The Silence Around Grief

Kevin on jet skis in DR

When the World Becomes Quiet, But Love Continues

I can hardly believe it is already August, and I haven't written a blog in an entire month. This fact alone reflects where I've been emotionally. Over the past several weeks, I've been navigating the silence of grief—or perhaps what some might call numbness—as I try to regulate my emotions and adjust to how profoundly different my life has become since losing Kevin.

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.

While people often associate grief with tears and sadness, after Kevin died on February 28, 2020, I experienced an unexpected silence in our home. It wasn't a peaceful stillness but rather a heavy absence, representing someone who had enriched our lives with music, laughter, and love.

This silence isn’t just the lack of sound; it embodies everything that is missing, transforming our home in ways I never anticipated.

The Silence of Absence

Kevin loved music. Our home was often alive with the sounds of his sitar, trumpet, guitars, piano, flute, and whatever instrument had captured his curiosity. Music was not simply something Kevin played; it was part of who he was. Sometimes I would hear him practicing in another room. Other times, I would listen as he shared a new song or talked about something he had discovered. Looking back, I realize those sounds were woven into the fabric of our family life in ways I did not fully appreciate until they were gone.

Kevin also loved laughter. I miss hearing him sitting in front of the television watching his favorite comedies or comedians and hearing his laughter fill the room. When Kevin died, the music stopped. The laughter stopped. The sounds that once made our home feel alive disappeared, and the silence that followed felt almost unbearable. Every quiet room reminded me that the person who had brought so much life into our home was no longer there.

I miss hearing his footsteps coming down the stairs and the familiar call of, “Mom.” I miss the simple ping of a text message from Kevin that would never come again. Grief has a way of revealing how much we take ordinary moments for granted until those moments become impossible to experience again. Those ordinary sounds become extraordinary because they are forever connected to someone we deeply love.

I never expected the silence of not hearing Kevin’s name. In the months and years after his death, I noticed that many people seemed hesitant to say his name. I want to reassure others that speaking his name is a gift, and it helps keep his memory alive for those who loved him.

What hurts more is when his name is never spoken. It can feel as though people are tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, afraid to acknowledge that Kevin lived, laughed, loved, and was deeply woven into our family story. Yet hearing someone say, “I was thinking about Kevin,” or “I remember when Kevin...” does not deepen my grief. Instead, it eases my loneliness because it tells me that others remember him too. It reminds me that his life mattered and that he has not been forgotten.

For 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, creativity, humor, music, or the impact he had on those who knew him. He remains part of our family story. He is alive in our memories, alive in the love that continues to shape us, and alive in our hearts.

Before the Silence, There Was Life

Kevin, 7 years old, in Honolulu, HI

Looking at this picture of Kevin when he was seven years old reminds me that sharing stories of our loved ones can help us process grief. It encourages others to remember and honor their own loved ones' lives, no matter how long ago they left us.

Before there was silence, there was life. A little boy was walking along the shore, discovering the world around him, experiencing joy, and creating memories that would become treasures I carry today. There were countless moments of laughter, adventure, learning, and love that filled the years before grief entered our lives.

The ocean reminds me that every wave carries a story. Some waves bring sadness because I miss Kevin so deeply. Other waves bring gratitude because I was blessed to be his mother and to witness his journey from childhood into the incredible person he became. Grief is not only the pain of losing someone; it is also the reflection of how deeply we loved them.

Kevin’s story did not begin on the day he died, and it does not end there. He was a son, a musician, a friend, an adventurer, and a person with dreams, passions, and a beautiful curiosity about the world. This photograph captures a moment of his life before the silence—a reminder that he was here, he was loved, and he made an impact.

Like the ocean, love continues to move even when we can no longer see the person we love standing beside us. The waves of grief may continue to come, but so do the waves of memories, gratitude, and love.

When I look at Kevin’s picture, I do not only see what I lost. I see what I was given. I see my beautiful son.

If this reflection speaks to your heart, I invite you to consider the ways we show up for those who are grieving. We do not need perfect words, and we do not need to fear mentioning the person who has died. Often, the greatest gift we can offer is simply acknowledging that their loved one existed, mattered, and continues to be remembered.

Say their name. Share a memory. Ask about the person they love. Listen without trying to take away their pain or fix them.

For those who are grieving, please remember that your love does not have an expiration date. The silence around your loss does not mean your loved one has been forgotten. The depth of your grief reflects the depth of your love.

Before there was loss, there was love. Before there was silence, there was a life that mattered.