You're Not Losing Your Mind. You're Grieving.

A letter for grieving parents, Oct 28, 2026

You're not losing your mind. You've lost a child. You're not crazy. You're grieving. And it's a process that nothing and no one can adequately prepare you for.

When you're sitting awake at 2am, worried about how your parenting journey has shifted, surviving something you can't imagine living through and yet you are, this letter is for you.

Nobody thought to tell you that it's normal not to remember where you put your car keys. It's normal to feel phantom kicks, to swear you heard their little voice on the wind, to think you saw them in a crowd. Your brain is searching for an answer to the ultimate question of death. Or it's the moment you reach down to move your other children's shoes and you recognize that you'll never get to move their shoes again. And you can't help but cry.

And then there are the moments when you're ambushed by the staccato of grief bullets: the grocery store clerk asking how many children you have, the song that played at their funeral coming up on your playlist, the walk down the same familiar hospital corridor to visit a sick family member ten months later.

Your body longs for your child, and always will. There's a sense that something is missing from you when your child dies, and it's true. Your body has been deprived of the ability to carry your genes forward, and it longs for the natural order to return: that you die before your child does, that they live on with your legacy. There's a true exhaustion that comes with grief, too. A tired like no other. When you're struggling to get out of bed, when your body aches, know that this is the physical weight of grief. You're doing just fine. There is no perfect blueprint or timeline for this.

Maybe a few months after the funeral, you found yourself laughing at a sitcom and then felt a terrible, gut-wrenching sense of shame. You can't be happy when your child is dead. Joy isn't supposed to be possible. Aren't you supposed to be like the grieving Victorian mothers of old, wearing full black ensembles until you could shift your wardrobe to light gray or lavender to signal your loss to the rest of the world? Wouldn't it somehow feel easier if you could wear a badge that said, "My child died. I can't talk about it right now. Treat me gently."

Your laughter is part of the grieving process, too. Perhaps we've always shown grieving parents as 'stuck' in their loss, and idolized that 'stuckness' as devotion in our society. I'm here to tell you that doesn't have to be your entire life after your child dies. You are allowed the freedom to live again. Even when it's uncertain. Even when you don't know what direction you are headed towards.

Maybe you've noticed a shift in your friendships. All of a sudden, people aren't checking in like they used to. Or your friends with living children stopped inviting you to birthday parties and playdates at the park, as if that would remind you of all you've lost.

Maybe you've talked out loud to your baby and realized that people who haven't lived through this loss wouldn't get it.

Maybe you've wanted to rail against pregnant women who complain about "another pregnancy," as if it's easy and guaranteed.

Maybe you've sat thinking about being dead, because then at least you'd be with them again. If you start to fantasize about ending your life or planning to do so, I urge you to call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Someone is there 24/7, every day of the year. You don't have to be alone with those thoughts.

You've looked on as parents gleefully post life updates online, with their children reaching milestones yours never will.

There will never be another first day of school. Your child won't get to drive at sixteen. They won't get married. They won't have their own children. You won't be able to field a call from them at 2am asking for help soothing a crying baby. You won't get to share those moments with them.

You've felt the shame of being so angry at the world, with nowhere for that anger to go. And your incandescent rage makes sense. The world keeps turning, and you're still here. Somehow.

All of this is happening because the death of a child rends the very fabric of your life, your faith, even what you knew to be certain, straight down the middle. Your loss is immense. It is lonely. It is isolating. And it is very real.

Who am I? I'm a mom of five children, four of whom are in Heaven and one earthside. I know what it's like because I am you. I'm also a therapist for grieving parents, so when I say I've heard it all, I really believe I have. I get it. You don't want to be here, reading this. And I wish your child's death hadn't happened either. Regardless, I'm here if you need me.

I know you may not be able to hear this yet, but someday it won't feel this big. Or maybe your life will have grown in around it. There will be intense sadness and immense joy. Your life, your child's impact on the world, and your parenthood journey don't end here. They are felt through the echoes of eternity.

You are a good parent. I believe in you. Keep going.

— Megan

If you'd like to hear from me again, I write letters like this to grieving parents now and then. You can join my list here, and you can leave anytime. And if today you only needed to read this and close the tab, that's enough too.

Faith and Child Loss: What Changes About Our Spirituality and Relationship to a Higher Power When Our Child Dies?

When the landslide of child loss impacts the ground underneath your feet, your relationship with religion, spirituality, certainty and a higher power also may shift radically. When a child dies, people expect the crying, the exhaustion, the unbearable quiet of an empty bedroom. What they don't expect is how far down the loss can reach. It can shake the foundation of what you believe about God, the universe, and whether any of it means anything at all.

In my therapy office, grieving parents often say things that they feel they cannot express anywhere else. They shudder and whisper hesitantly, "I'm not sure I believe in a God anymore." or "I prayed every day for a miracle and I didn't get one." or "Yeah, sure, I think God's real, but I don't think He's all powerful."

After years of sitting with grieving parents, I've noticed that their spiritual pain tends to gather around four struggles:

1. Wrestling with an all-powerful God who didn't stop it

2. No longer fitting into the faith community that used to feel like home

3. Questioning whether God is actually good

4. Wondering what their purpose is now

   
   

This post is for parents of every spiritual background: devout, doubting, done with religion, or somewhere you don't have words for yet. I'm not here to tell you what to believe. I'm here to help you make sense of what's happening to your beliefs, and to tell you that you are not failing at faith, or at grief.

A moment with my rainbow baby at the beach. If you had told me in year one of grieving that I would feel this happy again, I would have never believed you. <3

A lens for the journey: the five gates of grief

Before we jump into the struggles I see most frequently, I'd like to offer you a framework that has helped many of my clients (and myself) work through grief and its impact on spirituality. Francis Weller, a psychotherapist and the author of The Wild Edge of Sorrow, sees grief not as a problem to solve, but as a process to honor, a sacred, gritty work that deepens us and connects us more intimately to those we have loved and lost. Grief, in my opinion, is the one human experience that all of us share. Sure, there are different types of loss, but every human, if you live and love long enough, will lose someone or something that is deeply meaningful to them.

In Weller's book, he names five 'gates of grief', where grief enters our lives:

1. Everything we love, we will lose. The grief that comes from loving anything or anyone at all. The impermanence of everything.

2. The places that have not known love. The parts of ourselves we've hidden or felt ashamed of.

3. The sorrows of the world. Collective grief, and the losses we carry together.

4. What we expected and did not receive. The life, the protection, and the future we assumed we'd have.

5. Ancestral grief and the grief we carry for others. The sorrow, beliefs, and unfinished losses handed down through our families and cultures.

Here's why this matters for bereaved parents: the death of a child rarely comes through just one gate. It often blows several open at once, and the spiritual gates are rarely bypassed. As we walk through each struggle below, I'll point out which gates tend to be involved. Naming the gate doesn't take the pain away. But it can help you understand why this hurts so intensely and in so many ways at once.

Struggle #1: "God could have stopped this. Why didn't He?"

This is question that I hear the most, and it is a sharp one with jagged, raw edges.

If you were raised to believe that God is 'omnipotent' or all-powerful, that belief becomes intensely painful and disappointing in the wake of death of your child. It doesn't disappear. Instead, your religion becomes contradictory to your personal experience. If God could have healed the cancer, stopped the car, or woken them up in time, then it can start to feel like God chose not to.

Alongside this question, parents often start bargaining with the past: Did I not pray hard enough? Was I not faithful enough? Is this punishment for something I did? These thoughts are brutal, and incredibly common. They're the mind's attempt to find a 'why', because a reason, even a terrible one, can feel more bearable than randomness. Randomness evokes our basest fears of being out of control. And I haven't met a human yet who liked the idea of chaos.

This is Weller's first gate at its rawest: everything we love, we will lose. Somewhere in the back of their mind, every parent knows that bringing a child into this world and loving them means risking this. But most of us also believed, consciously or not, that God, or our own fortitude and protection, would stand between our child and the worst outcomes. When that belief breaks, you're grieving your child and the God you thought was guarding them. And you're wrestling with your own humanness that could not make the outcome of your child's life and death any different.

If you're angry at God, you may have been taught that the anger itself is a sin. In my experience, it usually means the relationship still matters to you, since people rarely stay furious at a God they've stopped believing in. Scripture has plenty of room for this, too. Roughly a third of the Psalms are laments, full of complaint, protest, and demands for answers, and Job spends most of his book in the Bible arguing with God.

Other faiths make room for this as well. Judaism has a long tradition of arguing with God, sometimes called chutzpah toward heaven. In Hindu bhakti (devotional) traditions, the relationship with a deity like Krishna, Rama, or Shiva can be close enough to hold longing, pleading, and criticism. People of many faiths have been bringing their fury to God for a very long time.

Struggle #2: "I don't fit in at church anymore"

For a lot of bereaved parents, some of the deepest spiritual wounds come from the congregation and behind the pulpit rather than from a Higher Power itself.

I hear from parents who sit in the church parking lot and can't make themselves go in, or who make it inside and find themselves weeping through every hymn, or who slip out before the final prayer so they don't have to face the lobby. A place that used to feel like home can start to feel foreign, sometimes even hostile.

Part of that comes from what people say. Nearly every bereaved parent has a list of the utter bullshit, trite, tacky stuff people say:

• "Everything happens for a reason."

• "God needed another angel."

• "God won't give you more than you can handle."

• "At least they're in a better place."

  
  

Most people mean well when they say these things. Your loss also scares them, and a tidy explanation, delivered in a one sentence quip, helps them feel safer. But to a grieving parent, these words can land like a slap in the face: your child's death was necessary, your pain is a lack of faith, and your questions aren't welcome here. Clinicians call this spiritual bypassing, using spiritual language to skip over pain instead of being present with it.

Parents also tell me they feel like a walking reminder of everyone's worst fear. We live in a society that struggles to accept that sometimes children die. And there is no reason, no purpose, behind death of a child.

Others describe feeling rushed toward "healing" or being asked to share a testimony of God's faithfulness long before they have one. I want you to hear me clearly: you owe no one, no congregation, no community, a 'testimony' that invokes the death of your child. You get to choose what meaning, if any, your grief and loss hold.

Through the third gate, the sorrows of the world, Weller reminds us that grief was never meant to be carried alone. In many traditional cultures, the whole village grieved together through ritual. Many modern congregations and communities simply don't have those rituals anymore. They're good at casseroles in the first two weeks, and far less practiced at sitting with a mother in year three, when her child's name hasn't been uttered by anyone except her in 389 days.

The third gate connects us to the collective grief all over the world. How often have you been around someone who said something to you like, "If my child died, I wouldn't be able to go on."? After being a grieving mother for 8 years now and accompanying many grieving parents in their own lives in my practice, I can honestly say, “There are people all around us that are walking and upright and wounded. They’re doing the supposed impossible everyday.”

Make no mistake: grief touches us all. Everything we love, we will lose. Be grateful you don’t know what it’s like to have a child die before you. And don’t mistake a life continued as a lack of devotion. It’s an act of pure determination and love to keep going. And grieving parents have been doing it since the dawn of time. From the ruins of Rome to the prairies in the Midwest to the Gaza Strip, parents everywhere have held a child in their arms and wept, and kept going.

The second gate, the places that have not known love, reveals itself here too. When your faith community can't hold your grief, it's easy to conclude that the grieving, doubting part of you is unacceptable, and therefore, unlovable. That shame can drive you further into isolation.

Stepping back for a while from a church or faith community is okay, especially from spaces that ask you to perform a more 'perfect' grief, either consciously and unconsciously. Some parents find their way back later, and some end up in a different space altogether. Either way, it's worth looking for the people, whether a pastor, a chaplain, a friend, or another bereaved parent, who can sit with your confusion and distress without rushing, and who will bear witness to your child's life and death with grace and patience.

Struggle #3: "Is God even good?"

This struggle sounds like the first one, but it goes deeper. The first question is about power: could God have stopped it? This one is about character: is God who I thought He was? (of course, apply this to whomever you believe your higher power to be)

Many parents I work with haven't stopped believing in God. What they've lost is trust. They describe the relationship the way you might describe a marriage after a betrayal. They're still in it, but they're guarded and not sure they can ever feel safe there again. "God is good, all the time" used to be a comfort. Now, it rings hollow.

This is Weller's fourth gate: what we expected and did not receive. Many of us carried an unspoken agreement with God. If I love You, serve You, and raise my children to know You, You'll keep them safe. When that protection didn't come, many parents find they're grieving their child and also the God they believed had made them a promise.

I actually found a meaningful quote I'd like to share from a romance novel about this very issue. It's from the book "For Whom the Belle Tolls," and it's about a woman who dies of cancer in her early thirties and ends up in the afterlife at a help desk, managing souls that are being brought in for 'rehabilitation'. (it is a spicy romance, so I'm letting y'all know this here, so you aren't shocked.) Here it is: “Have you ever expected something and then suddenly had it yanked away from you? Or realized that it was never actually going to happen, and you’d been lying to yourself the whole time? It’s a shitty feeling.”

This is a shitty feeling, to question the promised holiness and goodness of your Most High, and to feel bad for feeling bad. What I want you to know is that your understanding of God and religion can shift over time, and you can still be a good person. You can wrestle with the characterization of God/your Higher Power, and still be spiritually led. You can mourn your child and your naivete and innocence that will never exist again.

The fifth gate, ancestral grief, is often part of this too. Most of us inherited our theology from parents, grandparents, and the churches/synagogues/temples/mosques we grew up in. Some of the informal credos, like God rewards the faithful or suffering is always part of a lesson, were never tested against something like this. When those beliefs crack, it can feel like losing a piece of your family's legacy along with them.

From where I sit, faith after child loss moves in many directions. For some parents, it deepens and becomes a lifeline. For others, it fractures, or goes silent for a long season. Some leave religion entirely. Many slowly rebuild something different, usually less certain than before and more comfortable with mystery. I don't think any of these is the wrong place to be, and there's no deadline for working out what you believe. Seriously. You're never out of time, until you're out of time. Am I right?

Struggle #4: "What's my purpose now?"

For many parents, raising their child was the purpose, or at least the center of it. The school runs, the doctor appointments, the future you were building toward: graduations, weddings, grandchildren. When your child dies, you lose them, and you also lose the role you were living and the future you were building toward.

Often, parents describe waking up with no idea what the day is for. They question whether anything they do matters. Some who used to believe in an eternal plan for their life now wonder whether there's any roadmap at all.

This is the fourth gate again, from a different angle: the life you expected and did not receive. Not only the future you imagined for your child, but the future you imagined for yourself as their parent.

I want to be careful here, because grieving parents often get pushed toward purpose too fast. People say things like "Maybe you'll start a foundation" or "Maybe God will use this." Many parents do find meaning eventually, but it tends to come slowly and on its own terms, and it never makes the loss worth it.

What I've seen help is letting purpose grow out of your love for your child rather than trying to replace it. Grief researchers call this continuing bonds, the ongoing relationship we keep with people who have died. It might look like saying your child's name, keeping rituals, celebrating milestones, carrying their values forward, or simply continuing to talk to them. Over time, that ongoing love can become part of your purpose, because you are still their parent. Forever.

One important note: if "I don't have a purpose" has started to sound like "I don't want to be here," please reach out to the National Mental Health Hotline today. Call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or tell someone you trust. That thought deserves immediate presence and care.

What Actually Helps

There's no perfect formula for spiritual healing after child loss. But here's what I've seen make a real difference for the parents I work with:

1. Give yourself permission not to know. You don't have to decide what you believe this month, or this year. Plenty of folks live with not knowing for a long time. Honestly, true spirituality is recognizing that we may never know and that being able to sit with uncertainty makes you a more spiritually mature human being.

2. Practice Radical Acceptance. Radical acceptance is a skill from Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT), developed by Marsha Linehan. It means acknowledging reality as it is, fully, including the parts you would give anything to change. In DBT, acceptance and approval are separate things; you can accept that your child has died while still hating that it happened and wishing with everything in you that it were different. The aim is to stop spending your limited energy fighting the fact itself, so more of your capacity is available for getting through today. Many parents find that radical acceptance reaches toward the future too. You can accept that right now you can't see how life will hold meaning again, and still keep some faith, in God or in something larger, that it might. Some parents put it to themselves simply: This happened. I don't understand it, and I can still take the next step. Like any skill, it takes practice, and most people have to choose it again and again, sometimes several times in one day.

3. Say the hard questions out loud. Spiritual pain that stays secret tends to turn into shame. Try writing your own lament. Name what happened, say what you feel, and ask what you need to ask. It doesn't need a neat and tidy ending. You can also bring these questions to prayer, a journal, or your therapist.

4. Find spiritual companions who can handle doubt. Look for a pastor, chaplain, spiritual director, or faith leader who responds to your questions with presence instead of platitudes. Hospital and hospice chaplains are often especially skilled at this.

5. Create small grief rituals. In the spirit of Weller's work, ritual gives grief somewhere to go. Light a candle on hard days. Visit a meaningful place. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on purpose, alone or with people who love your child too.

6. Spend time outside. Many parents tell me they feel closest to God, or to their child, outdoors, in places where they don't have to explain anything to anyone. Nature offers a kind of presence that asks nothing of you. The trees keep growing and the seasons keep turning, with loss woven into all of it, and some parents find that strangely comforting. Remember that old quote that all the girlies post each fall, "The trees remind us in the fall the gift of letting go." I mean, there you go.

   There's research behind this too: in one Stanford study, a 90-minute walk in a natural setting reduced rumination, the repetitive looping thoughts that grief so often brings. You might sit by water, walk a familiar trail, plant something in your child's memory, or simply stop to notice the sky on your way to the car.

7. If you're in a relationship, expect to land in different places at different times throught the journey. One of you may cling to faith while the other walks away from it. That's normal. Get curious instead of trying to convince each other. Shared rituals can connect you even when your beliefs don't match.

8. Work with a grief-informed therapist. A good therapist won't push you toward faith or away from it. They'll help you carry the questions, process the trauma of the loss, and make room for whatever meaning you eventually find. They will also help you expand your definitions of spirituality and give you unconditional positive regard, which often feels like it is missing from faith communities.

You're allowed to wrestle

Whatever is happening to your faith right now, whether it's holding, cracking, or has gone quiet, it makes sense to me. You loved your child with everything you had, and a loss that size is going to move the ground under what you believe.

There's no need to rush toward answers or to protect anyone's comfort, God's reputation included. Take the time you need, and be as honest as you can along the way.

With you in it,

Megan

If you're having thoughts of ending your life, please call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

References

Bratman, G. N., Hamilton, J. P., Hahn, K. S., Daily, G. C., & Gross, J. J. (2015). Nature experience reduces rumination and subgenual prefrontal cortex activation. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 112(28), 8567–8572. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1510459112

Brueggemann, W. (1984). The message of the Psalms: A theological commentary. Augsburg.

Hawley, J. S., & Juergensmeyer, M. (1988). Songs of the saints of India. Oxford University Press.

Klass, D., Silverman, P. R., & Nickman, S. L. (Eds.). (1996). Continuing bonds: New understandings of grief. Taylor & Francis.

Laytner, A. H. (1990). Arguing with God: A Jewish tradition. Jason Aronson.

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. (n.d.). 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. https://988lifeline.org

Weller, F. (2015). The wild edge of sorrow: Rituals of renewal and the sacred work of grief. North Atlantic Books.

Welwood, J. (1984). Principles of inner work: Psychological and spiritual. The Journal of Transpersonal Psychology, 16(1), 63–73.

What Relationship Fantasies Do You Need to Let Go Of?

Have you ever uttered the words during a conflict, "I can't believe I have to ask for this from you AGAIN,"? Do you recall the moment you realized your partner won't be able to make you feel okay every time there's a fight and then a repair between the two of you? Were you deeply disappointed to recognize that you won't be able to always get agreement from your spouse about something you care about?

Ahhh, yes, well, welcome to the in-your-face moment where you have to release your fantasies about what relationships are 'supposed' to be like. Or you can keep holding onto the imaginary world where you can receive all of your wants, desires, safety and freedom and love from your relationship without any push back, problems or resentment popping up.

Fantasies Keep Us Stuck

Here's the problem: fantasies keep us stuck. They get us wrapped up in our imagination and help us avoid reality. Are you ready for a hard truth? Okay, here it is... you cannot have the relationship you dream about. It. Does. Not. Exist. It's not real.

And here's another truth: you can still have a beautiful, intimate, fun, joyful partnership, once you let go of the mirage.

Escapism is ingrained in our culture. We live in a world that is fascinated by our phones, social media, romance novels, porn, video games, etc. It's easy to stay in the storybook version of the perfect marriage or relationship, because everything in our modern day lives is designed to direct your attention that way.

Hyper-focusing on imaginary relationships also keep you from appreciating what is good about your real-life marriage. At this point, you might be saying to yourself: "But, there's NOTHING good in my partnership." And if that is really true, then why are you still in it? To be clear: some relationships genuinely need to end, and that's not what this is about. But if you're not leaving, and you're not changing anything, and you're just... complaining? That's choosing suffering. I'm fond of saying, "Life is painful sometimes, and suffering in that pain is a choice."

Victim Mindsets in Relationships

The saying goes, "If you don't like something, change it, leave it, or embrace it." If you choose neither to change nor leave, then it would behoove you to own your choice and appreciate the good parts of your situation. A lot of us are hoping that our partner will become the version of themselves that we truly want and deserve. And I'm here to tell you, that you have to work with the person you have, not the one you wish you had.

When you focus on fantasy or what you're not getting in your partnership, guess what? That's exactly what you will get more of. If you notice that your partner isn't emotionally deep and you keep complaining about it to them, and never notice their floundering attempts at depth, you will get less trying on their part, and more resentment on your own. What you notice is what you get more of. Where you turn your attention is where you will stay, good or bad.

The Fantasies You Need to Let Go Of

Here's where I'd ask you to sit with something uncomfortable, a short inventory, if you will. Which of these are you still holding onto?

The Mind-Reading Fantasy

"If they really loved me, I wouldn't have to ask." This one keeps you silently bitter, waiting to be discovered instead of known. Letting go of it means saying the humiliating, obvious thing out loud: "I need you to ask me about my day." Every time. Which, I get it, is annoying as fuck. What do you want more? A partner who is thoughtfully asking you about your day, because you asked them to, or you seething quietly because they went straight to the dinner and dishes routine without connecting first.

The Fantasy of Permanent Harmony

You think a healthy relationship is one without conflict. It's not. A healthy relationship is one that ruptures and repairs well, over and over, for as long as you're both alive. If you're waiting for the fighting to stop before you feel safe, you'll be waiting forever. As Terry Real is fond of saying, "Relationships are an endless cycle of harmony, disharmony and repair."

The Fantasy That They'll Eventually Agree With You

Enough talking. Enough evidence. Enough emotional appeals. Surely they'll come around. They might not. Two adults can stay in a relationship while disagreeing about something that matters. Heck, my spouse and I disagree on many, many things, and we find a way to see each other's point of view, without attempting to convince (at least, not too often!).

The Rescue Fantasy

That your partner will save you from your own unprocessed pain, your low self-worth, the stuff from your family of origin you've never dealt with. They can't. That was never their job, even though it might feel like it should be. And rescuing, as I'm fond of saying, isn't actually as sexy as we all think it is. The rescuer is often having to take away a person's autonomy to rescue and the rescuee eventually becomes resentful of that independence being stripped from them.

The "Once We Fix X, We'll Be Happy" Fantasy

Once we have the baby. Once we buy the house. Once he gets the promotion. Once she stops working so much. Once we move there. Happiness stays one circumstance away, forever, because you never let it catch up to you in the present. You struggle to find the small moments of joy with your spouse, and appreciate them, without beleaguring the point of "once we do ____."

The Fantasy That Real Love Feels Easy

Hollywood's fault, mostly. If it's right, it shouldn't take effort. Remember that famous line from the movie Love Story: "Love means never having to say you're sorry." BLECH. Yuck. Sustained intimacy isn't a feeling you either have or don't. It's a skill set. You build it. It takes reps.

So, back to that moment. The one where you're standing in your kitchen, exhausted, saying 'I can't believe I have to ask for this AGAIN.' That moment isn't proof your relationship is broken. It's proof your fantasy is dying. Let it. On the other side of it isn't nothing: it's a real partnership, with a real person, who will disappoint you and repair with you and choose you, on purpose, over and over. That's not the storybook version of love. That's better. It's just harder to see when you're still holding out for the fairy tale and the partner you deserve (but will never get) to show up.

Take Exquisite Care of Yourselves,

Megan