capturing moments together—a mom, a dad, a girl, and a boy. It honestly stopped me in my tracks. My heart echoed the same sentiment: Kevin should be here. When we took family photos, his absence felt heavy. I envisioned him laughing and teasing his nieces, showing them the best spots on the ship and creating silly memories together.

My heart broke because my family is no longer whole. We are still a family, yes, but we are a family with a piece missing. And, even in that brokenness, I focused on reframing my thoughts. Not to erase the pain, but to see it differently, to see the love behind it.

The name “Kevin."

When we boarded the ship and entered our cabin, something happened that made my heart skip a beat.

Our room steward’s name was Kevin!

I froze for a second, tears welling, and wondered: Is this a sign? A reminder? A gift? Was it God’s way of telling me that my Kevin was with us on this cruise, that he was close, sailing with us, enjoying the memories with us?

Maybe. Maybe not. But in that moment, I allowed myself to believe it. It brought me comfort. It felt like a validation that love doesn’t end. It transforms, it lingers, it whispers.

And what I didn’t expect was how often we would have to say the name Kevin.

Every day, as our steward planned activities, asked questions, or checked in on us, we said his name again and again. There was no avoiding it. His name met us in the hallways, at meal times, during conversations about our plans, and even at the very end of the cruise, because he was also responsible for guiding us off the ship.

After the cruise, we kept talking about him: Kevin helped us with this. Kevin forgot that. Kevin did a great job today.”

We said the name over and over, not in mourning, but in the normal flow of life. Maybe God knew I needed this. Perhaps God knew that one of the loudest absences in grief is the silence around a loved one’s name, and that healing sometimes begins by simply saying it aloud.

Even my daughter said “Kevin” more often that week than she has in years. It no longer felt like she was mentioning her brother’s absence; it was just part of our daily rhythm. And maybe that was the miracle: reclaiming his name from pain and returning it to love.

“For with God nothing shall be impossible.” — Luke 1:37. God works in mysterious, precise, tender ways. Sometimes His miracles are quiet. Sometimes they show up as a name tag pinned to someone, helping you find your way.

Every meal, every activity, every passing moment brought another memory of Kevin. My husband and I found ourselves gravitating toward his favorite foods—sushi and steak.

My family and I talked about him at dinner, reminiscing about the foods he liked and special moments we had together when he was alive: with affection, heaviness, with laughter between the sadness. I even dreamed of him one night, a dream from one of our past cruises when he was a teenager, one of those dreams that feels so vivid you wake up breathless.

Being on that ship wasn’t easy. It was tender. It was painful. But it also served as a reminder of how deeply Kevin is cherished and still lives in the rhythms of our family.

You Are Not Alone

One night, I met a grieving wife who had lost her husband. Our stories were different, but the pain felt the same. We stood there on the ship, two strangers in the middle of the ocean, holding each other’s broken pieces for a moment.

We hugged. We teared up. We understood.

And as she shared her story, I heard the exact phrase echoing in my heart: You are not alone. That’s the truth I keep returning to, again and again.

Your body remembers

As we disembarked the cruise ship and walked toward the luggage collection area, a familiar anxiety began to rise within me. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, my head felt dizzy, my legs unsteady, and suddenly I was pulled back into the trauma of the other cruise…the one that ended in unimaginable loss.

It’s true what they say: the body keeps the score. Our bodies never forget pain. And in that moment, mine remembered everything.

My thoughts spiraled to my brother-in-law, who had been in the hospital when we left. The doctors had done all they could; comfort was all that remained. Part of me braced myself for terrible news the way I once had without warning. I wondered what would greet me once I stepped back onto land.

But none of that happened. Instead, we walked off the ship into an ordinary terminal. No shocks, no devastation, no life-altering phone calls. Just a normal departure. And in a strange way, that normalcy became its own kind of blessing. A reminder that not every ending echoes the worst day of your life.

This cruise was not just a vacation. It was an exercise in reframing and seeing the grief, acknowledging the ache, but also recognizing the love threaded through every moment. I used to believe that revisiting places tied to Kevin would break me. Yes, I feel the pain. I also found something surprising: tenderness. Beauty. Gratitude. Because everywhere I looked, I saw love.

I saw it in my granddaughter’s smiles and the love and warmth of my daughter and family. I saw it in the name “Kevin,” said freely, said often, said without fear. I saw it in the quiet moments when the ocean stretched endlessly, reminding me that God holds the vastness of my sorrow and the fullness of my love.

This trip didn’t erase the grief. It never will. But it softened something. It helped me see that even in the places where my heart breaks, there is beauty. There is connection. There is love.

And sometimes, reframing your thoughts isn’t about thinking differently; it’s about seeing the same memory with new eyes, gentler eyes, eyes willing to hold both the pain and the blessing. This cruise was a reminder that loss changes us, but love carries us. And Kevin’s love… carries me still.

If this story resonated with you or if you’ve ever felt alone in your grief, I invite you to subscribe and walk with me. Together, we can gently reframe our thoughts, honor the ones we miss, and keep finding hope in unexpected places.

You don’t have to walk through loss alone.