Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Today was a busy day, but somehow, it was a good day.

I’m a little stressed knowing my lead worker will be out on vacation for a week. There’s always that little voice in the back of my mind wondering how everything will get done. But then I remind myself: out of everyone, you know I do well under stress. I figure things out. I always have.

That’s just who I am.

After work, I came home for a few minutes and then immediately turned around and left for school. Tonight was the Washington, D.C. trip meeting.

I thought about how you didn’t want Anders to go when he had the opportunity. You worried about him, and because you didn’t want him to go, he didn’t. But this time, Charlie’s good friends, Alex and Marcus, convinced him to go—and he finally said yes.

And honestly, it made me happy and it gives me anxiety.

Washington, D.C. was one of my favorite memories from middle school. I went with my best friend, Leslie, and my classmates. We stayed in a hotel, rode a coach bus, laughed until our stomachs hurt, and visited all the monuments. There was something so exciting about being that age and experiencing something new with your friends.

And now Charlie is going.

Without me (this is where my anxiety kicks in).

That realization hit me harder than I expected.

I need to let go.

I am no longer a helicopter mom.

I can still hear you making that helicopter noise.

I can still hear you say, “cut the umbilical cord honey.”

I was that protective mom. I wanted to know where they were, who they were with, what they were doing, and whether they were safe. I wanted to protect them from everything.

And last year, I protected our children with everything I had.

I protected them from having to carry more than they already had to carry. I protected them from that night of seeing your lifeless body. I stayed by their side. I made sure they felt safe. I made sure their feelings were welcome, that they were heard, and that nothing they felt was too much.

I was their safe place when their world had suddenly become anything but safe.

But grief has taught me something I never wanted to learn:

No matter how much I plan, no matter how much I protect, I cannot control everything.

I cannot protect our boys from every heartbreak.

I cannot make every hard thing disappear.

And I cannot keep them close enough that nothing can ever hurt them.

So, little by little, each day, I’m learning to let our boys explore the world without their mother following right behind them.

Some days, it’s hard.

Really hard.

Because there is a part of me that still wants to hold them close and make sure nothing bad ever happens to them again.

But I’m learning that loving them also means letting them go.

Maybe that is one of the deepest lessons grief has taught me.

Before the meeting, I saw so many friends I hadn’t seen in a while. And standing there talking to them, I realized something that probably would have gone unnoticed if I hadn’t stopped long enough to really feel it.

I am different.

And it’s okay.

Last year, I wanted the connection so badly. I wanted to talk to people. I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to catch up and laugh and tell people how the boys were doing.

But I couldn’t.

I would try to talk about you, and I would sob.

The grief was always sitting right there beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest opening. Sometimes even the simplest question—“How are you doing?”—felt impossible to answer.

Tonight was different.

I caught up with my friends. We talked about the kids. We talked about school. We talked about how I’m doing. We laughed. We enjoyed one another.

And I didn’t sob.

I was present.

I was actually there.

That might sound like such a small thing to someone else, but I know what it took for me to get here.

During the meeting, I kept thinking about how quickly our precious boys are growing up.

Charlie is in eighth grade.

Eighth grade.

He doesn’t look like a baby anymore. He’s tall. He eats all day long—which I’m pretty sure is a teenage boy requirement—and now he’s getting ready to take his first big trip without me.

If you were here, I already know what you would say.

“Honey, you need to let him go.”

You said that about Anders all the time.

And now Anders is a SENIOR.

I still can’t get over that.

He’ll be eighteen in November.

Eighteen.

He will officially become an adult. He’ll graduate. He’ll leave for college. And, if life goes the way we hope, he’ll build a life of his own somewhere away from me.

I am excited for him.

And I am heartbroken.

Because I wish you were here to see it.

I wish you could see the boys becoming these incredible young men. I wish you could see the things they’re learning, the people they’re becoming, and the little pieces of you that show up in them when I least expect it.

You never asked them to be perfect.

You just wanted them to be good human beings.

You always said, “Be good to your momma. Always love her and be patient with her.”

And gosh, Robert…

I wish more than anything that you were here.

I wish you could give Charlie a hug. I wish you could tickle him until he couldn’t breathe from laughing. I wish you could tease him about his little mustache. I wish I could watch you wrestle with the boys again, give them advice about sports, tease them about girls, and embarrass them just enough to make them roll their eyes.

I wish they could have more of you.

I wish I could have more of you.

As we were leaving school, I ran into one of Charlie’s favorite teachers. She looked at me and asked how I was doing.

And for the first time in a really, really long time, I answered without hesitation.

“I’m doing okay.”

And I realized that I meant it.

Not “okay” in the way people sometimes say they’re okay because they don’t want to explain that they’re falling apart.

I meant okay.

I’m beginning to see things clearly now.

I’m growing, Robert.

I’m growing so much.

And I think you would be proud of me.

I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting you. It doesn’t mean that I love you any less or that I miss you any less.

It means I am finally learning how to carry the love and the loss without allowing the loss to consume every part of me.

I’m learning patience.

I’m learning how to move forward with more calm and peace.

I’m learning how to trust God even when I don’t understand His plan.

I’m learning that I don’t have to have every answer.

And, surprisingly, I’m learning that my body knows it too.

My nervous system feels calmer.

I’m not constantly bracing for the next wave.

I’m finding joy in little things again.

A conversation with a friend.

A laugh.

Watching the boys grow.

A quiet moment.

A busy day that somehow ends up being a good one.

I’m learning to love life again.

Not the life I thought I would have.

Not the life we planned.

But this life.

This strange, beautiful, heartbreaking life that somehow continues moving forward.

And maybe that is one of the hardest things to accept.

I wish your death hadn’t been the thing that taught me how precious these moments are.

I wish we had learned these lessons together.

I wish we were here—together, healed, laughing, growing older, watching our boys become men, and learning how to slow down and truly enjoy the life we built.

That’s the part that still breaks my heart.

Because I don’t want to have to be grateful for the growth that came from losing you.

I would give anything to have you here instead.

But since I can’t change what happened, I’m trying to honor what remains.

I’m choosing to notice the small moments.

I’m choosing to laugh.

I’m choosing to let Charlie go to Washington, D.C.

I’m choosing to watch Anders grow into adulthood, even when my heart wants to keep him little.

I’m choosing to trust.

I’m choosing to heal.

And maybe most importantly, I’m finally learning that it’s okay to be happy again.

I think, if you were here, you’d probably look at me, smile that way you did, and tell me to stop overthinking everything.

You’d tell me I’m going to be okay.

And for the first time in a very long time…

I believe that I will be ok.