What No One Tells You About Child Loss (Until You're Living It)

There’s a lot of silence around child loss. People don’t talk about it unless they have to—unless they’re in it. And even then, the words are hard to find. The truth is, no one tells you the whole truth about losing a child. Maybe because they can’t. Maybe because it’s too big, too cruel, too devastating to put into a tidy little package with a “thoughts and prayers” bow.

But since we’re here—since I’m living it—I’ll say the things I wish someone had said to me. Not because they would’ve softened the blow (they wouldn’t), but because sometimes it helps to know you’re not the only one crashing around in this strange, silent aftermath.

1. Your brain breaks.

I don’t mean you're forgetful or foggy. I mean your entire nervous system rewires itself in the worst way. You forget appointments, lose words mid-sentence, and cry in the grocery store because you forgot how to shop without them. You’ll walk into a room and forget what you were doing. You’ll repeat yourself. You’ll think you're losing your mind. You're not. You're grieving. But the brain doesn’t care about technicalities—it just short-circuits.

2. Your body grieves too.

This part no one talks about enough. The headaches, the heart palpitations, the insomnia, the chest pain that feels like someone is physically sitting on you. You might catch every virus that comes around (I personally have had COVID twice). Your hair may fall out. Your joints ache. It can bring about blood pressure changes and wreak havoc on your entire system. It can even trigger major life changes—like menopause. And all of this while people tell you to “take care of yourself.” As if a smoothie and a nap will fix your broken biology.

3. People disappear.

Even the ones you thought would stay. Sometimes they mean well. Sometimes they just don’t know what to say. And sometimes your pain makes them too uncomfortable to stay close. You’ll start to hear a lot of awkward silences and phrases like, “Let me know if you need anything,” or “How are you doing?”—and then not hear anything more. You’ll learn that grief is a great relationship sorter.

4. You'll get tired of being inspirational.

You’ll hear “You’re so strong” and “I don’t know how you do it” more times than you can count. And sure, strength is admirable. But some days, you’re not strong. You’re just breathing. You’re showing up, one painful minute at a time. You’re holding it together with duct tape and sarcasm. You didn’t choose to be strong—and frankly, you don’t want to be strong—you just weren’t given any other option.

5. There is no timeline.

Grief doesn’t come with an expiry date. There is no “healing stage” where you graduate and everything feels better. What actually happens is you learn how to carry it. Some days it’s a stone in your pocket. Some days it’s an entire mountain on your back. But the weight never truly leaves—it just shifts.

We are nearing five years since losing Dakota, and I still have health changes, memory loss, confusion, and emotional roller coasters. Some days, it feels like it was almost five years ago. And some days, it feels like it’s just happening all over again.

6. The world keeps moving (and it’s jarring).

People go back to work, school, errands, brunches. Meanwhile, you’re still standing in the ruins, looking around like, “Did nobody else notice the world just ended?” You feel like a ghost in your own life. And eventually, you’ll learn to move with the world again—but it takes time. And effort. And a hell of a lot of grace for yourself.

7. You’ll become fluent in your child’s absence.

You’ll learn how to answer “How many kids do you have?” without breaking down (most of the time). You’ll figure out how to fold their memory into your life without unraveling every time. You’ll collect little rituals, stories, and sacred routines that let them live on through you—even when the world wants to forget. You’ll become a walking archive of love and loss.

8. You will laugh again.

It sounds impossible, I know. But one day, something absurd will happen—you’ll trip over your own feet, or something that would’ve triggered their sense of humor will unfold—and you’ll laugh. And then you’ll cry, because you laughed. And then you’ll realize both things can exist together now. That joy and sorrow aren’t opposites—they’re companions.

If you’ve experienced the loss of a child, I see you.If you haven’t, and you're reading this because someone in your life has—thank you. Just... keep showing up. Say their child’s name. Don’t try to fix anything. Let it be messy. Let it be human.

Because what no one tells you about child loss is that you’re still living. Still breathing. Still putting one foot in front of the other, even when your heart is missing a piece.

And that? That’s something.