Living with the Weight of Goodbye: Allowing the Goodbyes I Wasn’t Ready For

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned on this journey is that grief has no script. Everyone experiences it differently. Some people heal faster than others. Some don't know what to say, so they say nothing at all. And some grieve quietly, while others need to talk it out. There’s no one right way to mourn.

When we lost Dakota, the world was still in the thick of COVID. Gatherings were restricted, and honestly, even if they hadn’t been, I wasn’t ready to admit he was really gone. No memorial, no service, no life celebration—because planning one would’ve meant facing a truth I wasn’t ready for. It would’ve made everything real. Instead, I clung to denial. I told myself—convinced myself—that he’d come walking through the door one day, laughing, saying he’d been pulling a prank. I dreamed that moment over and over again. I saw his body, but my heart refused to accept it. That denial wrapped itself around me for years.

When the first anniversary of his passing came, others wanted to gather. To reminisce. To celebrate his life. I saw plans being made online and I snapped. I was angry. Angry that anyone would dare to force that reality on me. Angry that it was happening at all without my say-so. I said things I regret. I shut the whole thing down.

A few days later, I was on the phone with a mental health worker. She gently asked me to look at what was really happening. Some people needed closure, and I wasn’t letting them have it because I wasn’t ready. She asked, “Do you think that’s fair?” And then, “Could you maybe have a conversation with them—ask not to be included, but still allow them to grieve in their own way?”

That hit me hard.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my son. So I couldn’t understand why anyone else would be. The anger I felt morphed into guilt—guilt for being selfish, for not letting them mourn how they needed to. After some soul-searching, I reached out to the organizer and asked to be blocked from the posts. I apologized for how I reacted. I told them to go ahead with their gathering, even though it broke my heart. I cried for days afterward.

I saw a few photos of that celebration. They were smiling. Laughing. It hurt—but not because they were happy. It hurt because they were moving forward, and I was stuck. Was it jealousy? Maybe. I honestly still don’t know.

Later, when I finally felt ready to plan a life celebration myself, not everyone came. That stung. It took a long time to understand why I felt so hurt. But the truth was, most of them had already said their goodbyes in their own way. They had their moment. They didn’t need mine.

If I’m being honest, I carried that anger for a long time. Until recently, in fact.

The truth is, the celebration I eventually planned—outdoors in the summer, surrounded by people who loved him—was more for me than for Dakota. I tried to make it something he would’ve liked: a park, sunshine, a shot of his favorite drink. I wanted it to feel like him. I even tried to make a toast in his honor—and I’ll be honest, I don’t think I did it justice. It was short. It didn’t say what I wanted it to. What I needed it to.

I had this idea in my head that I would make him proud. And I don’t think I did. Not yet.

But one day, when I’m truly ready, I’ll try again. I’ll celebrate him the way he deserves. I’ll speak the words I couldn’t say before. I’ll tell him how proud I was—and still am—of the man he became.

Because love like that doesn’t end. And neither does grief. We just learn how to carry it better.

#boldstepsforward #griefjourney #missmyson #lossofalovedone #sayinggoodbye #letthem