Dear Bereaved Parent

First, let me say—I’m so sorry you’re here. I wish more than anything that you weren’t reading this, that your child was still with you, and that this grief wasn’t yours to carry. But here we are, in a place none of us ever imagined we’d be.

It’s been four and a half years for me, and I still vividly remember those early days. When the world felt like it had shattered in an instant. When everything around me looked different—what I saw, what I heard, what I felt… even how I breathed. There’s a kind of darkness that wraps itself around your heart, and for a while, it’s hard to imagine how you’ll ever feel anything but that ache.

There were moments I begged the universe to rewind time. I’d sit in his room, gripping anything that reminded me of him—his hoodie, his favorite music, photos that suddenly felt too few—and pray this was just some horrible mistake. That somehow, I’d wake up and he’d still be here. That the phone would ring, or the door would open, and life would go back to the way it was before everything changed. But that day never came. Not then, not now.

The shock is unbearable at first, and when it starts to fade, the grief pours in. Guilt shows up, too. “How did I let this happen?” “What did I miss?” Then anger joins the party. “Why my child?” “Why this way?” “Why was I left behind?” You’ll want someone to blame, but the truth is, this pain doesn’t follow rules or logic. It’s senseless. It’s cruel. It changes everything.

Grief like this isn’t just emotional—it’s physical. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop the spiral. Everything became a trigger. Music. Movies. The scent of their favorite snack. I had to edit the entire world just to survive. And still, some days, it felt like survival was too much.

You might feel like you’re going crazy. You’re not. I promise, you’re grieving. That “out of control” feeling? It’s part of the process. As unfair and brutal as it is, this grief is now part of your life, and it takes time to figure out how to live with it.

One thing I wish someone had told me earlier: not everyone will understand. Some people will say the wrong thing. Some will disappear entirely. And yes, someone with living children might look at you and say, “I know how you feel.” You may feel the sudden urge to scream. Resist. Or don’t. (But maybe don’t destroy the friendship unless it really deserves it.) Most people mean well, but they just don’t get it. They can’t. Unless they’ve walked this road, they can’t know how much it hurts to simply keep existing.

You might find comfort in unexpected places. For me, support came from strangers online—other grieving parents who didn’t try to fix me, but just sat with me in the mess. It helped. It still does. You’re not alone, even if it feels that way right now.

You might lose pieces of yourself. I did. Even with other children to care for, I felt like I lost a huge part of who I was. Trying to find yourself again? That’s a whole journey on its own—and I’m still on it. So please, be patient with yourself. Allow the off days. Or weeks. Or months. Let grief be what it needs to be. You don’t have to justify it. You don’t have to rush it. You just have to be honest about where you are.

This experience will change you. In ways you expect, and in ways you won’t see coming. There may be sacrifices—relationships, routines, even parts of your identity. Accept them for what they are, and keep moving forward, one small bold step at a time.

Most importantly, you are not broken. You are grieving. What you’re feeling is not madness—it’s a response to the most unnatural thing a parent can endure. And although this road is unspeakably hard, your child is still with you. In your heart. In your thoughts. In the space around you. That part—however bittersweet—is real.

You didn’t choose this path, but now you’re walking it. And you're not walking it alone.

All my love,

Tammy(Still a mom. Always a mom.)