Who Am I Now After Losing My Son?

Learning to Carry Love in a Different Way

The Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living — Socrates

Identity quietly shapes how we see ourselves, often unnoticed until a change makes us feel its absence. There are moments when I feel a subtle but significant separation from the person I once was. This disconnection is not overt or dramatic; it is far more internal and nuanced. It strikes me when I catch a glimpse of my reflection or navigate through an ordinary day, realizing that the woman I used to be would have approached these moments in a fundamentally different way.

When I look at old photographs, I am filled with profound nostalgia and pride in my journey. I see an earlier version of myself, blissfully unaware of the trials ahead. That chapter of my life, now part of my history, wasn't relinquished in a sudden moment but through a gradual awakening to deeper truths I embrace with conviction, compassion, and appreciation. That earlier version of me is not lost but an integral part of the foundation on which I stand today. I approach every challenge as an opportunity for growth and learning.

Kevin is inseparable from me, and the grief of losing him has not only reshaped my life but my very identity. To the outside world, Kevin’s smile, presence, and willingness to engage were often at the forefront. However, the intricacies of his inner life were far more complex. To speak of him without acknowledging both aspects would be incomplete.

While his struggles should be recognized, they do not define him; his life encompassed so much more. He was a beloved son, brother, uncle, nephew, cousin, and friend, and is deeply cherished in ways that leave lasting impressions on the lives he touched.

As I reflect, I come to see the distance I feel from my former self not as emptiness but as a journey of ongoing transformation. I carry Kevin with me, not merely as a memory but in how I perceive, listen, and engage with others, now infused with a deeper understanding of what lies beneath the surface. His life has indelibly shaped mine, intricately woven into my evolving identity.

So, when I pose the question of who I am now, the answer cannot be captured in a single phrase or confined to a fixed definition. I am someone forever changed by love and loss, carrying both the gentleness of my past self and the richness of my evolving identity. I am a mother whose bond with her son remains intact, albeit transformed into a form that may be less visible yet is no less real. In that quiet space between who I was and who I am becoming, I am discovering that identity is not something I have lost but a dynamic narrative still being written and held together by love, shaped by grief, and sustained by grace.

In the haunting years that followed Kevin’s tragic suicide, I found myself engulfed in the heavy stigma surrounding my loss. Phrases like "her son died by suicide" and "she lost her son to his own hands" reverberated in my mind like a cruel soundtrack, wrapping me in a suffocating blanket of shame.

I can still remember a particularly vivid moment at a large gathering two years after Kevin's death, when I overheard someone whisper those very words. A wave of panic washed over me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to flee, to vanish completely from sight. I swallowed hard, desperately fighting back the tears brimming in my eyes, as I struggled to maintain my composure. The weight of grief and isolation pressed down on me.

I yearned for a far-off place, a sanctuary where my anguish would remain unseen, untouched by the gaze of others who couldn’t understand my pain.

After countless discussions with my therapist and in support groups about the burdens of shame that weighed heavily on me, I have emerged from that darkness with a renewed sense of purpose six years later. I now understand that I am a child of God, blessed with two remarkable children: one who has gone to heaven and the other who is by my side.

I am a suicide loss survivor, and while that truth will always be part of my story, it is not the sum of who I am, nor is it the boundary of my identity. It is a chapter, a significant one, but not the conclusion. I understand now that I am a continual work in progress, and if I am honest, I will remain so for the rest of my life, because grief is not something I move past but something I grow around, shaping me in ways that continue to unfold over time.

I am not the same person I was ten years ago, and I will not be the same ten years from now, and there is a quiet acceptance in that, a recognition that transformation is not a single moment but an ongoing process.

Along this path, I have had to rise above the weight of societal judgment and the misunderstandings that often surround this kind of loss, and in doing so, I have come to a place where I no longer measure my life by those external voices. Instead, I have chosen to embrace life fully, to love with a depth and intensity that comes from knowing how fragile and sacred it all is, and to live with a heightened awareness that has drawn me closer to God and to a deeper sense of purpose.

I trust that He is present in my story, not as a distant observer but as the potter shaping the clay, gently forming something new from what has been broken and remade. Because of that, I no longer walk this journey with hesitation but with openness. I am willing to receive both the joy and the lessons that continue to emerge.

When I ask myself who I am now, the answer is not something I can capture in a single sentence or hold in a fixed form, because identity, like grief, does not remain still.

I am someone changed by love and loss, carrying both the tenderness of who I once was and the depth of who I am becoming. I am a mother whose connection to her son has not ended but has shifted into a less visible yet no less real form. Within that quiet distance between past and present, I am learning who I am now — shaped by loss and held together by love and God’s grace. Grief hasn’t erased me but has transformed me.

If this resonated with you, I invite you to sit with your own story for a moment and gently ask yourself who you are becoming. You don’t have to have the answer today. Sometimes the healing is found in the willingness to stay present with the question.