"Now What?" This is the question Marie found herself asking after the devastating loss of her son, Quinten, to suicide. Overcome with grief, she felt lost and unsure how to move forward. But instead of succumbing to despair, Marie made a conscious decision: her life would continue. She chose to ask herself, "Now what?" and began to take small, intentional steps toward healing. Through the darkest days, she trusted that there was a way forward, even when the road ahead seemed impossible to navigate. In today's episode, Marie opens up about her raw, unfiltered journey through grief. She shares how she found the strength to rebuild her life, one step at a time, and how perseverance, self-reflection, and compassion helped her move through the pain. She also discusses the work she's currently doing—helping other bereaved mothers find healing through writing. Through her coaching and retreats, Marie empowers others to turn their pain into purpose, fostering deep connection, healing, and self-discovery. Writing became a tool not just for her, but one that she now shares to help others begin their own healing journeys. As I listened to Marie's story, I couldn't help but think back to my own experience after losing Andy. I, too, felt lost and alone and wondered how life could continue without him. Marie's words reminded me that healing doesn't come all at once—it begins with small, tender moments of courage. Hope and healing can feel distant and elusive after loss, but writing can become a lifeline to help process grief and rediscover a sense of purpose. For anyone struggling with the question "Now what?", writing can be a powerful tool. By sharing our stories and embracing the process of healing, we find the strength to move forward—one word at a time. Marie's journey and her work with bereaved moms show us that even in our darkest hours, healing is possible when we allow ourselves to be open to the process of renewal. * Visit Marie at mariecrews.com to learn more about her coaching, retreats, and how writing can support your healing journey.
Today's guest, Jonathon's book, indigo: the color of grief, captured me from the first page—a work that feels both intimate and universal. Indigo, the hue between blue and violet, appears in rainbows and twilight skies, yet it rarely gets named. Likewise, grief lingers in daily life, hovering just out of sight, unspoken because its rawness makes many uneasy. Jonathon uses the color as a quiet metaphor for sorrow that colors our existence without ever dominating the palette. A decade ago, Jonathon's world shattered when his eldest daughter, Quincy, died in a sudden car accident. As a pastor, the loss forced him to confront a theology he'd long trusted. The image of a distant, strategic deity did not fit his pain. Instead, he came to see God as a presence of steadfast love, a hand that holds us tightly within the storm of our hurt. The manuscript began as a sprawling outpouring of hundreds of thousands of words. Jonathon distilled it to a lean 12,000‑word narrative, deliberately leaving white space on each page. Those empty margins are invitations: they give readers room to breathe, linger on a line, and even inscribe their own thoughts beside his. The result is less a monologue and more a quiet dialogue—a shared place where grief can be named, held, and examined without pressure to resolve it. Jonathon aims to reshape how we speak about loss. He urges us to move beyond the instinct to "fix" one another's pain with quick solutions. Instead, he calls for us to sit together in the shadow of sorrow, bearing witness to each other's wounds. In doing so, grief becomes a bridge rather than a barrier, allowing compassion to flow freely among those who have known its ache. Indigo reminds us that, just as the color sits between the comforts of blue and the mystery of violet, grief occupies a space—neither wholly darkness nor pure light—but a profound shade that deepens our capacity for empathy and connection. The next time twilight drapes the sky in that deep, resonant hue, let it serve as a gentle reminder that indigo is not merely a color, but a quiet testament to the enduring presence of love within our deepest hurts.
During one of the first grief‑support group sessions that Eric and I attended in the weeks after Andy died, our Starlight Ministries facilitators led us in an exercise. We were given a black‑and‑white copy of an image created by H. Norman Wright titled "Grief – A Tangled Ball of Emotions." The picture resembled a ball of yarn, but instead of yarn strands, it had strips winding around the sphere, each labeled with a different emotion. The exercise was simple. We received crayons and were asked to color in any stripe that represented an emotion we had felt during that week. I remember starting at the top: Loss – yes, I colored it in. Sadness – that one too. Anxiety – I'd been feeling pretty anxious, so I shaded it. Then came Confusion, Panic, and Dismay. I found myself actually feeling dismayed that I was coloring all of these emotions! I wondered whether I would ever reach a stripe I didn't feel. When I finally arrived at Vindictiveness, I was relieved to leave that one white. In total, I was shocked to discover that I had colored about 90 % of the more than thirty emotions on the ball. Looking around the room, I was comforted to see that the vast majority of parents had papers that were almost completely filled in as well. While reading the recent podcast guest Michael's book The Million Stages of Grief, I saw how many emotions had surprised him in his own grieving process. That reminded me of the exercise from years ago and convinced me that it deserved a livestream discussion. Today, we explored several emotions that have surprised listeners of the show. It is normal to experience twenty to thirty different emotions in a single day. Grief isn't a linear path but a swirling knot of feelings—each one valid, each one a sign of life moving forward. By naming, acknowledging, and gently sitting with even the most unexpected emotions, we give ourselves the space to heal. I encourage everyone to keep their own "tangled ball" nearby as a reminder that, no matter how full it looks, every colored strand is evidence of resilience and progress.
Today's guest, Stephanie, says that her son, Jr., had a lifelong mantra that he lived by - 'me versus me.' He even had this phrase tattooed on himself for his 18th birthday. Rather than measuring himself against anyone else, he aimed each day to outdo the person he had been yesterday. A year ago, Jr. was a senior in high school, preparing to enlist in the Marine Corps. He was an avid athlete as a cross‑country runner, weightlifter, and participant in several team sports. That autumn, he trained for a half‑marathon, hoping to break the two‑hour barrier. The whole family was at the race, cheering Jr. on. He made his goal and finished the race in 1 hour, 57 minutes. Moments after crossing the line, however, Jr. collapsed. Stephanie rushed to his side, fearing dehydration, but quickly realized something was terribly wrong. She dialed 911. Paramedics arrived and began CPR within 72 seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Stephanie. An autopsy later showed that Jr. died of a brain bleed from a venous malformation that had likely been present since birth. The last year has been a trying one for Stephanie and her family. The past twelve months have been a cascade of missed milestones — his high school graduation, the start of Marine basic training, his 19th birthday — each one a painful reminder of Jr.'s absence. As these days come and go, the family tries to remember Jr. and his motto: 'Me versus me.' Friends have even made T-shirts and bumper stickers with the phrase. Each time Stephanie sees one of these items, she is reminded of Jr. and his amazing spirit. When Stephanie was invited to share a final thought, she spoke the words she believes Jr. would have lived by: 'Show up and do your very best. Tomorrow, show up again and do even better.' If we each embraced that simple challenge, the world would indeed be a kinder place.
Today's guest, Lisa, says she has always felt a special, spiritual link to her eldest daughter, Libby—starting when Libby was an infant and lasting throughout her life. One night, Lisa complained to her husband about a throbbing thumb. The next morning, Libby called, saying she had hurt her thumb and thought it was broken. When Libby's father asked if the injury happened around 9 pm, Libby confirmed the time of the injury, but she was puzzled until he answered, "Your mother felt that." Despite being over 200 miles away and unaware of any injury, Lisa sensed Libby's broken thumb that night. Six months later, at 1 am, Libby's friends called, reporting that she had vanished after being dropped off in a taxi. Lisa instantly feared the worst, though she tried to reassure them that Libby might simply be delayed. Deep down, she knew Libby was dead. She could not feel her as she normally could. The following day, Lisa and her husband braved a harsh English winter storm to drive to Hull. As they passed the Humber Estuary—a vast inlet leading to the North Sea—Lisa whispered, "Libby is in that water." Her husband dismissed it as being 'silly,' but Lisa insisted she wasn't imagining it. Forty‑eight agonizing days later, police recovered Libby's body from those waters; she had been raped and murdered. In the nearly seven years since that tragedy, Lisa and her family have endured relentless trauma. At first, she felt isolated despite the story dominating UK headlines, and for two years she seemed to lose herself entirely. Over the past five years, however, she has begun to heal by connecting with other bereaved parents, listening to podcasts, and sharing Libby's story with young people and police officers. She hopes that exposing the warning signs that preceded the murder will help protect other women. And although Libby is no longer physically here with her, through her work, Lisa still feels connected to Libby. Lisa feels her as she does her "Libby work" in Libby's old bedroom, now her office. Our love for our children keeps that spiritual connection alive long after they are gone.
Jerry's passion is helping bereaved children. When I was first introduced to her, Jerry was described as a widowed mother with a heart for grieving kids. She'd written Joy Overcame Sorrow, a fictional tale for late‑elementary and middle‑school readers about a ten‑year‑old girl coping with her father's death. The story follows Joy's grief journey, letting parents buy a companion workbook so children can record their own feelings while reading. I booked Jerry for the show because listeners frequently ask how parents can support grieving children. I didn't realize her personal loss mirrored our own so closely. Jerry lost her husband her best friend — and raised their young family alone. Before that, she endured four pregnancy losses, including delivering and burying two infants, Jenny and Jesse. Those early tragedies marked her first encounter with deep grief and forced her to help her surviving kids navigate sorrow. Little did she know the next forty years would bring more loss, both as a widow and as a K‑9 teacher working with grieving students. In the classroom, Jerry advised fellow teachers on supporting grieving children. Many educators feel helpless; asking parents is tough because they, too, are immersed in grief. Colleagues urged her to write a book to help grieving children. Jerry had already published a non-fiction book, helping widows rediscover joy after loss, but writing for children would prove to be very different indeed. Instead of a non‑fiction how‑to guide, Jerry chose fiction — a powerful decision. Stories teach while comforting, allowing children to see themselves reflected without overt instruction. Kids gravitate to narrative—they don't want to feel singled out. By experiencing grief through Joy's eyes, they learn, empathize, and feel less alone. Her novel and its workbook now serve as a gentle bridge for families and teachers navigating the delicate path of loss together. To learn more about Jerry and her writing, visit drjerrylwoodbridge.com.
Eight minutes. That is how long it took for Michael's life to be forever changed. In late November 2016, a fire broke out in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Unbeknownst to Michael, the winds picked up while he was driving with his oldest son, and the fires swept toward the family home. Michael is haunted by nightmares of his frantic drive back through the fires, trying to get back home. By the time he arrived, the fire had taken the lives of his daughters, Chloe and Lily, as well as his wife, Constance. In the months after the fires, as Michael struggled to sleep, he would write about his pain. One day, he posted a writing on Facebook. It "went nuts," causing Michael to start a blog. Michael continued in his dark world until November 2023, when he stood at the memorial for the fires. He whispered to the empty air, opening his heart to the girls he had lost. In the silence, he heard Chloe's voice, bright and urgent: "Daddy, it's time to do the work." The words struck a chord deep inside him. That night, he enrolled in college, determined to learn how to translate his pain into something to help others. Thus, The Million Stages of Grief was born. Each chapter opens with an italicized fragment from his old blog — a snapshot of confusion, terror, or numbness. The remainder of the chapter presents the lessons he gathered in classrooms, therapy rooms, and through life's experiences, reshaping those dark moments into pathways forward. Before pressing "publish," Michael whispered a brief prayer, handing the manuscript over to his girls, asking, "I am completely giving this to you. However big you want this to go, however many people you want to read it, I give it all to you." Years ago, while working as a zipline instructor, a woman kicked Michael, knocking him over. Inexplicably, five years later and one month after that prayer, she posted the video to TikTok, garnering 1.5 million views. Curious, Michael created his own TikTok account, stitching the video to a narration of his story and book. The new post surged to 2.5 million views. I guess his girls decided that their story needed to go very big indeed.
He should be here. Today's guest, Lindsay, says that these are the four most impactful words that have been said to her in the year since her 6-month-old son, Chase, died from bacterial meningitis. These words don't try to cheer her up or remind her of some grand plan. They simply acknowledge the wrongness of the whole situation. Lindsay's family no longer feels complete without Chase. Smiling 'Chasey' should be tagging along, trying to keep up with his big brother, Jack. Chase should be here. From the time her two boys were tiny babies, Lindsay would read to them. She loved reading board books by Nancy Tillman, especially 'On the Night You Were Born' and 'Wherever You Go: My Love Will Find You.' This second book begins with the line, 'I wanted you more than you'll ever know, so I sent love to follow wherever you go.' The book goes on to describe how the mother's love will follow the child wherever he or she goes, whether it be going swimming, climbing trees, or marching in parades. It reminds the child that as they grow, their mother's love will continue to follow them throughout life. The last line of the book reads, 'You are my angel, my darling, my star, and my love will find you wherever you are.' Since Chase's death, Lindsay has truly realized the truth of that little board book. The book was certainly not written for grieving parents, but we can hold fast to the words of that book, can't we? Death does not end our love for our children. Our love continues to follow them after death. Lindsay's love for Chase has followed him all the way to heaven. In the year since Chase died, her love for Chase has not diminished. Her love has continued to grow just as it does for all mothers. On Chase's birthday, Lindsay now donates 70 copies of 'Wherever You Go: My Love will Find You' to the NICU where she works and Baby Chase once stayed. Certainly, Chase should be here as a laughing, smiling toddler, but as she sees parents read these books to their new babies, Lindsay remembers that their love for each other continues to grow, and these books will help spread that love even further.
I feel like God arranges for certain guests to come on the podcast just when I need them most. On the day of this interview, I was particularly weepy, missing Andy even more than I normally do. I think God knew I needed someone to cry with, and Nancy was that someone. Nancy calls her son, Jacob, her Buddha baby, weighing 11 pounds 3 ounces at birth. The bib that they brought with them to the hospital would not even fit around his neck. However, that was not the only reason Jacob was called her Buddha Baby. Even as an infant, Jacob seemed to be a calming presence to everyone around him. Shortly after graduating from high school, Jacob was feeling a bit tired while working a new job. He noticed a lump that was quickly determined to be lymphoma. However, cancer did not slow him down. Jacob was determined to keep living his best life and even started school after his diagnosis. When beginning a new cancer treatment, it was expected that he would be in the hospital for a relatively short stay and then move on with life. In fact, at 19 years of age, Jacob would only let Nancy stay a certain number of hours each day so he could have some privacy. Suddenly, one evening after Nancy went back to her hotel, everything changed. In a matter of hours, Jacob suffered severe complications from the treatment, leading to brain swelling. Jacob, her amazing teenage Buddha, was gone. In the five months between Jacob's death and this interview, Nancy feels as if she has been living in a fog. She finds that she just wants to keep moving and walking constantly. At times, she wondered if she would even be able to make it back home. Tears still come daily. She has joined support groups, where she talks to other bereaved mothers who get it. She listens to my podcast during long walks. Nancy talks to Jacob and looks for signs of him in nature. So in today's episode, we talked about and cried for our boys. She understood my pain, and I understood hers, and after an hour of talking and crying, I knew that we both felt just a little bit better. So thank you, God, for sending Nancy just when we needed each other most.
Grief and Laughter. At first glance, it may seem like these words could be considered polar opposites, but as we grieve, moments of laughter and joy can be a balm for the soul. The intense pain of grief oftentimes feels overwhelming. It is deep and dark, and it can feel like it will go on forever. I remember the first time that I laughed after Andy died. I felt tremendous guilt. Andy was dead. I felt like I should never laugh again. I should be sad every moment of every day. But that is not how we were made. We were created to be beings that felt joy and happiness. My mind wouldn't let me stay in the darkness continuously, and that is a good thing. Laughter can bring a tremendous release of emotions in much the same way that crying brings release. Most people do not feel guilty when they cry during grief, but laughter can cause guilt. My hope is to help people learn that laughter is amazing medicine for the soul and not something to avoid. This week's podcast is an edited release of the Livestream with Gwen. (If you tuned in and had a difficult time listening due to technical problems, I apologize. This version is much better!) Gwen shares her wisdom on the benefits of laughter and learning to reintroduce laughter into our lives while still navigating through the depths of our pain. We are certainly not suggesting that someone can simply let go of their grief and choose to be happy. (Many people have said those words to me, and frankly, that is simplistic and absurd.) We are asking you to seek out moments of laughter and joy. Seek out people in your life who make you feel good, even if it's only for a few hours or a few minutes. For me, the best people to laugh with are actually other bereaved parents. It feels safe to laugh with them, knowing that they will not judge me if I laugh and cry at the same time. Having those people and moments in your life may help make the pit of grief feel a little less dark and help you feel a little less alone.
Today's guest, Catherine, says that in many ways, she grieved for her daughter, Helen, not once but twice. The grieving began after she suffered complications during delivery, which led to seizures that began shortly after birth and multiple medical complications. Catherine grieved for the life she had hoped and dreamed of for Helen. Then, fourteen years later, Catherine's grief started fresh when Helen died unexpectedly in her sleep. Although Catherine says that she grieved Helen twice, Helen's 14 years were not years full of sadness and grief. They were joy-filled years. Catherine loved being Helen's hands and feet. She loved seeing her eyes light up and give big smiles. Catherine was a part of Helen, and Helen was a part of her. One day, when Helen was young, the two of them were watching TV, and Catherine saw the inspirational story of Team Hoyt, a father-son duo who competed in over 1,100 races, including numerous Ironman Triathlons. Son Rick suffered from cerebral palsy, but said that when racing in a specialized wheelchair with his dad, Dick, he felt freedom and joy. After Helen died, Catherine felt lost. She did not know what to do with herself without Helen being beside her. When asking her priest for advice, he answered that he didn't know what she should do, but that for many, participation in sport could be a good healing modality. That's when Catherine began to think once again about the inspirational story of the Hoyts. She knew that she couldn't physically swim, run, and bike with Helen, but perhaps she could still be with her emotionally. That's exactly what Catherine did. Her first triathlon was done almost secretively, with only her husband's knowledge. As she waited in the water of the lake at the beginning of the race, wondering if she had made a mistake in signing up, until the sun began to rise, and she felt Helen with her. Over the years, Catherine has continued to train and now races in an Ironman triathlon each year, following in the Hoyts' footsteps. She compares the training to her life, first as a mom of a special needs child and now as a bereaved mom. She chronicles her journey in her book, Finding My Stride: A Guide to Finding Power Raising a Child with Special Needs.
Belief expansion. As they navigate life, all adults develop a core set of beliefs. When tragedy strikes, sometimes these core beliefs can be shaken. Some grieving people lose their sense of spirituality, while others gain a deeper, stronger faith after experiencing trauma. Dave was trained as a therapist, but nothing in his training prepared him for his 18-year-old daughter, Jeannine's cancer diagnosis and death. He grew up in the Christian church with some Christian traditions, but Dave's core values and beliefs were grounded in science. Dave realized in the months and years after Jeannine's death, he needed more. Science alone did not bring him the comfort or peace he needed. Dave says by pure serendipity, an interfaith minister named Patty entered his life. (I like to think this was by divine intervention, but I digress.) Dave had a spiritual experience with Patty that changed his life forever. Over the next ten years, Dave began exploring more and more ideas of spirituality with Patty and others. Dave said that he began to realize he did not have to abandon his core beliefs and values to adopt additional beliefs that aligned with and complemented his perspective. Dave now asks himself, "What can I add here that is going to help me get through this part of my life?" He truly feels that if he had continued in the old set of beliefs that he had when Jeannine died, he would not be where he is today. Dave said, "My journey demanded that I needed to embrace different perspectives about how I saw myself, how I saw the world, and how I saw my values if I was going to reengage in life again while still honoring my grief." Dave wrote a book about his experiences and conversations with Patty called, 'When the Psychology Professor Met the Minister," available on Amazon. He also now hosts a podcast, The Teaching Journeys (listen for me on an upcoming episode). On the podcast, Dave continues his own journey of belief expansion by learning from the stories of others who have experienced challenges in life. Dave says, "We are all students and teachers...let's learn from each other." I cannot think of a more amazing way to learn.
Near the end of today's interview, my guest, Miranda, said one of the most beautiful sentences that I have ever heard from a bereaved mom, especially one who is only 9 months into her grief journey. Miranda said, "Denver's death is going to be my reason, not my excuse - my reason to get up, my reason to do, my reason to survive, and my reason to love." Denver was a happy, healthy toddler who had just celebrated his first birthday when he died from accidental suffocation while he slept. His birthday theme just weeks before had been 'One Happy Dude,' so Miranda and her family used the decorations for his funeral. His funeral was full of yellow smiley faces and lots of bright colors. The family handed out smiley face pins at the funeral. Every summer, their hometown of Medicine Hat, Alberta, has a hot air balloon festival. This year, Miranda had the idea that one of the pilots might be able to take a picture of Denver up in a brightly colored hot air balloon during he festival. By the time the festival began, all thirty hot air balloons contained pictures of Denver. Many of the balloonists are international and continue to bring the picture of Denver with them as they fly all over the world. This month, Denver's picture is flying with a hot air balloon over Italy. I have shared many times about bringing Andy's teddy bear with us as we travel to help us have a symbol of Andy with us. Continuing to live and make happy memories without him is challenging. Living without Denver's smile and laugh each day is extremely difficult, yet Miranda continues to get up and try. She, too, often travels with a little teddy bear she can hug when the pain of missing Denver feels too great. Miranda's goal is to try to keep on living in the best way that she can - her reason to live and not her excuse. Each day still contains tears for Denver, but the tears no longer flow all day. She tries to look for smiley faces around her as she thinks of Denver's little picture flying in hot air balloons. Every time I see a hot air balloon, I will wonder if a little bit of Denver might be up there in its basket.
When today's guests, Andy and Kristen, lost their almost 2-year-old daughter due to complications after a seizure 2 years ago, their lives completely changed. There was life before Juniper died, and there was life after Juniper died. Before Juniper died, they had two young girls in daycare. Days after Juniper died, their older daughter, Macie, started public school, and Juniper was gone. There was no longer a need for a daycare. They were suddenly navigating a world where they were bereaved parents. It was as if they were suddenly living in an alternative universe. Years before Juniper's death, Andy had watched his aunt and uncle mourn their son after he died in a car accident. Andy now realized that he didn't have a clue about what they had gone through - the pain that they felt each day. Andy and Kristen found themselves looking to other bereaved parents for support. They joined their local Compassionate Friends chapter and became regular listeners of the podcast. I sometimes have doubts about continuing to produce the podcast each week. It is certainly a labor of love, but it does require a lot of work, and sometimes, when listener numbers falter or donations stop for several weeks at a time, I wonder if the time for the podcast has passed. Then, I hear beautiful words like I heard today, and I realize that even though most of my guests have never spoken to each other, we have created a community of grievers. Before ending my conversation with Andy and Kristen today, Andy shared, "For all of the other parents who have been on the podcast and are now listening, we have cried for your children. We have mourned for your children because we know how it feels. We have heard them." Kristen says that early on in their grief journey, they knew that someday, they would want to share Juniper's story on the podcast. Today, almost two years later, is that day. Now, Andy and Kristen can know that all around the world, other bereaved parents are truly hearing them. They are crying for Juniper and mourning her as well. And for me, that is all that truly matters.
I have often said that different people grieve differently. Today's guest, Lori, adds a new twist to that statement. She lost two of her four sons almost 30 years apart from each other, and she is grieving so much differently now than she did the first time around, showing that the same person can grieve similar losses differently as well. The stories of Michael and Logan's deaths are far different. Michael died at age 2 of an aggressive type of cancer called neuroblastoma. He died after 9 months of treatment in his mother's arms at the hospital, which she says gave her time to say goodbye, but also forced her to watch him endure pain and suffering. Twenty-five-year-old Logan, on the other hand, died suddenly from an accidental drug overdose in his apartment. Logan was there one day and gone the next. Lori says that after losing Michael, she became an extremely compassionate person. She and her husband turned to each other for support. Loris describes him as her rock. She was very involved in church, turning to her faith to help ease the intense pain of loss. Over the years, Lori says that her biggest fear was that she might lose another one of her three remaining boys, but despite Logan's long history of mental health struggles, she did not ever think this would happen to them again. Then, 18 months ago, the unimaginable occurred - Logan died, too. After Michael died, compassion emerged. This time, however, fear and anger are the dominant emotions. She has trouble going out in public. Lori hasn't gone to church, and her faith feels broken. Her relationship with her husband has been damaged, and she has moved in with her two living sons, who are now her two rocks. Online support groups and podcasts have become her coping strategies. These vastly different responses may seem surprising. I know they were unexpected to Lori, but there is a lesson here. Grace. We need to give others and ourselves grace. We cannot control our feelings or our responses to grief. We need to feel our emotions, whatever they may be, and work through them. Through hard work, hope for the future may come again, for Lori and for us.
Livestreams with Gwen are back! This week's livestream topic was to be about the fact that we are living in two worlds - longing to live in the past while dealing with our messy lives in the present. I talk about my struggles of missing Andy while trying to be the happy mother-of-the-groom at Valeriano's recent wedding. This conversation quickly morphed into another topic. Respite. First, is it OK to take a break from your grief? And second - where do I find respite when I need a break from my grief? My answers - First - YES! And Second - walks outside in the sunshine, riding in our boat, listening to birds while on my deck, listening to music, reading a good book, and playing board games with family or friends. The most important point is this. It is OK (and actually GOOD) to take a break from your grief. Many grieving parents feel like they need to feel their grief all the time. Every book they read is about grief. Every podcast they listen to is about grief. Days are filled with therapy and support groups. While all of these things are great, breaks are needed. Our bodies and minds cannot handle the constant pain of grief. I remember in those early days feeling like I needed to feel the pain constantly. If I started to laugh or even smile, I would remind myself that Andy was dead, and the smile would disappear. As the seven-year anniversary approaches next week, I feel the heaviness begin to worsen again, but I have learned that the best way to get through these difficult days is to take some time away from the pain as well. I will have intentional times with my family to talk about and remember Andy. There is an upcoming 5K race where 25 of my co-workers will be wearing Be Still bracelets as they run to support our local FitKids program. But there will also be time for me to have respite. I will spend time reading a book and listening to birds outside on my deck. I will play golf and go boating. Hopefully, I will be able to convince my family to play a board game with me. Finding this balance is what gives me the strength to continue on each day.
Since becoming a bereaved parent, several phrases have irritated me. One of the most bothersome things people say to me is, 'You are so strong. I could never do what you do.' I feel like that suggests they don't think they need to help me—that I can handle everything on my own without assistance. When I first heard about today's guest, Cristi, and the 'Mentally STRONG' method she developed, I wasn't sure if I would like it. However, because Cristi lost not just one, but three children, I thought I should give it a try. After our conversation, all my doubts melted away. When Cristi talks about being mentally strong, she doesn't mean being a resilient hero doing everything alone. Instead, Cristi teaches people to face their grief and sorrow directly, in community with therapists and other grieving individuals. As a psychiatric nurse practitioner, Cristi believed in cognitive behavioral therapy and the power of positive thinking. But after losing her adoptive son Johnny to drowning and seeing her son Reggie—and later daughter, Miah, and husband, Bundy—suffer from DRPLA, a terrible degenerative disease, Cristi realized that simply thinking positively was not very helpful for those grieving. We can't just 'look on the bright side' and think positive thoughts after losing our children. That isn't realistic or natural. Cristi understands this too well. She writes, "Grief can feel overwhelming, like a weight that never lifts. It consumes your thoughts, leaves you feeling lost, and makes it hard to get through the day. It's an unpredictable journey that pulls at your heart. But in these moments of deep sorrow, there is space to feel, process, and find a path toward healing." The Mentally STRONG method isn't a quick fix for deep grief, but it can help you face and work through your grief. It can help you find purpose in life again. If Cristi can find purpose and experience joy after losing Johnny, Reggie, Miah, and Bundy, so can we. For more information and access to her book and documentary, visit mentallystrong.com.
Today's guest, Jody, worked as an actor on Broadway for a year, but nothing had ever prepared her for the role she was required to play after the birth of her firstborn daughter, Lueza. After a completely unremarkable pregnancy, Jody suffered severe complications during childbirth, resulting in significant brain injuries for Baby Lueza. After suffering from horrible seizures as a young infant, they were able to stabilize little Lueza. Once they did so, she began to show a smile that would light up a room. Still, Lueza had significant delays. She could not sit, eat, or talk independently. At one point in time, Jody remembers looking at her husband and saying, "Will Lueza ever be able to sit up on her own?" Her husband's answer stuck with her: "She may be lying down, but she may be very happy." Over the years, Lueza proved her Dad right. She continued to be 'lying down,' but she was always very happy. She loved music, movies, and roller coasters. She would laugh and squeal and could let her family know what she did and didn't like with the slightest head movements. And her smile continued to light up the room. Lueza had a profound effect on many people around her as she interacted with doctors and nurses in the medical community and her teachers at school. Over time, Lueza slowly developed more complications and died suddenly at home one night after getting what her family thought was only a little cold. Then, Jody's life changed once again. She was no longer the mother of a medically complex child. She was now a bereaved mother. There were no more hospital visits. The medical equipment was no longer needed in the family home. Jody began doing arts and crafts as a form of healing. She attended spiritual support groups for bereaved parents. Most importantly, Jody began to write. Jody wrote a memoir about her life with Lueza that was years in the making. The title of the memoir was so fitting - 'She May Be Lying Down, but She May Be Very Happy.' This memoir was a story of her life with Lueza and a heartfelt thank you to all the people who had helped her over the years. A beautiful tribute for a beautiful girl.
When today's guest, Andy, lost his 18-year-old son, Heston, to suicide, he had a lot of time to reflect on life and finding one's purpose. Early in Andy's grief journey, he saw a visual that truly resonated with him. The image was of a framed picture that was completely black. The blackness represented the grief that, early on in one's grief journey, was all-encompassing. The darkness of the grief covered every part of the bereaved person's life. Then, there was a second image of a black rectangle the same size as the first. However, the picture frame was now several times larger, so that the black portion now took up only 5% of the frame. The explanation is simple. The deep grief does not go away. The hole in our hearts remains. What we can work to change is the rest of our lives. We can grow and expand so that our lives are bigger than the grief. There are portions with love, joy, and happiness. They do not eliminate the grief, and the grief remains a part of the picture, but it is not the entire picture. The idea is not to get stuck in our grief, but to bring it along with us as we continue to experience life. This past weekend, my (foster) son, Valeriano, got married. It was a beautiful wedding. There were lots of smiles and happiness surrounding the couple, but there were tears, too, as we had our first big family event without our Andy. Valeriano bought a special green pen to use to sign his marriage certificate to honor Andy. I put his picture and teddy bear on the seat where he should have been sitting. The new family picture included Andy's picture and teddy bear. We did not ignore our grief and forget about Andy on Saturday. We brought him along to be a part of the celebration. This is just what Heston's Dad, Andy, encourages as well. He brings Heston with him, feeling his presence. He has even released a powerful book, 'Overcoming Life's Toughest Setbacks: 15 Breakthrough Core Beliefs to Transform Challenges into Opportunities!' The book is available through his website, askandycampbell.com. If it's half as good as my conversation with him today, I know it will inspire many of us on our grief journey.
Today's guest, Jackie, says that her guiding purpose is based on a quote that she has written down and keeps close by. David Viscott wrote, "The purpose of life is to discover your gift. The work of life is to develop it. And the meaning of life is to give your gift away." Jackie says that is exactly how her son, Stu, lived his life and how she works to live her own. Initially, after her amazingly talented, loving son, Stu, died by suicide, she lost herself. Stu had been living his dream life in New York City. He had his own apartment and worked at a job he loved as a barber, cutting hair. Then, mental illness invaded his life and took him away. Jackie was left feeling alone. Hope? What is that? Healing? That's impossible. She tried going to grief support groups but felt overwhelmed. Then, Jackie found an organization called Eric's House. Their vision is that 'no person who is bereaved by suicide or substance use will suffer these devastating losses alone.' Jackie said the organization saved her. Ever so slowly, hope crept back into her life. Jackie didn't force healing to come, but it did, a little bit at a time. She joined one of their online support groups and then another. They gave her the tools that she needed to start rebuilding her life. She began writing an article for the organization's newsletter and started facilitating support groups for them as well. Over time, Jackie found a purpose for her grief. Now Jackie compares herself to the old apple trees in her backyard. They appear to be 150 years old. They have branches dying each year and huge holes in them, but they persist. Each year, the trees blossom and look beautiful. They produce apples that feed the deer in the area. Whatever life throws at them, they keep going. That is a great visual for our lives now. We may have huge holes inside and limbs that are missing, but we just keep going. As ugly as our lives may look from the outside, they can still produce beauty and help provide for others along our life's journey. We may not be who we once were, but we can still be amazing.
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Say their names❤️ Such an important thing for others to know when they encounter grieving parents. May our children never be forgotten. I have found so much comfort and hope in this podcast. I know Andy is so proud. 🩷Caroline Grace-Forever 15🩷
BonBon
Thank you so much, Andy's Mom for these podcasts! I just found them yesterday and have listened to several. I appreciate your candor in what you say and in sharing your thoughts and feelings. It has been helpful and validating for me. And thank you so much for having Brooke's Mom on. Brooke's Mom: thank you so much for sharing on this podcast. I, too, lost an adult daughter with children and am now working through dealing with the new relationship and all of the complexities that entails. It is very hard and it was helpful to hear you say that. I hope things have gone well for you and your grandchildren since this recording, and I hope to hear from you again.
Josh Gehringer
'I'm never going to be whole again I'm not going to be the same person That doesn't mean I cant lead a full filing life You're not going to be the same, but that's not a bad thing.' Seriously beautifully said. I lost my mom when I was 13. Still have some trouble with it 18 years later now.
Cindy Bailey
Thank You for this episode. I ironically listened to it on what would of been my son's 30th birthday. He passed away April 28th of a accidental overdose. Haven't had a chance to seek cancelling yet due to Covid, so this was very helpful.