My Nervous System Never Recovered

A Bereaved Parent's Guide to Bodily Meltdown

November 25, 2020. That date is scorched into my brain. It’s the day the world split in two: the before and the after. It’s the day I crashed to the floor in complete disbelief. The day I looked at my son for the last time and—God help me—I begged him to stop faking. I was convinced, truly, that Dakota was about to sit up and say, “Just kidding, Mom. Gotcha!” Because he never did like following the rules.

But he didn’t. That moment didn’t come. And even now, after a move and a thousand tiny changes meant to help me cope, there’s still a part of me that listens for footsteps and expects the punchline. Spoiler: it never lands.

For a while, I ping-ponged between numbness and gut-wrenching grief. I lived in that sticky fog where time doesn’t work right, where everything tastes like cardboard and nothing makes sense. Then the nights came—the brutal, primal kind. I was on the floor more than in my bed, sobbing, begging the universe to bring him back. Some nights I screamed. Others, I couldn’t make a sound at all. My body was hurting in places grief isn’t supposed to touch… but it did.

When Grief Goes Physical

Here’s what no one tells you about child loss: your body doesn’t just “feel sad.” It shuts down. It revolts. It begins to short-circuit in ways no self-help book or casserole from your well-meaning neighbor can fix.

My immune system tanked. I went from “rarely gets sick” to “walking germ trap.” I was collecting flus, colds, and COVID like it was a twisted bingo game. And menopause? She waltzed in early, dragging along a list of side effects like hot flashes, joint pain, stomach issues, and hair loss like some kind of cursed party favor.

But the real kicker? The dizzy spells. They started with numbness in my face, then crept into my eyes and head until I couldn’t drive. Which is kind of a big deal when you drive for a living.

My doctor ran every test imaginable—neurological, hormonal, cardiac—you name it. And every single one came back… normal. (Because of course they did.) I started to wonder if I was losing my mind on top of everything else.

Enter: The Nervous System Breakdown

Eventually, my doctor prescribed medication to help calm my frazzled nervous system and suggested something wild: therapy. You know, that thing we recommend to others but secretly dread for ourselves. Turns out, letting a licensed human help you grieve and reconnect with yourself? Not the worst idea.

I began to learn that the body keeps score, as the book says. That trauma can live in your nervous system, disrupt your digestion, mess with your memory, and even fast-track menopause. Fun, right? It’s like your body throws its own grief party and forgets to invite your coping mechanisms.

To Anyone Walking This Path

Here’s what I want other bereaved parents to know:

• If your body feels broken, it’s not in your head. (Okay, technically it is—but also in your chest, your gut, your muscles, and your immune system.)

• Your nervous system needs time. And sometimes medication. And probably more naps than society is comfortable admitting.

• You’re not lazy. You’re grieving. And grief is a full-time job that pays in hot flashes and existential dread.

• When people say, “You’re so strong,” it’s okay if you want to reply with, “No, I’m just out of options.”

• And if you’re crying silently with tears sliding down your face and no sound coming out? I see you. I’ve been there. You’re not alone.

  
  

And Still, I Am His Mom

I think about Dakota every single day. That will never change. When people ask how many children I have, the answer is two. A daughter, and a son. Why? Because whether he is physically here or not, I am still his mother. I will always be his mother.

He didn’t like it when I was sad—actually, he’d get mad when I got too down on myself. So I let myself cry, but I also try to laugh again. I live for him, and for the people still here. I love harder, messier, and louder. Because I carry his love with me, in my cells and in my soul.

Menopause is still annoying. The dizzy spells are fewer, but still love to show up uninvited. And grief? It’s quieter now, but always in the room. Like a weird roommate I didn’t choose, but I’ve learned how to live beside.

So if your nervous system never fully recovered either? Welcome to the club no one wants to be in—but I’m glad you’re here. You’re surviving. And that, my friend, is an act of love.