Today marks ten months since Tom died. 304 days faced with the same harsh truth: nothing I do or say, no force of will or amount of love will bring him back.

I used to tell my kids: “As long as no one is born or dies, everything can be fixed, and I will have your back. Don’t be afraid to live, but make good decisions.” It was my way of reminding them that most problems have solutions. That we are never truly stuck.

I wanted them to feel brave and capable, to understand what’s within their control, and to avoid the big, unfixable mistakes.

I told them:
If I changed jobs and hated it, I could change jobs again.
If I moved to a new city and didn’t feel at home there, I could move again.
If I spent 30 years building a career and then decided I wanted to change course or try something new, I absolutely could.
If I were in a relationship that wasn’t working, I could leave it.

I advised them: Not all of these things are easy to fix. Some might shake our world, break our heart, or cost a fortune. But all of them are fixable.

My son died. He did the unfixable.

It’s a reality I can’t bargain with, can’t undo, can’t fix. No amount of effort, willpower, money, or tears can bring his actual, physical smile back into the world.

And every time I bump up against that reality—in my mind or my day-to-day life—it crashes over me again with excruciating finality.

I can’t call him.
He won’t visit.
I can only hear his voice in recordings and see his smile in photos and daydreams.

The weight of this grief lingers and aches in a maddening, unquenchable way.
It is a heavy weight that I have no choice but to carry.

So here I am, 304 days into my grief, wiser in the ways of helplessness and stronger for carrying the unbearable.

So, how much does the unfixable weigh?

It weighs as much as absence.
As much as visits home that won’t be made.
As much as a sister’s wedding he won’t attend.
As much as dozens of friends who miss his impact.

It weighs as much as every unsaid word.
As much as all the art he created.
And the art he never got to make.

It weighs as much as every instinct I have to text him.
Every wish to hear his voice.
Every adventure we took together and never will again.

It weighs more than every problem I ever thought was heavy.
More than any mistake I ever made.
More than any decision I thought was permanent.

There is a weight to knowing there is no second chance.
No way to go back.

It’s the weight of the unbearable and unchangeable, of absence and longing, of love that never disappears, of Tom’s unfinished life.

The unfixable weighs as much as 304 days without him.