A year ago, my world was turned upside down when I lost my son. It’s difficult to articulate what grief truly feels like, but if I had to try, I would say it sucks. It’s unpredictable and often feels like it’s completely out of my control. One day can be filled with unbearable sadness, while the next can surprise me with unexpected joy as I recall a cherished memory. The smallest things can become massive triggers for tears and emotions I didn’t see coming—a song, a photo, or even a familiar smell can send me spiraling back into the depths of my grief. Then there are days where I find myself laughing, sharing stories that remind me of his vibrant spirit and the joy he brought to our lives. This duality of emotions is something I’ve come to accept as part of my new reality.
What I know for certain is that I will never be the same person I was before. Grief changes you. It reshapes your identity in ways that can feel overwhelming and isolating. While it is a universal experience, often described as passing through five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—my journey has been anything but linear. This isn’t a neat process with a clear beginning and end. I know I will remain in all five stages until my last breath. Some days, I feel stuck in one; other days, I cycle through them all, sometimes multiple times in a single day. There are moments where I feel a glimmer of hope, and others where despair envelops me entirely. But never will a full day go by that I fully accept this reality.
Grief isn’t a race to the finish line. Everyone’s grief is different, and there is no right or wrong way to navigate it. There is no map, and crossing some imaginary finish line doesn’t mean it’s done and I can return to who I was. I’ve come to accept that I will never be “me” again, and that is a significant part of my journey. I must acknowledge the loss of my former self and allow space for this new identity to emerge—one that is shaped by my experiences and the love I continue to hold for my son.
In the wake of this profound loss, I have built a toolbox filled with strategies to cope with my grief. I could sit here and list everything in that toolbox, sharing what helps me, but I’ve learned that what works for me may not work for you. It’s about building your own toolbox and finding what resonates with you. Each person’s grief journey is unique, and it’s essential to honor that individuality.
In my toolbox, I have included a variety of tools and practices that I’ve found helpful along the way. For me, a simple walk in nature can work wonders. The fresh air, the sounds of the birds, and the rustling of the leaves can often bring a sense of calm and perspective, allowing me to breathe and reflect. Other times, talking or writing about Dylan helps me process my feelings. Writing has become a therapeutic outlet for me, a way to express emotions that can be difficult to articulate in conversation. Sometimes, I just need a good, full, ugly cry—a release that feels necessary, even if it leaves me feeling exhausted.
Each day brings different needs. Some days, I find solace in solitude, while others compel me to seek connection. I’ve learned to listen to my body and mind, to be gentle with myself when I need to retreat, and to honor my instincts when I feel ready to engage with others. This has been a critical lesson for me—understanding that I am not obligated to conform to societal expectations of how I should be handling my grief. It’s okay to take a step back when I need to.
Socializing has become a painful challenge. I’ve always been an introvert, but this feeling has deepened to a point where I now dread meeting new people, primarily due to the questions they might ask. Or the well-meaning, “How are you doing, really?” feels unbearable some days. Some days, I physically cannot be around others. I am hyper-aware of my emotions and find it challenging to engage in small talk or navigate social settings. On other days, I can manage thirty minutes—or maybe even a full day. But I never know what kind of day it will be until I’m in it. I have learned to be okay with leaving early or declining invitations without feeling guilty. This is how I have changed.
This new reality also means accepting the person I am now and embracing her. I have to be compassionate with myself, recognizing that I am navigating uncharted territory. Some days, I am hard on myself, wondering why I can’t just handle things differently, why I can’t just move on or find joy like I used to. But I am learning to love this new person—broken and hurt, yet striving to navigate this path of grief. It’s a journey filled with ups and downs, and I remind myself that it’s okay to feel lost and broken.
In this process, I have also come to appreciate the importance of creating new rituals in my life. These rituals can serve as a bridge between the past and the present, allowing me to honor Dylan while also finding a way to live in the here and now. For instance, lighting a candle for him on special days—birthdays, anniversaries, or even just random days when I feel overwhelmed with memories. This small act serves as a reminder of his presence in my life, a way to feel connected even when he is not physically here.
I have also found comfort in connecting with others who understand my journey. Support groups, whether in-person or online, have provided a safe space to share experiences and feelings without judgment. It’s a place where I can openly discuss my grief, share my struggles, and find solace in the fact that I am not alone in this journey. Hearing others’ stories has not only helped me feel understood, but it has also inspired me to continue moving forward, even when the path feels dark.
As I reflect on this past year, I am reminded that healing is not a destination but a continuous journey. There will always be moments that catch me off guard—a song, a place, or a memory that sends me spiraling. But I am learning to ride the waves of grief, allowing myself to feel whatever comes up without judgment. I am learning to embrace the complexity of my emotions, understanding that it is okay to feel joy and sadness simultaneously.
If you’re on this journey with me, know that you’re not alone. Together, we can find strength in our vulnerability and beauty in our shared experiences, even when it feels impossible. Grief is hard, but we are allowed to feel, to cry, to laugh, and to cherish the memories that our loved ones left behind. Let’s continue to build our own toolboxes and support one another as we navigate this unpredictable journey.
As I move forward, I hope to honor Dylan's memory by living fully and authentically, embracing this new version of myself while carrying his spirit with me. Grief may have changed me, but it has also shown me the depth of love I hold for my son and the resilience I never knew I had. Each day is a step forward, and while I may not know what the future holds, I am committed to walking this path with courage and grace.
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