After losing my son, grief shows up in unexpected places—birthday celebrations, hockey rinks, familiar roads, and quiet moments when the distractions fade. This is an honest look at what it means to live after losing a child, without answers or tidy endings.

A deeply personal story about navigating life after child loss — the pain, the pretending, the questions for God, and the small moments of connection that keep me going.

This summer has been a quiet, aching reminder of everything that’s changed. The laughter, the lake days, the brotherly mischief — all of it feels suspended in time. Gabe and I are learning how to live with a hole that can’t be filled, a bond that can’t be replaced. There’s no returning to what life was before. There’s only learning to carry the weight of what’s missing, and wondering what Samson sees from Heaven as we try to keep moving here on Earth.

I should be planning your 18th birthday party, not your memorial. You should be finishing 11th grade, getting ready for your senior year. I should be watching you step into adulthood, celebrating all the milestones that were meant to come.

Instead, I find myself in your room, laying on your bed, crying and wishing you were here. I miss your smile every morning, the sound of your voice, and the warmth of your hugs. The emptiness is unbearable.

It was never supposed to be you. It should’ve been me. You were my everything, and now I don’t know how to move through life without you.

It’s 2 a.m., and I can’t sleep. My mind is filled with you, Samson—your voice, your laugh, the light you brought to my life. It’s been a year, and the nights are still the hardest. I wake up in a panic, searching for you, trying to piece together a way to feel your presence again. My heart is shattered, and I can’t escape the weight of your absence.

Grief doesn’t come with answers. It comes with silence—deafening, suffocating silence. I wish I could hear God’s voice, I wish I could understand why. But all I’m left with are endless questions. Why my son? Why Samson? Why our family?

People say, everything happens for a reason. But I don’t believe that. Some things happen because the world is cruel and unfair. Some losses can never be justified.

And yet, here I am. Still breathing. Still moving. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because love—unshakable, unbreakable love—keeps me tethered to this earth.

One minute, one hour, one day at a time.

I used to look forward to this birthday. 35 was supposed to be mine and Samson’s year. He was going to turn 18 soon, and I had imagined all the milestones we’d celebrate together.

Grief isn’t just sadness—it’s anger, sensitivity, and exhaustion wrapped in a relentless ache. In this post, I open up about the raw realities of navigating life after losing my son, Samson. From the pressure to “fake it” through milestones to the crashing waves of emotion that follow, I share what it really takes to keep showing up, even when the world doesn’t understand.

I miss everything about Samson. How can it be nearly a year when it feels like I just saw him? I hate that I’ll have to say “a year,” as if grief should be finished, as if I should be “normal” again. But I’ll never be. Half of me is gone, and always will be.

I’m not ready for the holidays—another birthday, another Christmas without him. Last Thanksgiving was our last together. I can’t even put up fall décor, knowing it was the last thing he saw before everything changed.

I just want him back. I know I won’t get that, but it’s what my heart longs for. I want him here, laughing, playing hockey, living life with us.

I love you, Samson. Until we meet again, I’ll always be thinking of you.