Can Grief Feel Like It’s Happening For Us?

When I first heard my grief coach say, “Maybe grief isn’t just happening to you, maybe it’s happening for you,” something inside me snapped. I wanted to scream. It felt cruel.

Because what lesson could ever be worth my child’s life?

What wisdom could possibly make this pain acceptable?

The truth is, I would give back every single so-called “lesson” if it meant I could have Ari here in my arms. She lived just shy of ten hours—and yet, her brief life reshaped mine forever.

That’s the impossible tension we live in.

None of us asked for this. None of us would have chosen it. And yet, over time, I began to understand what that coach may have meant—not that grief is good, not that loss is something to be grateful for. But that even here, in the wreckage, God’s presence and love can still move. That Ari’s life and death could continue to shape me, and even through the ache, still speak.

It hasn’t been fast. It hasn’t been neat. But in quiet ways, grief has whispered things I never expected—truths I believe God has strengthened me to hold.

I want to share some of the lessons grief has whispered to me and to other moms I’ve walked alongside. Please only take what feels right for you. Leave the rest.

Lessons Grief Can Teach Us

Love doesn’t end.

When Ari died, I knew her story wasn't finished. Ten hours—that’s all I had with her. But love didn’t stop when she took her last breath. It has grown every day since.

I’ve seen the same truth in countless moms I’ve walked with: whether your child lived minutes, years, or decades, your love continues. It shows up in the way you still speak their name, in the way you carry them into your decisions, and in the way you love others more deeply because of them. Love is eternal, because God Himself is love (1 John 4:8).

Our children’s love is forever woven into who we are.

Broken and strong can coexist.

After Ari’s death, I felt shattered. I didn’t think I could keep breathing. And yet—somehow—I did. Somehow I stood back up. Somehow I parent my son Chase, create amazing memories, and miss my daughter all in the same breath.

Every mom who grieves knows this tension: we can be broken and strong at the same time. Our tears do not cancel our strength, and our strength doesn’t erase our brokenness. Scripture reminds us, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). God’s strength carries us even when we feel undone.

Time doesn’t heal. It shifts.

I hated when people told me “time heals.” It felt cruel—because no amount of time will erase the absence of Ari, of your child, too. But grief has shown me something different: time doesn’t heal, but it does change. The raw agony of the early days slowly became something else. Sometimes softer, sometimes sharper—but not constant. And in that shifting, I’ve felt God’s nearness:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”. (Psalm 34:18)

Our children’s stories continue.

Ari’s life was less than 10 hours. Some of your children never took a breath outside the womb. Some lived years and left behind deep legacies. But no matter how long they were with us, their story is not over.

Our children’s lives continue every time we say their names, every time we tell their stories, every time their love shapes the way we live. Their story continues in us, because their story is part of God’s story—and nothing can erase that.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” (Jeremiah 1:5).

We weren’t meant to do this alone.

Grief is isolating. It can feel like the whole world has moved on while you’re standing still. I tried to carry it alone at first, and it crushed me. But slowly, I’ve learned that God designed us for community. We are not meant to hold the heaviest parts by ourselves.

Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 says,

“Two are better than one… if either of them falls down, one can help the other up.”

That’s why spaces we create here at Bereaved Together matter. We are stronger when we sit in the ashes together, helping one another up when the weight is too much.

Joy and sorrow can coexist.

At first, I felt guilty for smiling again. I thought joy meant I was betraying Ari. But grief has taught me differently. Joy and sorrow aren’t opposites—they’re companions. I can cry for her and laugh with my son in the same moment.

Many moms have told me they feel this too—the bittersweet mixture of missing one child while enjoying a core memory with another. Scripture gives us language for this:

"Weeping may stay for the night, but joy comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

In grief, we don’t choose joy instead of sorrow; we learn to carry both. Both are holy.

Compassion deepens.

Before grief, I didn’t fully understand suffering. Now, my heart is softer. I see pain in others in ways I couldn’t before.

Many bereaved moms tell me the same—they notice when others are hurting, they hold space differently, they carry a depth of compassion that only loss can carve. This compassion is Christlike. Jesus wept with those who grieved (John 11:35). He sat in sorrow before He brought resurrection.

Our children’s lives can make us more tender, more present, and more able to sit with others in their pain, if we let it.

It’s okay to say no.

Grief is exhausting. And yet, so many of us feel pressure to “bounce back,” to attend every gathering, to smile when we’re asked to. But grief has taught me this: it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to step back, to protect your heart, to rest. Even Jesus withdrew to lonely places to pray (Luke 5:16).

Saying no isn’t selfish—it’s sacred. It’s creating space for God to meet us, and for our hearts to breathe under the weight.

Quiet strength counts.

So often, people tell bereaved mothers, “You’re so strong.” But most of us don’t feel strong. We feel exhausted, shattered, undone.

What I’ve learned is that bravery isn’t about feeling strong—it’s about showing up in our vulnerability. It’s the courage of taking one more breath, of speaking our child’s name, of making it through one more day.

It’s quiet, but it matters.

Our children still shape us.

Though Ari only lived for hours, she has changed my entire life. And I know your children have done the same for you. Whether they were with you for a moment or for many years, they continue shaping who you are. They’ve changed the way you love, the way you see the world, the way you cling to your faith. Their lives ripple through yours still. Even in absence, our children continue to be part of our becoming.

Life can be both beautiful and brutal.

The day Ari was born was the most beautiful and the most brutal as she took her final breath on that very same day. Many of you feel that same paradox about your child’s life. And that’s what grief feels like—both/and. Life is brutally beautiful now. And yet God meets us in both. He does not ask us to choose one over the other. He holds us in the tension. "He is making all things new", (Revelation 21:5)—even the things that break us

If none of these lessons feel like yours right now, please don’t force them. Sometimes the only lesson we can hold is survival. And that’s more than enough.

But I hope and pray that in time, when you’re ready, grief may whisper something softer: that even in the ache, love still leads… and your child’s life continues to hold meaning—through you.