Holding Both: The Grief and Gratitude of Losing a Child
Four months since you went to live amongst the stars, where the sky now cradles you in its eternal embrace. It’s still so hard to grasp how the world continues, each day turning into the next, while in my heart, time stands still. Some days, it feels as though you’ve just left; other days, it feels like a lifetime since I last held you. The days blur together, but the pain is always sharp, always present. Part of me died with you that day. I didn’t just lose a son; I lost a piece of myself, a part of my soul that only you could fill. That part of me will never return. I carry it with me, hidden under layers of love and longing, and sometimes I feel as though it weighs me down. But even in the darkness of that loss, there is a quiet understanding that love doesn’t end. It doesn’t fade with time. It stays with you and transforms into something you carry forever.
This morning, the absence of your presence hit me with the same weight as it did those first days. The silence lingers, suffocating in its stillness, and I ache for the comfort of holding you, feeling you snuggled against me. But the truth is hard: you're not here, and that reality cuts deep. The world keeps spinning, yet part of me remains where time stands still, with you. Your brothers and sisters need me, and in that need, I find the strength to keep going. Still, there’s a gap in my heart, a place where you should be, and it follows me wherever I go.
I do my best to be fully present for them, to offer all the love and care they deserve. Their joy, their laughter, and their needs fill the spaces that grief has carved out. But even in those moments, I can’t ignore the weight of your absence. There’s always a part of me that feels incomplete, a part that will forever long for you. But for their sake, I hold on, knowing that your love still wraps around us, quietly guiding and sustaining us through each day.
I can still feel you, my love. There are times when I close my eyes and, for a brief moment, I’m transported back to those precious moments with you. I can almost feel the softness of your red hair beneath my fingertips, the weight of you in my arms—bringing a warmth and peace that once made life feel whole. Now, the memories are all I have, and they carry me through each day, grounding me in a grief that never seems to fade. Life before your absence feels like a distant dream, a reality slowly slipping away. Yet, the love we shared, that unbreakable bond, continues to surround me, keeping me tethered to you. Still, the longing remains, a quiet ache that fills the space where you should be.
Thanksgiving came and went, and as much as I tried to be present, to celebrate, to find gratitude in the things around me, there was a shadow—your absence—looming over everything. How do you give thanks when the one of the things you’re most thankful for is gone? How do you celebrate when part of you is missing, when the emptiness feels so vast it takes your breath away? It’s almost impossible to put on a smile when your heart is breaking into pieces.
But I did find moments of gratitude. Not the kind that comes easily or with ease, but a deeper kind. A kind of gratitude that’s forged in grief, in the hollow spaces where joy used to be. It’s a gratitude that clings to the memory of you, that tries to find light even in the darkest places. It’s the kind of thankfulness that feels like a small miracle—a quiet miracle, for all that you gave me in your short time here.
When they asked who hadn’t yet placed their star on the tree, I wanted to say, It’s your turn. I imagined you up there with Papa, sitting on his shoulders, your little hands reaching for the star as we cheered you on. Afterward, you would have snuggled into his lap, drifting off to sleep while the soft glow of the lights filled the room. But I kept the words inside, whispering them only to myself. There was a space where your bright presence should have been, where your laughter and joy would’ve been felt. Even as we carried on, a part of me couldn’t help but feel the emptiness of that moment, knowing it should have been yours.
And oh, how I am thankful for you. Grateful for every single heartbeat we shared, for every moment I held you close, even if it was too brief. You changed me in ways I can’t put into words. Your light, your tiny presence, altered the course of my life. And though I never got to see you grow, to hear your first words, or to share milestones with you, I know that you shaped me in ways I’ll never forget.
In these four months, I’ve come to understand something that I didn’t know before: grief is not just the absence of someone you love. It is a reflection of the depth of love itself. The more you love, the greater the ache when they are gone. Though you are no longer here, my love for you deepens with time. Every day without you is a reminder of how fiercely I loved you, how much I still love you, and how much I always will.
Four months. It seems like so little, yet in those four months, I’ve learned so much about grief. How it is not just an absence, but a reflection of how deeply we loved. How it seeps into every corner of your being, becoming part of your everyday life. It’s a shadow that follows you, but it’s also a testament to the love that will never leave you. Love doesn’t vanish when someone does. It endures. It’s carried in every breath, in every memory, in every silent prayer.
Grief and gratitude exist together in ways I never imagined. They are woven together, intertwined, like two forces that pull at the heart in different directions. The grief is heavy—the pain of not having you here, the milestones I’ll never get to share. I will never get to watch you grow, to see the person you would have become. And yet, in the midst of all this sorrow, there is still a quiet gratitude. Thankful for the moments we did have. Thankful for the lessons you taught me in those six precious days. Thankful for the way you continue to shape me, even from afar.
It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To hold grief and gratitude in the same space. To mourn and to be thankful all at once. But I’ve learned that love doesn’t exist in neat boxes. It spills over. It mingles with everything, transforming the way we see the world. And though I long for you with every fiber of my being, I can also say that I am thankful. Thankful that I had the honor of being your mother, even if just for a short while.
You are still with me. You will always be with me. In the stars, in the quiet moments when my heart aches, in the way I carry you with me in everything I do. Your light still shines in me, guiding me through the darkness, and I will hold onto that light as long as I live. Four months without you, and yet you are as close to me as ever. Forever, my brightest star.
This is love, This is Healing, this is Grief.
