Nothing prepares you for losing a child. You think you know heartbreak. You think you understand grief. It’s not that we hadn’t experienced loss. My mom, both of my husband’s parents, his brother, my uncle, my grandmother.
But then, on May 3, 2025, our son Kyle passed away at 34. He had health complications that we were facing… But nothing could prepare our hearts for the early morning phone call, the unexpectedness of the moment, and mostly, the empty space his absence would leave.
I’ve written about parenting adult children, about joy, pride, and connection, but losing a child is different. It is its own universe of pain, one that doesn’t fit neatly into the language we use to describe other losses. We knew, in our minds, that we would survive him. But our hearts were shattered, and in ways that never fully heal.
Grief doesn’t arrive in a straight line. Some days, it’s a dull ache that you carry in the back of your chest. Other days, it hits like a wave you can’t hold back. The ordinary rhythms of life — meals, work, travel — must continue, and yet, you feel as if the world has moved on while you are suspended in the space where your child should be.
In the beginning, every memory was both a comfort and a dagger. The sound of his laugh, the way he did something small and ridiculous, the memories that popped up on Facebook — all reminders that he existed, that he mattered … and that he is gone. Grief is paradoxical that way. Love and loss live side by side.
Over time, I’ve learned that living after this kind of loss is not about “moving on.” It’s about moving with the absence, learning how to carry it, how to honor him while still inhabiting the world. I’ve realized that it’s okay to feel joy even in the midst of heartbreak. That it’s okay to love fiercely and deeply and still mourn. That memory can be a living thing, not just a shadow.
Some people shy away from the subject. They don’t know what to say. They try to offer platitudes. And while I understand their discomfort, I also know that nothing can replace acknowledgement of the loss, of the love, of the hole left behind. Speaking Kyle’s name aloud, remembering him in small daily rituals, is a way to keep him present. To honor the life we shared, and the love that doesn’t end with death.
To other parents who have walked this path: there is no “right” way to grieve. There is no timetable, no map, no checklist. And yet, in the mess of it all, there are tiny anchors — love from family and friends, moments of beauty in everyday life, and the persistent, stubborn pulse of life itself that reminds us we are still here. That doesn’t make the pain go away, but it gives us space to breathe, to feel, and to carry on in a way that honors the child we lost.
I wish I could have more time with Kyle. I wish I could hear his voice again, see his smile, share a moment just one more time. But what I do have is the life we shared, the love that shaped us, and the responsibility and even the privilege to carry his memory forward.
Losing a child leaves a permanent mark. It teaches you about love and fragility in ways nothing else can. And while the grief never disappears, neither does the love.
We keep going, because life insists. And we carry him, in our hearts, in our stories, in the quiet moments that remind us of everything he gave us, even in the too-short years he was here.
