What I Learned Sitting Beside a Parent Who Just Lost Their Child

The Night I Learned That Presence Heals More Than Words Ever Could

People know me as a parent who lived through the worst reality you can face; losing a child. And because of that, when someone they know is suddenly in that same darkness, they often reach out and ask, “Chris… can you talk to them?”

It happens more often than most people realize.

One night, we agreed to meet at a Starbucks. It was late. Dark outside. Only a few people still there. A couple of students typing on their laptops. Two older guys nearby debating whether this might finally be the year for the Toronto Maple Leafs.

I sat in a quiet corner, waiting.

When they walked in, I stood up. I had never met them before, but a handshake felt wrong. So I hugged them. I’m not sure who held on tighter, them or me.

Their eyes were already watering. So were mine.

There was pain, yes. But also a strange kind of comfort, not in the loss, but in the fact that someone else understood it without needing an explanation.

We’re part of what grieving parents call the “F**king Awful Club.” A club no one ever wants to join.

We sat down. We didn’t order anything. They showed me a picture. They told me how funny their child was, how stubborn, how they lit up rooms without trying. For a brief moment, their son felt present again in that small corner of the café.

And I understood why that mattered.

Because as grieving parents, our biggest fear isn’t only that our child is gone, it’s that they’ll slowly fade in people’s memories. Or worse, be remembered only for how they died instead of how they lived.

I know that fear. I carry it every day with Maddie.

They looked at me and whispered, “I don’t know how to move forward.”

I didn’t respond with wisdom or reassurance. I just said, “I understand. I’m here.”

Because grief rarely asks for answers. It doesn’t need solutions. It needs acknowledgement.

This couple was only three months into their grieving journey. They hadn’t begun to grasp the full meaning of their loss; in fact, I knew they hadn’t. They were still in shock. Still in denial. Still waking up every morning hoping it was a nightmare. Still trying to decide if life was worth living.

So I sat and listened.

This moment wasn’t about me, and in a way, it wasn’t even about them. It was about their child. They needed to speak their child’s name out loud. They needed someone to hear who they were, not how they died. So I let them talk.

As the staff began closing for the night, the husband asked me:

“How do you get through this? When does the pain become less intense?”

I didn’t pretend to know.

I said, “I don’t know, because I’m not there. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there. I just want to do right by Maddie… and I don’t know what that fully looks like yet.”

That was about five years ago. I’ve gained a lot of perspective since then.

But one thing I know for certain: everyone’s journey is different. There is no timeline on grief.

What I understood that night was that my role wasn’t to tell them how to heal. It was to validate what they were feeling, support them in their uncertainty, and offer presence without pretending I had answers.

The only answers that matter are the ones they’ll uncover themselves, in their own time.

I think about that conversation often when I meet teens and young adults who feel lost in anxiety, loneliness, pressure, or identity confusion. They may not be grieving a death, but many are grieving something: belonging, confidence, hope, purpose.

They don’t always need advice.

They need someone who won’t look away.
Someone willing to sit in the quiet.
Someone who believes in them even when they can’t.

That understanding helped shape The MentorWell.

At The MentorWell, we connect young people with emotionally intelligent mentors who understand that real support isn’t always about providing answers, sometimes it’s about sitting beside someone until they find strength again.

Our mission is built on the belief that presence can be life-changing.

That night in Starbucks reminded me: you don’t always need the right words. You just need the courage to stay.

The MentorWell exists so no young person ever has to carry their struggle alone.

If you understand why presence matters, you already understand why this is so important for our young people..