Wearing the Shirt

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 someone else’s nervous system.

He feels differently.

He believes there are places where our grief doesn’t belong. Especially in fun, social settings. He wants to leave his grief at home. He wants to protect others from it, or at least not bring it into spaces where people are trying to relax, laugh, escape. He understands the impact our words can have. And he’s not wrong.

It is disruptive to say, “My child died.”

You can feel it immediately. The slight recoil. The pause. The way the room shifts. People start spinning—What do I say? Did I say something wrong? How do I fix this?—and suddenly, without meaning to, we are holding them.

Often, we end up apologizing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make things awkward.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

And that’s the part that gets me.

Because while it may be uncomfortable to hear that a child has died, it is infinitely more painful to live it. Yet somehow, the burden so often lands back on us—to soften it, to manage it, to tuck it away.

What I’ve been trying to explain to my husband—and maybe to the world—is that sometimes I don’t share because I want to, but because I need to.

When I meet strangers and talk with them, I often feel suffocated until I say it. Until I tell the truth. Until I name that my son is dead. Before that moment, it feels like I’m lying. Like I’m editing myself in real time, carefully navigating around the biggest fact of my life.

The shirt helps with that.

It’s a signal. This is me. This is my life. This is not the whole story—but it is part of it.

Sometimes I wear my Bereaved Mom shirt because I don’t want to keep secrets with my body. Sometimes I wear it because I need people to know without me having to say the words out loud. Sometimes I wear it because it makes me feel strong and grounded, especially when I’m nervous.

I wore it to the hospital when my son Bodhi was eight months old and undergoing lung removal surgery. I needed the medical staff to know who I was. I needed them to treat me gently. I needed them to understand that I was carrying more than the moment in front of us—and that I was trying, with everything I had, to be brave.

The shirt didn’t make me fragile. It anchored me.

And yes, I know it puts people off. I can feel it. In all the times I’ve worn it, only one person has ever commented on it. It’s a divisive shirt. A scary shirt. A shirt that doesn’t let people stay comfortably unaware.

And then I started noticing all the other shirts moms wear.

Mom. Boy Mom. Girl Mom. Cool Moms Love Jesus. Feral Moms Club. Tired Moms Club. Bad Moms Club.

These shirts are everywhere. They’re playful. Declarative. A commentary on motherhood. No one clutches their chest when they read them. No one feels personally threatened.

Or take other statement shirts.

Fuck Cancer. Cancer Survivor. Cancer Warrior.

Those shirts don’t make people recoil. They inspire. They signal grit and determination. They tell a story people know how to respond to.

But Bereaved Mom?

That’s different.

That’s terrifying.

How dare I remind people that children can die? How dare I disrupt the illusion that motherhood always moves forward, that time only adds years, not absence?

And yet—that is exactly why I wear it.

I am not wearing it to shock. I am not wearing it to ruin anyone’s day. I am not wearing it to demand emotional labor from strangers.

I am wearing it because it is true.

I am wearing it because I am trying, in my own small way, to build a more grief-literate society. One where we don’t flinch. One where we don’t look away. One where we can say, I see you, instead of freezing.

I want people to ask about my son.I want them to ask about my life. I want them to be curious instead of afraid.

Because I am just like you.

I am a mom with a statement shirt. I am packing lunches and doing laundry and showing up to baseball games.I am living a full, layered life.

My reality just happens to include loss.

Why should I have to hide that?

Why should my truth be considered inappropriate when others are allowed to wear theirs loudly, proudly, playfully?

I understand my husband’s instinct. I really do. There are days when I want to leave it all at home too. Grief asks so much of us already. But there are other days—many days—when hiding feels like erasing.

And I am done erasing.

This is who I am. This is what my life includes. This is not a provocation—it’s an invitation.

See me. See us.

And maybe, just maybe, learn how to stand a little closer to grief instead of running from it.