When a Child Disappears: A Letter to the Hill Country Families

By Bereavement Mom

In the last few days, devastating floods have swept through Texas Hill Country, destroying roads, washing away cars and homes, and taking lives. As of today, at least 67 people are confirmed dead, and several more are still missing, including 11 young girls away at summer camp. Their families are living through what every parent prays they never will: waiting for news, hoping, fearing, aching for the impossible to be undone.

I know this story.

I know this nightmare.

I have walked this same path.

Although I didn’t really walk it, at least not in any conscious way. When our son William disappeared on the ski mountain, my body shifted into survival mode. I don’t remember making decisions or moving with intention. But I had to keep going, because Nick and Kai were even more incapacitated than I was. It felt like adrenaline was the only thing pushing me forward. Between the three of us, I was the only one able to move, so I carried us through those first harrowing moments. And yet, I wasn’t truly functioning. Not really. Not in any grounded or whole way. Because even as I moved, I was silently begging for someone to carry me.

It's almost impossible to put into words what it feels like when your child goes missing, like your body is on fire and frozen at the same time, your mind unraveling while clinging to a single thread of hope. The dread is immediate. The disbelief is surreal. Your brain scrambles to make sense of something that defies logic. And then comes the moment of knowing, the moment you realize your child is dead. For me, it wasn’t spoken aloud. It was in the body language of the ski patroller. He didn’t need to say a word. I saw it in the way he stood at the door of the clinic, waiting for me. I knew.

And so I ran. I ran from him, from the place where they had taken William’s body, from the truth that was trying to catch up with me. I thought maybe if no one actually said the words, if I could outrun them, it wouldn’t be real.

But my friend ran after me. She caught up, tackled me, held me in a bear hug, and gently brought me back to face the truth.

To face the worst thing.

The body knows. The mind convulses. The pain is physical, violent, cellular. It felt like my insides were being ripped apart by a storm. Like a tornado had passed through my chest, tearing everything loose. My thoughts were scrambled, my heart pounding, and every cell of my body was screaming no.

Just yesterday, they were here.

Just yesterday, the camp sent a letter. A photo. A report that everything was fine. Safe. We researched that camp. We made a good decision. And still, this. Still, death happened.

We did that too. We made good decisions. We were a good family. William was a strong skier. And still, the worst happened.

I used to think, if only we hadn’t gone skiing. If only we’d stayed home. Maybe these families are thinking the same thing now. If only we hadn’t sent them to camp. But that’s not life. We can’t live in bubble wrap. We do our best to keep our children safe, and sometimes the unthinkable happens anyway.

To the families in Texas, especially the parents still waiting for word: I see you. I remember being where you are now. I remember the hope that flickered even in the panic. And I remember the crushing weight of finality when the hope was extinguished.

If you are supporting someone going through this, someone whose child has just died, please know: their brains aren’t firing normally. Their bodies may be in shock. They need you to stay close, gently and steadily, even when they can't speak or respond.

They may not know how to ask for help. Offer it anyway.

Be the arms that carry them.

And later, when the initial storm passes and the fog begins to shift, just slightly, keep showing up. Tell stories about their child. Say their child’s name. Keep their memory alive, because their parents will grieve them forever.

That’s how long love lasts.

That’s how long the grief will too.

Shaw Family Skis, 2018