The Silence After the Storm: Grief, Love, and the Unbreakable Bond

December 27, 2018

The house is quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles after the chaos of Christmas—wrapping paper strewn about, laughter echoing, the warmth of togetherness. But this silence feels heavier, deeper. A year ago today, my mom died. Two days after Christmas. I’ll never forget the moment I realized she was gone.

I wanted her to be free from pain. I prayed for it. But when she left, the pain I felt was so sharp, so suffocating, it made me gasp. Six months wasn’t enough. I needed more time. More conversations. More moments to say all the things I held back because I didn’t want to cry in front of her. I didn’t want to make her sad. So, I stayed strong. Or at least, I tried to. Now, I regret that. I wish I had let myself fall apart in front of her, just once, to show her how much she meant to me.

The day she died is a blur. I know I made calls, but I don’t remember them. I did what needed to be done because that’s what she taught me to do. She was my guide, my anchor, my north star. Losing her felt like losing a part of myself.

Grief is a strange, unpredictable companion. It doesn’t follow a timeline or a rulebook. It’s messy and raw and unrelenting. And yet, it’s also where we find the most profound connection—to ourselves, to others, and to the love that never really leaves us.

Here’s what I’ve learned in this year of grieving, in the hopes that it might help you understand your own grief or someone else’s:

1. The Club No One Wants to Join. There’s a club no one asks to be part of—the grieving child club. And while it’s a club I wish didn’t exist, it’s also where I’ve found unexpected kindness. People I barely know have stepped forward with words, gestures, and gifts that feel like lifelines. They just get it. They don’t need to know me well; they know the ache of loss. And in their kindness, I’ve learned to let go of the guilt of “imposing.” Grief teaches you to receive, even when it feels uncomfortable.

2. The Randomness of Tears. Grief doesn’t care about timing or appropriateness. You cry in the grocery store when you see a mother and daughter laughing over cereal. You cry when you’re planting flowers and remember her advice about soil and sunlight. You cry when you can’t find her molasses cookie recipe and realize you’ll never taste them the same way again. You cry when you hug your grandchild and feel the weight of her absence in the love she left behind.

The tears come in waves, unpredictable and unrelenting. And then, just as suddenly, they stop. You catch your breath, and life goes on. Until the next wave hits.

3. The Gift of Closeness. Losing my mom has brought me closer to my dad in ways I never expected. He’s my connection to her, and I’m his. Most days, I’m the only person he talks to, and that responsibility is both heavy and sacred. I’ve learned more about him in this past year than in the 50 years before. Grief has a way of stripping away the superficial and leaving only what’s real.

4. The Fog of Grief. For months, life felt like looking through a foggy window. I bought a picture frame once and didn’t realize there was a protective film over the glass. I kept staring at the photo, wondering why it wasn’t clear. That’s how life has felt—blurry, muted, distant. The things that used to bring me joy felt dull. Shopping, hobbies, even work—none of it mattered. Slowly, the fog has lifted, but there are still days when it rolls back in, thick and heavy.

5. The Sound of Her Voice. I keep her Facebook account open. I scroll through old messages, hearing her voice in my head as I read her words. I’ve saved every voicemail, every note, every scrap of paper with her handwriting. These fragments are my treasures, my lifelines to her. I call home just to hear her voice on the answering machine. I’ve recorded it on my phone so I can listen whenever I need to.

6. The Search for Signs. I’ve become desperate for signs that she’s still with me. Feathers, cardinals, dreams—anything that feels like her. I go to bed at night begging her to visit me in my dreams. The thought of her being truly gone is too much to bear, so I cling to these small, fleeting moments of connection.

7. The Amplified Pain. Grieving isn’t just about your own pain. It’s about carrying the pain of others, too. Watching my children grieve their grandmother has been one of the hardest parts of this journey. Their sadness compounds my own, and I find myself burying my grief to be strong for them. But grief doesn’t disappear when you ignore it; it just finds other ways to surface.

8. The Shift in Priorities. Grief has a way of clarifying what really matters. The things I used to care about—work, appearances, perfection—feel insignificant now. I’ve learned to set boundaries, to protect my fragile heart, and to let go of the need to be everything to everyone.

9. The Unending Ache. People will tell you that time heals, but the truth is, grief doesn’t end. It changes. It softens. But it never goes away. The ache of losing my mom is a part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I am. And in a strange way, I’m grateful for it. It’s a reminder of how much I loved her, how much she loved me, and how that love will always endure.

10. You Get to Choose Your Actions. So, tonight, call your mom. Hug her tight. Tell her how much she means to you and why. Say the things you’ve been holding back. Because one day, you won’t have the chance. And you’ll wish you had.

Grief is the price we pay for love. And as painful as it is, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because loving her—and being loved by her—was worth it.

Be well,LeeAnne

One month prior to diagnosis, 7 months prior to her passing.