Bereavement Mom and Bereavement Dad (Or Not)

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 want to stand inside that truth instead of skirting around it.

I have found strength there. Purpose. Calling.

I love talking about grief. I love trying to change the narrative around death and loss, especially child loss. I love showing up for other bereaved mothers, listening to them, hearing their children’s names, holding space where there often is none. I want them to know they are not alone. I want them to feel seen.

So yes, I am Bereavement Mom.

Nick is not Bereavement Dad.

And he doesn’t want to be.

He carries his grief quietly. Privately. Internally. He always has. He is introspective, thoughtful, and deeply feeling, but not outwardly expressive. He does not process by sharing or posting or talking things through with the world. His relationship with grief is personal and contained, and that is his right.

For six years, our different grieving styles have worked. We have respected them. Protected them. Let them coexist.

Until recently.

As I have become more public, more vocal, more visible, more out there, Nick has started to feel overwhelmed. He sees my Instagram posts about grief and William and he feels pulled into something he doesn’t actually want to live inside all the time. Not because he doesn’t love William. Not because he isn’t proud of me. Quite the opposite.

He is proud of me. Deeply. He sees the purpose and the passion and the impact of the work I’m doing. He believes in it.

But he is so entwined in our grief, in the death of our son, that when I step fully into Bereavement Mom, he can’t help but be pulled along as Bereavement Dad.

And that’s not a role he wants to occupy.

There are moments when this becomes painfully clear. We meet new people. Someone asks what I do. I talk about my work. About grief. About William. About being Bereavement Mom.

And suddenly, Nick is Bereavement Dad in their eyes, whether he wants to be or not. He might have wanted to leave that part of himself at home that night. He might have wanted to just be Nick. A husband. A friend. A guy talking about sports or work or nothing important at all.

But grief follows us into rooms whether we invite it or not.

We share the same loss. We share the same love. But we do not share the same desire to be public with it.

So here we are.

Facing a new challenge. A new mountain to climb.

One where I see so much potential, and he does too, but just not for himself.

The question isn’t whether he supports me. He does.

The question is how do we move forward in a way that honors both of us?

How does he support a career and a calling that is built in a space he is forever tied to, but does not want to live inside of?

How do we protect his privacy while allowing me to step fully into my truth?

I don’t have the answer yet.

What I do know is this. We are talking. We are listening. We are stretching to understand each other better. We are navigating this with care, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s tender.

Because at the heart of all of this is love.

Love for each other. Love for the life we are still building. And above all, love for our son.

William.

That love is the common ground we always come back to, even when the paths we take to carry it look different.

And maybe that’s what grief asks of us, again and again. Not sameness, but respect. Not identical expressions, but shared devotion. Not one right way, but room for many.

We’re still learning how to make that room. Together.