Living with the Weight of Goodbye: Releasing the Guilt That Was Never Mine

When Dakota passed away, I wasn’t at home. I was at the hospital with my dad, who had suffered a stroke the day before. When the phone call came, my spouse drove me home while I was completely hysterical. In my mind, I was going to fix it. I was going to get home, go to him, and make it all better. That’s what I always did—for him, for everything.

But when we arrived, the police were already there. They wouldn’t let me upstairs to see him—not until the Medical Examiner had done their part. I collapsed on the floor, clinging to my daughter, who couldn’t function in that moment. All she wanted was to know that I wasn’t going to die on her too.

The guilt set in instantly.

It started with, “If those stupid cops had just let me up the stairs, I could’ve saved him.” But that one didn’t last long—I knew, deep down, he had been gone for at least an hour by the time I got there. Saving him was never an option.

Still, the next wave came just as hard:“If I had been home, this wouldn’t have happened.”

That one stayed. Sometimes, it still tries to sneak in. And I have to remind myself—over and over—that the ME told me, sixteen months later, there was nothing anyone could have done.

Then came the avalanche of “what ifs.”

What if I had been a better mother? What if I’d made him go to the doctor? What if I had forced him into rehab earlier? What if I had done anything differently—would he have lived a different life? Would he still be here?

What if I had been harder on him? What if I had been gentler? What if I had locked him away after he was shot in 2016 and never let him back out?

Every sad moment in his life became a scene on repeat in my head—each one screaming that I had failed him.

The night before he died, EMS called me. I told them they had to ask him if he wanted to go to the hospital, because I knew Dakota—if I said he should go, he’d do the opposite. He was stubborn and determined to live life on his own terms. But still, I’ve asked myself a thousand times: Should I have said yes? Should I have told them to bring him to the Foothills Hospital, where I was with my dad?

The answer is: I’ll never know.

Later, the ME explained that the hairline cut in Dakota’s adrenal gland couldn’t have been seen with the naked eye. It took 16 months to find it. Could the hospital have found it sooner? Could they have saved him?

I don’t know. I’ll never know.

And that’s the hardest part—carrying the weight of questions with no answers.

But I’ve been learning to let go of that guilt. To forgive myself, even for the things that were never really mine to carry. I talk to Dakota. He may not be here physically, but I still talk to him. I ask him for forgiveness. I remind myself that I’m not to blame for what happened that night.

Even if I had been home, there would have been no saving him.

It has taken immense strength—and a lot of therapy—to begin releasing that guilt. Some days, it still creeps in, pressing heavy on my heart and mind. But I’ve been doing the work. I’m learning to let go. I’m allowing myself to live in peace and, in doing so, allowing Dakota to rest in peace too.

He never liked seeing me sad. He never liked watching me spiral into self-loathing or rage. He wanted peace and happiness for me—and I owe him that.

So I work at it. Every day. I work to be better and to feel better. For him. For myself. For my daughter. For my granddaughter.

Choosing therapy was one of the hardest but most important decisions I’ve made. I did it for Dakota. I want him to be proud of the woman I’m becoming—the woman who is healing, who is learning to live without the guilt, and who remembers him not just in pain, but in love and laughter.

#boldstepsforward #healingjourney #griefjourney #missmyson #lossofalovedone #lettingogofguilt #findingpeace #findinghappiness #rememberingthem