When my son died suddenly in May 2024 at the age of 23, I was plunged into a world I didn’t recognize—a world split into ‘before’ and ‘after.’ In those first hours, days, and weeks, when every breath felt unfair and every moment surreal, I found myself cradled by an unexpected lifeline: the love and care of others.

Emails, texts, phone calls, Facebook comments, Instagram messages, cards, gifts—every gesture was a thread pulling me back from the edge of a cliff. I remember holding my phone for hours every day, reading and responding to every message, my eyes swollen, my face wet with tears.

It wasn’t just the flowers, donations, or prayers that sustained me. Sometimes, those human connections were my only proof that I still existed. More than once, I caught myself saying—or maybe just wishing—‘I feel like I could turn to dust and blow away.’

Have you ever had the nightmare where you’re running down an endless hallway, no closer to the end no matter how hard you sprint? It’s confusing, maddening—like walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there. Or losing your train of thought mid-sentence, words evaporating before you can catch them.

The early days of my grief felt like that—a relentless disorientation. Everything was hazy, slippery, and just out of reach, like trying to hold onto water. I would wake up, startled to realize this wasn’t a dream. This was my life now.

And then—a text would arrive. Or my phone would ring. Or 10 more comments would appear in the Facebook thread. Each time someone reached out, it rescued me from that isolating nightmare.

I was sustained by shared humanity—expressions of heartache, sympathy, and empathy. Those messages grounded me, reminding me I was still here, that I mattered, and that I wasn’t alone.

Friends, acquaintances, and colleagues would say: ‘I don’t know what to say, but I care.’ ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m here for you.’ ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from people yet, but I wanted to send you my prayers.’

To every person who reached out: Your words mattered. Your presence mattered. Your gesture mattered. The simple act of reassuring me was a gift beyond measure.

I received flowers and cupcakes, DoorDash gift cards, and a bracelet with beads that spelled out in Morse code: ‘Until we meet again, Tom.’ I haven’t taken it off since. One colleague sent a handmade gift that carried a meaning so profound, I felt seen—truly understood—in my grief. Even people I barely knew reached out with kindness and compassion. Every word, every gesture, every feeling offered was a balm to my shattered heart.

In my grief group, I’ve learned that grief is as unique as a fingerprint. One mother finds comfort in her son’s music, played on repeat at full volume. Another can’t bear to look at photographs. Some find solace in daily visits to their child’s room; others haven’t opened the door since the day they died.

There is no right way. There is only your way.

While I longed for every ping and ring of my phone, my ex-husband—Tom’s dad—wanted to throw his phone into the ocean. The constant refrain of ‘my son is gone, my heart is broken’ was unbearable. My daughter, Tom’s older sister, found solace in her closest, dearest connections. She didn’t want an outpouring; she wanted depth.

Grief comes in waves that are never predictable. Sometimes, I see a picture of Tom, and the sobs come—deep and unrelenting. Sometimes, a memory makes me smile with gratitude for our time together and the blessing of being his mom. And sometimes, I feel a burning rage at the world for moving on without him.

But always, always, I miss him. I long for him.