I feel like I am entering a scary era of my life. I don’t know exactly when it started, or if there was one defining moment, but lately everything feels heavier. Maybe it’s because I lost my son — a loss so deep it split my life into a before and an after. A loss that never made sense and still doesn’t. Someone who should still be here. Someone who was supposed to grow, laugh, age, and outlive me. Since losing him, death feels closer. Louder. More present. Like it’s standing just behind me, reminding me how fragile everything really is. I’ve lost my grandma, my grandpa, my dad. I just lost an uncle. And now one of my best friends — someone I’ve loved for over twenty years — is fighting cancer, the hardest battle of her life. Watching someone you love walk into a fight you can’t fight for them is its own kind of heartbreak. It brings up every fear you try to keep buried just so you can function. Sometimes it feels like half my life is already gone. Like the people who shaped me, grounded me, loved me into who I am, are slowly slipping away one by one. And I’m left standing here, trying to be strong, trying to keep going, trying not to live in constant fear of who I might lose next. Grief has changed the way I see time. The future doesn’t feel wide open anymore — it feels fragile. Borrowed. Every goodbye feels heavier. Every phone call makes my heart pause for just a second too long. I know loss is part of life. I know everyone goes through it. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make it hurt less. Especially when you’ve already lost the person you were never supposed to lose first. Some days I feel brave. Other days I feel like a scared child, holding onto the people I love as tightly as I can, silently begging the universe to please let them stay a little longer. This era feels terrifying — not because I’m weak, but because I’ve already learned how much it hurts to lose. And once you know that pain, you carry it with you into every relationship, every moment, every hope for the future.

People tell me I’m strong. They look at me — standing, talking, functioning — and they see someone “doing okay.” They see someone who gets up every day and keeps moving. They don’t see the part of me that shatters. They don’t see the moments when the house goes quiet and my chest starts to ache in that familiar, unbearable way. Because I don’t cry in front of anyone. I’ve learned how to hold it in, how to smile and nod and make conversation while my heart feels like it’s splintering. I cry alone — in the shower, in the car, curled up in bed with the lights off. I save the tears for when there are no witnesses, when I don’t have to explain, when I don’t have to comfort anyone else’s discomfort. Grief has become something I do in secret. I talk to my son a lot. Out loud. In whispers. In my head. In prayers that are messy and unfinished. Sometimes I just say his name, because I miss the sound of it hanging in the air. I tell him about my day. I tell him I love him. I tell him I’m trying. I ask him to stay close, even when I can’t feel him. And yet, talking about him to other people is so hard. The moment his name is spoken in conversation, the tears rise up fast, burning the back of my eyes. I can feel my throat closing. My heart remembers everything all at once, and I have to fight not to break. It isn’t because I don’t want to talk about him — I do. I want the world to know him. It’s because talking about him opens the door to the pain, and sometimes the pain feels like it might swallow me whole. Pictures are their own kind of landmine. There are a few that I keep out, the ones I see every day. Those have become part of the room, part of the air, part of my routine. But the others… the ones tucked away… I can’t always look at them. It’s like my heart knows what’s coming and flinches in advance. And videos? Hearing his little voice — alive, happy, moving, real — breaks me open. It’s beautiful and brutal all at once. I watch, and for a moment he is right there, and then the ending hits me again like it’s brand new.

Christmas morning came heavy. Before I even opened my eyes, the first thought in my head was my son. It always is, but some mornings it hits in a way that steals the air right out of my chest. It’s the quiet moments that get me — the ones where the world hasn’t fully woken up yet and it’s just me, my thoughts, and the empty space where he should still be. I think about where he is now. I wonder what it looks like there. I wonder who he’s met, what he knows now that I don’t. Sometimes I catch myself smiling through tears, thinking, I hope he got to meet Johnny Gaudreau, his favorite Calgary Flames hockey player. I hope he’s around my Nanny and Gramp — the ones he loved and looked up to. I really hope he was reunited with his best furry friend, Azzee. I hope he’s not alone for even one second. I don’t have all the answers, and I won’t pretend that I do, but there are so many stories from people who say they’ve seen or felt the afterlife, and I hold on to those stories. Not because I need proof, but because I need hope. Hope that he’s okay. Hope that he can see me. Hope that love really does go somewhere. This may be a little off topic, but today I read an article about AI saying horrible things to someone who was already hurting. It honestly shook me. The idea of someone reaching out in pain and being met with words that push them closer to the edge… that’s terrifying. When you’re grieving, you’re already cracked open. Words matter. The wrong words can wound, and the right ones can be the thin thread you hold onto. So I’m going to say this clearly, for myself and for anyone else who needs it: Please don’t harm yourself. Please don’t go anywhere. There are people here who need you. Trust me, I know that it’s not easy. I understand. Some days it feels like walking with broken glass in my chest. Not because I’m “strong” in the way people like to say. Half the time I don’t feel strong at all. I stay because of love. I stay because my son might be able to see me, and I care too deeply about that. I don’t want to disappoint him. I want him to look at me — wherever he is — and see his mom still trying. Not perfect. Not always okay. But still here. Still loving him out loud. Still getting back up even when I don’t want to.

This is a space I created to share my journey through grief, love, and hope after losing my son. Some days, the pain feels unbearable. Some days, I feel glimpses of him around me — in memories, signs, dreams, or quiet moments that remind me he’s still here, in a way only my heart can feel. My grief doesn’t look like anyone else’s, and that’s okay. I’ve learned that love doesn’t end when life does. It stretches across the space between heaven and here, and it’s that love that keeps me going, day after day. Here, I write openly about the heartbreak, the longing, and the ways I try to keep my son close. I share letters to him, stories of the hope I hold onto, and reflections on the small, sacred moments that help me survive. This blog is not just for me. It’s for anyone who has loved and lost, anyone who feels caught in that difficult, in-between place. You are not alone. You can carry your grief and still find light, still feel love, still hold hope. Between heaven and here, we keep loving. And in that love, we keep going.