There have been so many times over the past few months when I’ve picked up my phone because I wanted to text someone…

…and then put it back down.

Not because I don’t have people who love me.

I do.

I have family who has carried us through impossible days. Friends who have prayed for us, checked in on us, cried with us, and continued to love us so well. I honestly don’t know how we would’ve made it through these last few months without them.

The problem has never been a lack of love.

I’ve simply discovered there’s another layer to grief I didn’t know existed.

Sometimes I just don’t know who would understand what I’m actually trying to say.

How do you explain that the hardest part of today wasn’t anything that happened…

It was everything that didn’t.

It was imagining telling Austin to keep an eye on his little brother while I ran to grab my shoes.

It was wondering what two little boys would be getting into this afternoon.

It was missing all the ordinary tomorrows I thought we’d have.

Those aren’t dramatic moments.

They’re quiet ones.

The kind that sneak up on you while you’re folding laundry, loading Austin into the car, or wandering the aisles at Costco.

The unseen moments of grief.

A few weeks ago, I joked with my therapist that I probably needed to make the world’s most awkward Facebook post.

Or maybe a dating profile.

Looking for another grieving mom.

Must enjoy coffee.

Bonus points if I don’t have to spend an hour explaining my story before you understand why today feels heavy.

If interested…DM me.

We laughed.

Then I closed my laptop and realized…

I wasn’t really joking.

Because where do you find those people?

Everyone tells you not to isolate yourself.

I think that’s good advice.

What no one really tells you is what comes next.

If you know me, you know exactly what happened next.

I researched every support group I could find.

I’m a researcher. Show me the facts. Let me compare the options. I want to know what’s worked, what’s been tested, and what people actually thought. I probably spent more time researching support groups than actually joining one.

I compared them.

Read about them.

Wondered which one would be the right fit.

Closed my laptop.

Opened it again.

Closed it again.

Eventually, I joined one online.

I introduced myself.

People responded so kindly.

And then…

I disappeared.

For weeks.

When I finally went back and read their responses, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Apparently grief can make even an extrovert ghost an entire support group.

The truth is, it wasn’t because I didn’t want connection.

It was because even connection felt overwhelming.

Somewhere along the way, I realized these are two different things.

Being deeply loved…

and being deeply understood.

The people in my life have loved me unbelievably well.

I’ve simply learned that some parts of grief are difficult to explain unless someone has walked a similar road.

It’s almost like grief introduces you to a language you never wanted to learn.

The people who love us didn’t fail some kind of test.

They’ve just never had to speak this language.

And sometimes I don’t even know how to translate what I’m feeling.

There’s something healing about not having to translate your heart before someone understands it.

Maybe that’s why I keep writing.

Part of me hopes another grieving parent reads these words and feels a little less alone.

Another part hopes the people who are walking beside someone who is grieving leave with a little more understanding of the quiet moments that often go unseen.

Because grief isn’t only found in hospital rooms or cemeteries.

Sometimes it’s found in the middle of folding laundry.

Or walking through Costco.

Or imagining a conversation between two brothers that only happened for nineteen precious minutes here on earth…and in all the ordinary tomorrows you imagined afterward.

Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for.

Not someone who can fix our grief.

Just someone who reminds us we aren’t carrying it alone.

So maybe this isn’t just another blog post after all.

Maybe this is the message I kept picking up my phone to write.

Maybe this really is my awkward Facebook ad.

And if you’re reading this quietly thinking,

“I’ve been looking for someone who understands too…”

Hi.

I’ve been looking for you too.