This week, I did something simple that stirred something complicated.
After a workout class, I casually asked a couple of the women if they ever go walking. The sun was out, and I’ve been wanting to get outside more consistently—so the idea of some accountability sounded like a good next step. They said yes. We exchanged numbers.
Totally normal, right?
But as soon as I got home, I found myself wondering, What the heck was I thinking?
At the gym, I don’t wear any kind of badge. I’m not the grieving mom there. I’m not the one with the hard story. I’m just someone who shows up, sweats it out, and then goes home. It’s one of the few places where I can be anonymous.
But if I let these people in—even just a little—my story will eventually come out.
And suddenly, the safe space I had carved out felt jeopardized.
And it got me thinking—why is it that sometimes things seem to shift once someone learns a piece of your story, especially when that story holds deep grief?
Is it because people don’t know what to say?
Is it because they’re afraid to say the wrong thing?
Is it because, as one author wrote, “the weight of someone else’s sorrow reveals our own helplessness”?
Is it because they’re afraid to say the wrong thing?
Is it because, as one author wrote, “the weight of someone else’s sorrow reveals our own helplessness”?
In conversations with others who have experienced child loss, many grieving parents feel slowly abandoned over time. Relationships fade. Invitations stop. Conversations grow shallow.
And when friends do share their own hard things, they often preface them with, “I know it’s not the same as what you’ve gone through…”
As if they need permission to hurt.
As if there’s no longer space for their pain to coexist with mine.
But pain doesn’t need a hierarchy to be valid. And sometimes, in trying to protect each other, we end up pushing each other further away.
And here’s something else that often goes unsaid: just because we’re carrying a deep grief story doesn’t mean the rest of life slows down.
We still face all the regular struggles—marriage tensions, parenting challenges, health scares, financial stress. Loss doesn’t make those things disappear. If anything, it sometimes makes them feel heavier, because we’re already running on less.
We still face all the regular struggles—marriage tensions, parenting challenges, health scares, financial stress. Loss doesn’t make those things disappear. If anything, it sometimes makes them feel heavier, because we’re already running on less.
Grief doesn't exempt us from life’s other difficulties. It just means we’re navigating them with fewer emotional reserves and often fewer people close by.
But I think the space between us can be bridged—if both sides are willing.
Those of us who grieve deeply have to be honest: sometimes, we do carry unspoken bitterness. We wish others would reach out more. We long to be pursued, remembered, seen. And we wrestle when that doesn’t happen the way we hoped.
And for those walking alongside someone who’s grieving, I get it—sorrow can be intimidating. No one wants to say the wrong thing or make it worse. But please know: for many of us, the grief is already there. It doesn’t need to be stirred. It just needs to be acknowledged.
Even now, I’m still healing—but healing is very different than healed. I don’t expect to be fully “healed” this side of heaven. Grief after a deep loss doesn’t resolve itself neatly. It becomes part of you. You can grow, laugh, even carry joy again—but the loss is always there. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes loud. But always present.
Yes, there are triggers. But we can learn to navigate them. And we can’t afford to grow bitter. We need grace—for ourselves and for those around us. We need spaces to be safe, but also places where we can risk being known.
Scripture holds space for this tension.
Paul says in Galatians, “Carry one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
But just a few lines later, he writes, “Each one should carry their own load.”
But just a few lines later, he writes, “Each one should carry their own load.”
We’re meant to walk with each other—not to fix or compare, but to simply walk.
Jesus modeled this perfectly. He never minimized suffering. He didn’t require people to clean up their pain before coming to Him. He wept beside His friends. He entered sorrow, sat in silence, asked questions, and loved deeply.
That gives me hope for how we can show up for each other, even when the words aren’t perfect.
There’s no simple answer to any of this.
But I do know this: safe spaces matter. And sometimes, being known is worth the risk. Other times, it’s okay to hold your story close.
There’s discernment in knowing which one you need.
And grace in letting others do the same.
And grace in letting others do the same.
If you’re grieving:
Where might you need to risk being known again—even just a little?
Where might you need to risk being known again—even just a little?
If you’re walking alongside someone who’s grieving:
Where might you need to lean in, even if you’re afraid you won’t get it right?
Where might you need to lean in, even if you’re afraid you won’t get it right?
You don’t have to have the perfect words. You just have to show up.
“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.” —James 1:5
Lord, give us wisdom to know when to speak and when to simply be near.
Give us grace to carry one another’s burdens,
and grace to let others carry ours.
Give us grace to carry one another’s burdens,
and grace to let others carry ours.
May we be people who show up with grace.
May we carry our stories with honesty and humility.
And may we always leave room at the table—for sorrow, for joy, and for each other.
May we carry our stories with honesty and humility.
And may we always leave room at the table—for sorrow, for joy, and for each other.
xo,
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