The Echo of the Week

This week holds many milestones for me.
Some are marked on the calendar, others live quietly in the tender spaces of my heart.

Yesterday was the five-year anniversary of my cancer surgery.
It’s also the memorial date for my mom.
And a week ago, I celebrated another birthday.

I often find myself wondering why this stretch of days carries such a complex mix of emotions — sadness, a dull ache of loss, and even a flicker of anger. But then I glance at the calendar, and I remember.

The year 2020 was a storm I will never forget.
It was the year when loss became layered.
The year my body held pain and my heart carried too much all at once.

I can still picture myself sitting in the backyard with my family, feeling the weight of it all. The sickness in my stomach was more than physical — it was fear, uncertainty, and grief tangled together. Everything felt fragile.

2020 changed me. It changed the way I see the world and the way I move through it. It changed many of my relationships. It shifted how I hold trust. And if I’m honest, it hasn’t all been neat or tidy. There’s still anger tucked in there — quiet at times, sharp at others. I don’t want it, but it’s part of what remains. It sits beside a new kind of clarity, a deeper awareness of what I can no longer ignore. Some things once felt unshakable, but now I see them differently. And I can’t unknow what I know.

And woven through all of this is the ache that Evan isn’t here. My son should be here. He should be part of the conversations, the milestones, the quiet moments of remembering. His absence isn’t loud to the world, but it is a constant hum in my heart — a space that will always belong to him. I feel it in these weeks especially.

And then there’s Alex. My heart aches for all he has had to walk through — all that he has carried as a brother, as a son, as someone who has also felt the weight of loss. I see how it’s shaped him. How it still does. Grief isn’t something we each carry alone; it lives in the spaces between us, too.

Though time has softened some of the edges, the memories remain. Not as sharp or unbearable as they once were — but present, steady, and real.
These anniversaries are more than dates. They are reminders of all that changed and all that I survived.

I haven’t fully completed this chapter. There are parts of that week that still ache. But I also know healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the echo of what was, while still reaching toward what is.

I will never wish those days on anyone. And yet, they have shaped me in ways I’m still discovering.

And now, as I sit with this week once again, I can feel the ache — but I can also feel the strength I’ve built along the way. The work I’ve done to tend to my grief has brought me to a steadier place. I can hold both the sorrow and the gratitude together now. Both are true. And both matter.

This week, I honor what was lost.
I honor what remains.
And I honor the quiet strength that has carried me this far.

Standing Quietly in the Background

It’s been a while since I’ve shared here. Life has a way of pulling us in many directions, and sometimes the writing pauses while we tend to what’s right in front of us. But as I’ve been watching the turmoil in our nation and across the world this past week, my heart has been stirred again to put words on a page.

Everywhere I look, people are carrying burdens heavier than words can express. My heart is especially drawn to those walking through loss. And if I’m honest, much of what I carry right now feels hollow, shaded with a kind of melancholy I can’t quite put down. Perhaps that’s part of why I return to writing—to give shape to what sits heavy inside.

I am not a first responder—those men and women step into crises with a bravery that humbles me. My place feels different. I see myself as someone standing quietly in the background, waiting for the moment when the noise settles and the grief begins to surface. That’s often when the loneliness sets in, when reality becomes undeniable, and when people most need to know they are not alone.

But waiting is not easy. The hollowness in me often presses to be filled by doing something—anything—that might ease the sorrow I see around me. Yet grief doesn’t move at my pace. It comes in waves of silence and ache, often when least expected. The most loving response isn’t to rush in with answers, but to sit with the discomfort of not being able to fix what’s broken.

What I bring in those moments is presence. I offer what I call being a “heart with ears”—a willingness to listen without judgment, without analysis, without interruption. Sometimes what people need most is not advice or explanation, but someone who will simply stay with them in the silence, even when that silence feels heavy.

The kind of loss many are facing right now—whether in our communities or across the globe—can be overwhelming. It stirs emotions that are messy and hard to contain: sorrow that feels bottomless, helplessness that lingers, anger that simmers just below the surface. All of these responses are part of grief’s language. None of them are wrong. They don’t need to be explained away. They need to be acknowledged.

I don’t step into this work untouched. My willingness to be present with others comes from knowing my own valleys. I know what it feels like to have life split wide open, to carry a hollow inside that words don’t seem to reach. That personal landscape of loss shapes every conversation I hold, every tear I witness, and every silence I honor.

So while I may not be the one who rushes to the scene, I will be there in the days, weeks, and months after—ready to walk alongside, to listen, to hold space. Because grief doesn’t end when the headlines fade or when the casseroles stop coming. It lingers. It reshapes. It leaves both emptiness and unexpected beauty in its wake. And in those tender, ordinary moments, people need presence more than platitudes.

It feels good to return to writing, though it feels tender too. The hollowness remains, but I’ve come to see it as part of love’s echo—proof that what was lost mattered deeply. Writing again helps me hold both the ache and the hope together.

This weekend, I took an afternoon stroll—no agenda other than to breathe, to notice the light through the trees, and to let nature remind me that beauty still exists in ordinary places. As I walked, I was reminded that Jesus meets me even there, in the quiet, in the hollow spaces, in the gentle gifts of creation. His presence doesn’t erase the ache, but it steadies me with hope. Grief can leave us feeling emptied out, but it cannot take away the promise that He is with us.

Perhaps that is grief’s greatest lesson: it teaches us how to live with contradictions. We carry sorrow and beauty, despair and resilience, silence and presence. And at the center of it all, there is Jesus—holding both the brokenness and the hope, reminding us that we are never alone.

Going Back to Go Forward

October has been a whirlwind of emotions, filled with celebrations and a breathtaking trip to experience the fall colors. In addition, I found myself diving back into facilitating Grief Recovery, both with an in-person group and through several one-on-one sessions via Zoom. Each time I begin these groups, I feel my heart opening up to the reality that I still have work to do surrounding grief and loss. It’s a universal experience; we’re all grievers in our own right, even if we haven't fully acknowledged it.

As I help others navigate their grief journeys, I realize I must examine myself more deeply. Reflecting on this, I am acutely aware that life moves on relentlessly. I'm pushed forward, yet I can't help but look back and address those unfinished emotional pieces. We all experience a shared journey, and it’s perfectly okay to embrace that healing is a continual process that takes time.

During my recent visit to New York, I had the chance to return to my old neighborhood, which I had not seen in over 50 years. Having moved away in 1971, I was struck by how much had changed; in many ways, I barely recognized it. This return also confronted me with a part of myself that I had neglected or tried to silence, reminding me of the importance of embracing every aspect of who we are as we navigate our lives.

So I enter into November having all the feels as it is particularly poignant for me, as I acknowledge that this week marks the eighth anniversary of Evan’s accident and his incredible act of giving his organs to save several lives. I’m so proud of Evan for his sacrifice. That thought resonates profoundly in my heart, especially as I contemplate my own possible need for a kidney in the near future. I’m grateful to be able to process my feelings with tools I’ve acquired through my training in the Grief Recovery Method and as I help others. Every time I’m allowed to help others, I, too, am helping myself.

The Coming of Fall

As we transition from summer to fall, I find myself reminiscing while looking forward to an upcoming trip to the East to enjoy the beautiful fall foliage. However, there's a lingering sense of unease when I think back to the events that unfolded between September 3rd and October 9th of 2020. It was an incredibly challenging time, and just recalling those days brings back feeling overwhelmed and anxious. In that short period, I experienced the loss of my mom, received a cancer diagnosis, laid my mom to rest, underwent surgery, and embarked on a journey of recovery. Following the surgery, I had to undergo radiation as a precaution, which continued until the end of 2020.

Reflecting on that time fills me with disappointment, frustration, and anger. Nevertheless, I've taken steps towards healing by allowing myself to acknowledge and process these emotions. Through the work of grief recovery, I've learned the importance of sitting with my feelings, allowing myself the necessary time to process them, and then expressing those feelings in a safe space. Unfortunately, there's often a lack of understanding when giving grieving people the space to process their emotions. Many of us are told that we're doing great things for the community, but the truth is that we carry deep and long-lasting hurts. People often buy into myths such as "It just takes time" or "Keep your mind off it," or they try to fill the void with other distractions. At times, we may isolate ourselves because we feel like a burden, or we put on a brave face to help others while neglecting our pain and loss. It's also not uncommon for others to tell us not to feel bad, which only adds to the struggle.

I want to share that I am available to help. I want to be a heart with ears and allow you the space to heal your heart. You are not alone. I have an in-person group that will start in October, and for now, I will only be facilitating in-person groups. I’m available for one-on-one online only. I understand how difficult it can be to cope with such feelings, and I want you to know that you are not alone. It is essential to acknowledge that the adverse effects of grief can accumulate over time, so I want to encourage you to seek help when you feel ready. Remember, asking for support is okay - we all need it sometimes. Follow this link to Through a Glass Dimly for more info on groups and when they begin.

Bereaved Mother's Day

Today marks my seventh year acknowledging Bereaved Mother's Day, the first Sunday in May. Much has changed since I first wrote a blog about bereaved motherhood. How that feels as I look at this day and all the many people I know and who I've met over the seven years who have lost a child, either through miscarriage or premature childhood death or adult children that have passed away, I know for a certainty that this was not a club that I joined voluntarily nor is it one others would join on their own. Although time has passed, I feel, on some level, that I've turned a corner. My enormous feelings are still just as acute and just as honest as they were on that first Mother's Day without Evan. There has been much that I have tried to regain through counseling and the completion of my relationship with Evan through the Grief Recovery Method; as Mother's Day approaches, the missing him is not different; that feels the same, and no amount of counseling or processing or logic will change that. My fond memories and my love will last a lifetime.

To all the moms I've met along this path, thank you for being a voice of encouragement to me. Thank you for seeing me and sharing your love for your child with me. I'm grateful for your friendship and your acquaintance. In general, grieving parents are misunderstood. To a world that wishes for us to be OK, we are OK. We have someone we love very much, our child, die, and until you can feel that pain, it's challenging to understand. We don't need pity, and we don't need fixing. We need to share our story and to be listened to. You may have moved on about our child, but we haven't, and not speaking about them tells us a lot. I'm grateful for the training I've gone through with The Grief Recovery Method. It has given me the new tools I need to help others experiencing loss and allowed me to be available for them to share their story and complete their losses. I'm thinking of you on this Bereaved Mother's Day.