Learning from Grief

There’s been a lot of conversation lately about parenting styles—helicopter parents, snowplow parents, concierge parents. Different names, same idea: hovering, fixing, stepping in early, smoothing the path so our kids don’t have to struggle. At the same time, we’re seeing a real shift in kids’ mental health. As Jonathan Haidt outlines in The Anxious Generation, kids today are growing up with less independence in the real world and more exposure to high-pressure digital enviro

Say something. Anything. You might feel like you don’t know what to say—but silence can be more painful than imperfect words. Call, text, or write. Start with: “I’m so sorry.” or “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.” Even that is enough. ​ Share a memory of their child. When a child dies, no new memories will be made. So the ones you hold are precious. Tell them something beautiful or funny you remember—especially something they may not have known. ​ Say how special thei

From one grieving parent to the friends and family who want to help ​ When my son William died, I learned quickly that grief doesn’t care about distance. Whether you live down the street or across the country, your love still matters. And when you feel helpless, unsure of what to say or do, please know: there are ways to show up, even from afar. Here’s what I want you to know, from the heart of someone living this every day. ​ Don’t wait for perfect words—just say something.

What grieving parents wish you understood When a child dies, there is something most people don’t see. It’s not visible. It ’s not loud. But it is always there. We are carrying it. The luggage. The weight. The love and grief that now live side by side. And I want to be clear—this is not a burden we resent. We want to carry it. We are honored to carry it. Because it’s all we have left to hold. But it is heavy. After the funeral, something shifts. The casseroles stop coming. T

My husband and I are still learning how to walk through the world as parents of three children — one of whom is not alive. We are still hashing out how to understand each other in this new identity. How to carry our grief. When to disclose it. Whether to present it immediately to the stranger across from us at a dinner party… or hold it quietly in our own chest. I lean toward disclosure. Almost immediately. If I’m in a new conversation and someone asks about my kids, I want t

or, how to make a quilt from grief There is a new fabric that gets woven into a mother the day her child dies. But if I’m honest, it was being woven long before that. From the very beginning, our children are not separate from us. Science tells us that fetal cells cross the placenta and remain in a mother’s body for decades. Decades. Pieces of our children live inside our bloodstream, our organs, our bones. We carry them in ways we cannot see. And then there is the carrying w

If you are a parent who has lost a child, you learn quickly that the internet can be cruel. And not just the internet. Sometimes it’s acquaintances. Sometimes extended family. Sometimes people who believe they are being “helpful.” “You shouldn’t have let him ski.” “You should have been right behind him.” “You should have seen the signs.” “You should have known.” “You should have done something differently.” The “shoulds” come fast. And they cut deep. I have yet to meet a bere

We often talk about grief as if it happens in a single moment. The moment your person stops breathing. The moment everything changes. And yes, there is that moment. But grief does not end there. Sometimes grief begins long before death, when someone is sick and you watch them slowly fade. You grieve while they are still alive, quietly and privately, while still hoping and loving at the same time. Then there is the immediate aftermath. The days when people show up with food an

Lately, my husband and I have been having the same conversation, over and over again. How do we show up as grieving parents in the world? When is it appropriate to be outward-facing with our reality, and when do we leave it at home? I feel strongly that it shouldn’t matter. That it is my choice, always, when and where I talk about—or show—the fact that I am a bereaved mom. I don’t want to worry about making people uncomfortable. I don’t want to shrink my truth to protect some

When someone we love loses a child, we often ask the same question: What can I do? Especially if we live far away. Especially if we feel helpless. Especially if casseroles and flowers feel insufficient. Here is one answer that almost no one talks about, but that grieving parents desperately need: Help with the admin. Help with the logistics. Help with the unbearable paperwork that comes after a child dies. When our elderly parents die, we expect there will be accounts to clos

Nick and I grieve very differently. That sentence feels obvious and yet it keeps teaching me new things, even six years after William died. I have leaned all the way in. I am Bereavement Mom. I say that without irony or apology. It is not the only thing I am, but it is one of the truest things. The single most impactful thing that has ever happened in my life is the death of my son. William’s death rearranged me at a cellular level, and for reasons I still can’t fully explain

I made a mistake recently. I didn’t communicate my needs. I didn’t say what I was feeling. And then I felt disappointed and let down when those needs weren’t met. Have you ever done this? Slipped into that quiet place where you hope someone will just know what you need, without you having to say a word? Sometimes it feels impossibly hard to communicate. Naming what we want can make us feel vulnerable, or selfish, or too much. And sometimes, if we’re being honest, we just wan

I used to love the holiday card game. Every year, I would scrutinize our photos with a kind of tender obsessiveness, looking for the one that captured our exact family sensibility in that moment. I wanted just the right mix of love or silliness or quirk. Something that said, this is us right now. I would pick the photo, choose a design that felt fun and personal, and proudly send it off to our closest friends and family. And then William died, and all of that stopped. There w

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