7 Hard-Earned Lessons I Didn’t Know About Grief

If I Could Go Back—Here’s What I’d Tell Myself

Grieving a child is a kind of grief that lives in your bones. It rewrites everything you thought you knew about love, time, and how the world works.

When I lost my daughter Maddie, there were no roadmaps. No guidebooks. Just a shattered heart, a world that kept moving, and a silence I didn’t know how to fill.

I’m not here to offer silver linings. I’m here to speak to anyone who’s walked this road, or is walking it now, and say: you’re not alone. These are the 7 things I wish someone had told me when my world blew up.

#1: You’re Not Crazy, You’re Grieving

There were days I couldn’t find my keys and forgot what month it was. There were nights I screamed into my pillow. There were mornings when I stared out the window for an hour and didn’t move.

I went to my GP and said “I think I have adult ADHD.” He looked at me compassionately and said, “You’ve experienced the worst traumatic loss imaginable, you don’t sleep, and you‘re under constant stress: You are grieving!” I wish there were a pill that could make the pain go away. But I don’t think anything will work: short of a lobotomy.

Grief scrambles your brain and drains your energy. It messes with memory, time, and even your sense of identity. You’re not broken. You’re grieving. And your nervous system is doing its best to keep you upright in the storm.

#2: People Will Avoid You. But It’s Not About You

Some people disappeared. Others said nothing. Some changed the subject when Maddie’s name came up, or looked at me like I was made of glass. Some people want to hug me all the time.

At first, I took it personally. Now I know it’s fear. Most people don’t know how to sit beside pain this deep. It makes them uncomfortable. It reminds them that life is fragile.

The bigger thing I realized is that we are never taught about grief, to identify, to understand, to process. I guess I must’ve missed the lecture that day.

But your grief is not a burden. And those who can hold it with you are your people now.

#3: It’s Okay to Smile Again

I remember the first time I laughed after Maddie died. I felt instant guilt, like I’d betrayed her.

But the truth is, our children wouldn’t want us to live in pain forever. Love doesn’t mean suffering every day. It means remembering, honouring, and also living. You’re not forgetting them by smiling. You’re bringing their light forward into the world.

You discover, although strange bedfellows, grief and joy can share a seat on the bus.

#4: Your Child’s Story Still Matters

Your child's story is not over even if they’re no longer here.

Sharing Maddie’s story has helped me feel connected to her. It keeps her voice alive. And it helps others feel less alone in their grief.

I’ve said this a number of times: I feel Maddie sitting beside me in the copilot’s seat. The MentorWell is what teens need now, and Maddie has inspired us to deliver it.

Don’t be afraid to speak their name. Don’t be afraid to say, “My child mattered. Still matters.”

#5: Grief Needs Movement, Even Tiny Steps

Some days you’ll get out of bed. Some days you won’t. Both are okay.

But over time, I learned that even the tiniest steps: taking a walk, journaling for 5 minutes, talking to someone who gets it. This helps move grief through me instead of letting it bury me.

Grief doesn’t go away, but it changes when we meet it with gentle motion.

#6: You’re Allowed to Find Purpose

For the longest time, I believed finding purpose again would be impossible. But it’s the opposite.

Everything I do now to help other teens, parents, and mentors is rooted in her story. Purpose didn’t erase my pain. It gave it somewhere to go.

You’re allowed to rebuild. Not because you’re “moving on,” but because you’re carrying love forward in a new way.

#7: You’re Not Alone (Even When It Feels That Way)

Grief can feel like a locked room. But I promise, others have sat in that same silence. Others have asked the same questions in the dark.

If you’re here, reading this, I hope it reminds you: some people understand. People who can walk beside you, even if they can’t fix the pain. They’re there. We are all looking for one another. One more lesson of hope to share and remember.

And sometimes, just being understood is the beginning of healing.