Before and during my son’s illness

Before Everything Changed

For a long time, my life made a kind of sense. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. It included messy routines, people I thought would always be there and a love for motherhood I did not anticipate.
 

Then Gabriel got sick. Cancer took over our days, our language, and our plans. Life became a series of appointments, waiting rooms, hard decisions, and tiny moments of hope we tried to hold on to with both hands. We lived MRI to MRI. Making future plans was solely based on one scan to the next. 

The layers of loss

Losing More Than One Thing

When people talk about grief after cancer, or a loss of any kind, they often mean the loss of a life. But what we don’t talk about enough are all the other losses that come with it.
 

During the hardest part of my son’s journey, I also lost important relationships—people I thought would stay, who couldn’t or wouldn’t walk through the darkest parts with us.
 

When Gabriel passed, it wasn’t just one goodbye. It was a whole world I was grieving: him, the life we had, the future he no longer had, the people I thought I could count on, the version of myself that existed before everything fell apart.

The silence around grief

The Things No One Wants to Say Out Loud

There are parts of grief people don’t want to look at: the anger, the emptiness, the numbness, the days where getting out of bed feels like too much. The way loneliness can fill a room, even when other people are in it. The pain. The silent knowledge that nothing will ever be the same while everyone else's lives continue moving forward.
 

I kept noticing how often people would change the subject, offering a quick “He would want you to…”, or even staying silent because they don’t know what to say at all. I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable by talking about it, either. It made me feel even more alone, like my pain was something to hide instead of something to honor. They all mean well and I appreciate that but not being able to talk about this made me feel even more alone than I already did. 
 

I can’t heal in silence. I need to talk about the hard stuff—the real stuff—to make it through this. I want to talk about all the uncomfortable things no one wants to talk about.  And I know I can’t be the only one.

A promise to my son

Keeping My Word

My son and I used to talk about sharing our stories, about how maybe—just maybe—they could help someone else someday. Even in the middle of everything, he still cared about others, still wanted to give something back to the world.
 

This blog is my way of keeping that promise. Every word I write here is for him, for me, and for the person on the other side of the screen who might need to hear, “You’re not crazy. You’re not too much. You’re just grieving and that is okay. You’re not alone.”

For the one person who needs this

If This Reaches Just One Person

I don’t know who you are or what you’ve lost, but if you’re reading this, I want you to know: you’re allowed to feel exactly how you feel. You don’t have to be “over it.” You don’t have to be strong all the time. And if all you are is okay, that is okay.
 

If even one person feels a little less alone, a little more seen, or a little more allowed to be honest about their grief because of this, then every word will be worth it.
 

Thank you for being here. I’m glad our stories get to meet. That you and I are no longer alone in this very real place called grief.