Updated October 17, 2025
Mostly, this blog is about things I want to learn — exciting lessons, the ones that get you out of bed in the morning, fired up for whatever’s coming next.
But there are other lessons. Lessons no one signs up for, but that life enrolls us in anyway.
Today marks the 21st anniversary of my mother’s passing.
In the two decades that separate that day from this one, I’ve come to what I think are some fundamental truths about grief and about living with those who are grieving.
It is okay to hurt.
This one probably seems self-evident. Of course grief hurts. It hurts in ways that catch your breath, that feel like an icicle has grown in your gut, that sometimes you think you will never, ever be okay again.
But the truth is, loss hurts in other ways, too. I remember reading somewhere that grief can feel like the ocean and being in it can feel like being pounded relentlessly by an unending surf. But loss can also feel like a soft sorrow, a swimming pool of sadness that’s just as real as the hard grief, just as capable of surrounding you, but with a distinct quality all its own.
Seven thousand, six hundred and seventy days have elapsed since my mother died. I can assure you that not a single one of them went by that I didn’t miss her. That day will never come.
Fifty years ago, my mom — accompanied by her own mother — went on a spring break trip to Europe with her French club. Mom and I talked repeatedly about going to France together, a trip we didn’t get the chance to take.
But this fall, I found myself there — walking through France on a wonderful, beautiful trip with people I deeply enjoy. Inside all the wonder and excitement was this: I missed my mother. Every day. Sorrow doesn’t stay quietly at home; it travels where you go.
And if you are missing someone, if you are hurting in their absence, know this: it is okay to hurt.
It is okay to be happy.
I am a happy person. Truly. I have a wonderful life that I love. It’s an odd thing, really, to be joyful but also recognize that I carry sorrow in my heart. I’ve tried to explain it this way: I AM happy. I HAVE sadness. They’re both true.
The real challenge of this truth is that some of the joy I find in life is not DESPITE my mother’s death. There are good and beautiful things in my life that exist only because of it. That’s not to say it’s a trade I’d have willingly made, but I do recognize the irony.
For example, I have a wonderful stepmother — bonus mom is actually the preferred nomenclature around these parts. Her counsel is invaluable, her kind heart and quick laughter a joy to everyone around her. With her came a little sister, then a brother-in-law, then the world’s greatest niece and nephew. New traditions have been forged, new reasons to celebrate, new inside jokes to share. They aren’t replacements for the family that existed before. They’re simply the new normal — and it’s a very, very good one.
Being happy doesn’t mean you don’t love the person you lost.
It is okay to be happy.
If you’re not yourself grieving, you may wonder what you can do to help support the people in your life who are.
Show up.
Sometimes, this one seems easy. We call at the house. We bring food. We go to the funeral. And when we’re done doing all of that, we go home or we go to work or the grocery store or any of the other normal places people go.
But grieving people go home to start new lives that look nothing like the life they knew just days before.
So, show up. Show up in a week, in a month, in a year, in a decade. Check in. Hug. Tell them you love them.
You do not have to know the right words to say to be someone who shows up. You don’t have to say anything at all. You can just be there, and your presence and your help will say everything that needs saying.
I found myself having a good cry in the middle of Notre Dame when a friend put an arm around me and said, “I’ve got you.” Sometimes that’s all we need, to know that someone has us when it hurts.
Show up.
Remember.
This one is, in many ways, just a continuation of showing up. If you knew the person they’re missing — especially if you also miss them — remember that person. Out loud, or in writing. It is a great comfort to me when someone recalls something they loved about my mom. It reassures me that I am not alone, that my family is not alone, in missing her.
We hesitate to bring up memories of someone who has passed for fear that we’ll make a grieving person sad. In my experience, that fear is unwarranted. The person they’ve lost is never far from their thoughts, especially during holidays or other important dates.
Remember.
You may find your journey through grief looks different from my own. Loss is deeply personal. My hope for you is that when life enrolls you in its hardest lessons, your weeping will again turn to dancing, that you will once more find yourself clothed with joy.