The hardest part of losing a child isn't what most people think.

The hardest part of losing a child isn't what most people think.

It wasn't the funeral.

It wasn't standing beside an urn that held our daughter.

It wasn't the flowers, the sympathy cards, or the casseroles that filled our kitchen.

Those moments were devastating.

They were also temporary.

The hardest part has been everything that came after.

It's been more than eleven years since we lost our daughter, Maddie, to suicide.

And there are still mornings when I wake up and ask myself the same question.

‘What didn't we see?’

I think every bereaved parent carries some version of that question.

The guilt is heavy.

You replay conversations.

You revisit ordinary days.

You remember moments that seemed insignificant and wonder if they meant something more.

What if I had asked one more question?

What if I had pushed a little harder?

What if I had known then what I know now?

Your mind understands there may never be answers.

Your heart keeps searching anyway.

Then there is another kind of pain.

The truth is, grieving parents don't fear remembering.

We fear being the only ones who still do.

This is one of the reasons I started The MentorWell.

I want Maddie's name, face, and memory to be just as vivid as the colourful, funny, and cheerful 14 year old who left us far too soon.

I don't want her to become a date.

Or a tragedy.

Or a story that fades with time.

I want people to know who she was.

The way she laughed.

Her sense of humour.

Her kindness.

The way she made people feel.

I want people to see the beautiful young girl behind the loss.

Whenever I'm on a podcast, the first question I'm often asked is:

"Tell me about Maddie."

I love that question.

It lights me up.

More than one interviewer has said to me,

"Your whole face changes when you say her name."

They're right.

It does.

I love talking about my daughter.

I love telling stories about her.

I love hearing her name.

But I wasn't always here.

For many years, saying her name carried a very different feeling.

It came with overwhelming sadness.

It came with guilt.

It came with a pain so deep that some days I wasn't sure I could carry it.

For a long time, talking about Maddie brought me back to the worst day of my life.

Today, it brings me back to the best parts of hers.

Grief changes.

Love doesn't.

Today, talking about Maddie feels like keeping a promise.

And there is one more thing I wish people understood.

Please don't stop saying the names of the people we've lost.

I have never once been upset because someone mentioned Maddie.

I have never thought,

"I wish they hadn't brought her up."

What hurts is silence.

What hurts is when people are afraid to ask.

It’s when the world moves on and grieving parents are left wondering if everyone else has forgotten.

Please don't disappear because you're afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You don't need perfect words.

You don't need to fix anything.

You can't.

You just need to show up.

Send the text.

Make the call.

Say their child's name.

Ask to hear a story.

Tell them you remember.

Because for a grieving parent, hearing someone say,

"I was thinking about Maddie today."

is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

Love doesn't end.

Neither does parenthood.

And neither should remembrance.

Because when you say their child's name, even years later, you remind us of something every grieving parent hopes is true.

That our child mattered.

That our child is remembered.

And that, in some small way, they are still here.