Originally written May 24th, 2020, two full months into the pandemic. What an interesting and foreign time that was for all of us. I am so glad these pieces were written. They take me back to a place in time and show me how far I’ve come

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My thoughts to those who suggest I move on:

What I have learned about intense grief is that it stays with us until it is resolved. The only way to facilitate its passing, to help it along, is to embrace it. It is part of the human experience—part of the love affair—no different than the honeymoon period. In fact, it’s just the same, but at the other end. There are the elated feelings of birth and the sinking feelings of death. It fills us up when it comes and drains us when it leaves.

Grief is love’s final goodbye.

I can only speak for myself, but my personal experience has added extra layers to this already incredibly painful and complex process. For me, it is death of a child. Death of an only child. Death by homicide. Death with no remains.

It is true that Josiah died almost a year ago, but it is also true that the search for his remains continues, the homicide investigation continues and there are two men behind bars for other murders who are believed to have murdered my son. There is no clear indication whether or not they will ever be charged with Josiah’s murder. If they are, it won’t be for some time. If they are subsequently tried, it won’t be for an even longer time. Covid has brought more things to a screeching halt than you may realize.

All this said, this is not my past, this is my present. It is not behind me. It is right here, right now. It is also yesterday and will most certainly be tomorrow—and tomorrow’s tomorrow. It will be my life for sometime to come. I cannot put it behind me.

I am simultaneously trying to birth a new life from the ashes of my old life, while living my current life in the middle of a pandemic where everyone feels as though they have lost the only lives they’ve ever known. I am not wallowing. I am not stuck. I am not falling behind. I am learning to float in a sea of grief. My grief, your grief and the world’s grief.

There are only two things I can be sure of everyday—the sun will rise and then, it will set again. Anything that happens in between are just tiny victories, many of which remain unseen.

I may be shattered, but I am not broken. There is nothing that needs to be fixed. What I have is an incredibly deep injury—an amputation of sorts with new trauma that rips the scab off every time it tries to heal.

Do not confuse my frailty for weakness.

I appreciate you witnessing my suffering.

You are also witnessing my growth—it’s just not always fun or pretty to watch.

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When Grief Speaks is a selection of writings that originated as journal entries and Facebook posts when I was in early grief after my son, Josiah, was killed. They speak straight from the heart, from the depths of despair that many bereaved find themselves in. I offer them here to not only openly share myself with you, but also to connect with those who may feel as I once did. As grief unfolds and matures, it changes. We grow grief muscles that we never wanted. At some point, we find that we can carry what we once thought would crush us and in that, we find hope.