I am very good at being independent. I pay the bills. I show up to the meetings. I hold the house together with calendars and grit and caffeine and sheer willpower. I am the strong one. The capable one. The one who “has it handled.” Everything is good. Everything is okay. Until it’s not. Until it’s 2:17 a.m. and the full moon is lighting up the room like a spotlight and my toddler throws up in my bed. Not on the floor. Not in the bathroom. In my bed. And suddenly the capable woman disappears and I am just a tired mother in the dark with no clean towels. No backup plan. No extra set of hands. Just the smell of sickness, a crying baby, and that sharp stab of panic when you realize you are the only adult in the room. I whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like I know what I’m doing. I strip the sheets. I wipe the little face. I dig through the house praying something — anything — is clean enough to use. And in the middle of the night, I do something I hate doing. I beg for help. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Desperately. “Please, God. Please let this pass. Please let them be okay. Please help me.” Because when you are the strong one, begging feels like failure. But sometimes independence is just isolation wearing a superhero cape. And then my son presses so close I can’t move. His fever-warm body curls into my side like he’s trying to climb back inside me. He needs me. He needs my steady breathing. My hands in his hair. My whispered reassurances. And I give it. Even though my heart hurts. Even though I’m exhausted. Even though I feel like I am five seconds from falling apart. He needs to be held. And here is the part no one talks about: While I am holding my children, I am longing to be held by my mother. I want her hands. Her voice in the dark. Her “I’ve got you.” But she isn’t coming. She will never come again. And grief doesn’t politely step aside just because your kids are throwing up. Grief sits on the edge of the bed with you. It watches you, mother without a blueprint. It watches you try to give comfort you were never fully shown. It watches you become the soft place to land when you still feel like you’re falling. There is a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from realizing you are now the oldest branch in your direction of the family tree. There is no one above you to call in the middle of the night and say, “What do I do?” There is no one coming to take over. You are the mother. Even when you still feel like someone’s daughter. Especially when you still feel like someone’s daughter. And this is the cruel math of grief: You have to give the love you miss. You have to become the comfort you crave. You have to create safety you never fully felt. And you have to do it while you are tired. While you are unsure. While you are still healing. You have to make something you have no idea how to make. Security. Warmth. Home. I don’t always know how. Sometimes I just stay still and let my sick child breathe against my chest. Sometimes I hum something soft. Sometimes I whisper, “Mama’s here,” and pretend I believe that is enough. Maybe that’s what breaking cycles looks like. Not perfection. Presence. Maybe healing isn’t having all the answers. Maybe it’s staying in the bed when it’s messy and uncomfortable and saying, “You’re safe,” even when you don’t feel safe yourself. Grief changes you. It makes you grow up overnight. It makes you strong in ways you never asked for. It forces you to become both the parent and the child in your own body. And sometimes strength looks like scrubbing sheets at 3 a.m. Sometimes strength looks like crying quietly in the bathroom so your kids don’t see. Sometimes strength looks like admitting: I don’t want to be this independent. I want someone to hold me too. But since she isn’t here, I will do what mothers have always done. I will gather my babies close. I will give the love I never got in the ways I can. I will keep showing up. Even under a full moon. Even with no clean towels. Even with grief sitting beside me in the dark. Because love, even when imperfect, is still love. And maybe that is enough. -Casie Ellison

I always wanted to belong. To be part of something. To be understood and heard, to be seen and loved . On February 25, 2006, I was inducted into such a group. My membership was not a choice that I made; instead, someone made it for me by killing my brother, Toby, and getting away with it. This membership felt like an ominous weight that suppressed any light from shining, allowing only darkness to drown and suppress. So, I ran. I hid. I numbed. I ignored…& ultimately drowned in the depths of despair, grief, isolation, and depression. The shards of my hardened, shattered heart were shredding and ripping me apart. Until I realized the wisdom and strength this niche group had to offer. These fellow survivors spoke a familiar, shared language that I understood. I was drawn to their powerful stories. These beautiful survivors leaned in and spoke truth and listened without pretending to have answers. I was blessed by their perseverance, faith, and willingness to step in when I simply couldn’t find my footing. My membership in this group of survivors has lasted 7,305 days or 20 years. Together we mourn, share stories, pray, gather, love, and encourage. Twenty years have allowed for personal growth and advocacy in the emptiness created when Toby was murdered. This growth was made possible because of God’s redemption power , His grace and love, and the strength of fellow survivors. Twenty more years will pass in a blink, but my roots have grown deeper and stronger, sustaining my soul. -Claire Cunningham, Survived by: Toby John Beaugh June 9, 1976- February 25, 2006

Sometimes the things we try hardest not to feel are the very things that quietly grow heavier inside us. I recently watched someone I love ignore real physical pain. What started as something small became something serious. What could have been treated early almost turned into something life-threatening. Not because she didn’t care about her health, but because facing pain is hard, and fear takes over. Admitting something is wrong is hard. Slowing down long enough to heal is hard. And grief can work the same way. As moms who carry loss, they know how tempting it is to push the pain aside just to survive the day. They stay busy. They take care of everyone else. They tell themselves that they will deal with it later. But unprocessed pain doesn’t disappear; it waits, it lingers. And most of the time, it grows heavier than it ever needed to be. Healing doesn’t ask us to relive everything all at once. It simply asks us to be honest about what hurts. Sometimes healing looks like: letting yourself cry instead of staying strong saying “this is hard” out loud asking for help instead of carrying it alone resting when your body and heart are tired allowing God to meet you in the places you try to avoid, seeking him Small moments of honesty in our open wounds protect us from deeper wounds later. And here is a hope: Nothing you are carrying is too broken, too late, or too far gone for God to meet you there. One honest step at a time… healing is still possible.

Today, grief isn’t poetic. It isn’t soft. It isn’t teaching me anything new. Today, grief is loud and inconvenient and rude as hell. It shows up uninvited while I’m trying to function, while I’m answering emails, making food, folding tiny socks, pretending I’m fine because the world doesn’t stop spinning just because my heart still aches. Grief doesn’t care about productivity. It doesn’t care about timelines. It doesn’t care that it’s been years and people think I should be “better by now.” Grief doesn’t move on. It moves with you. Some days it’s a quiet hum in the background. Other days, like today, it grabs me by the throat and reminds me of everything that never got finished. Conversations that never happened. Apologies that were never spoken. Futures that died right alongside the person I lost. And here’s the part no one likes to say out loud: Grief is exhausting. Not just emotionally, but physically. It lives in the body. It weighs down my chest. It fogs my brain. It steals my energy and then dares to make me feel guilty for being tired. I can love my life and still be wrecked by loss. Those things can coexist, even when people don’t understand how. Some days I don’t want advice. I don’t want silver linings. I don’t want “everything happens for a reason.” I want someone to say, “Yeah. This sucks. And it makes sense that you’re not okay today.” Because grief isn’t a straight line. It’s not stages. It’s not something you conquer or outgrow. It’s a relationship you learn to carry, sometimes gently, sometimes dragging it behind you like a weight you didn’t ask for. Today, I miss who I was before I learned this kind of pain. I miss the version of me that didn’t flinch at certain dates, songs, smells, or silence. I miss the innocence of believing loss was something that happened to other people. But here’s the truth I’m still standing in, even on days like this: Grief is proof of love. And love this deep doesn’t disappear just because someone is gone. So if today you’re barely holding it together, if you’re angry, numb, sad, resentful, jealous of people who don’t carry this kind of ache, you’re not broken. You’re grieving. And today, that’s enough. You don’t need to rise above it. You don’t need to be inspiring. You don’t need to explain yourself. You just need permission to feel what is real. So here it is: You’re allowed to hurt today. You’re allowed to rest today. You’re allowed to miss them loudly, or quietly, or messily. Grief isn’t gentle today. But neither am I. And somehow, I’m still here. -Casie Ellison

This past weekend in the group, many moms shared a deep and aching pain: the fear and grief around their child’s suffering, and the heartbreak of not being there when they died; the unknown. There is a particular kind of grief that comes from imagining what your child may have felt, wondering if they were scared, in pain, or alone. Alongside that often comes the quiet, haunting wish: If I had been there, maybe I could have saved them. The guilt. Even when we know, logically, that we could not have changed the outcome, the love of a mother still asks what if. If this is where your grief sits today, please know this: That wish does not mean you failed. It means you loved deeply, fiercely, and without limits. Grief can carry both truth and longing at the same time. The truth that you could not have prevented what happened, and the longing that says you would have done anything to protect your child from suffering. Today, coping doesn’t have to mean resolving those thoughts. It can look like: Letting the ache exist without arguing with it Offering yourself the same compassion you would give another grieving mother Releasing the burden of responsibility your heart still tries to carry Choosing rest over replaying the unanswerable questions You loved your child. You still do. And nothing about their suffering erases that love or your goodness as a mother. Stay the course.

You’re not complicated. The things you have been through are complicated. How freeing is this statement? For me, it empowers me to recognize both my pains and hurts, as well as my joys and good moments. Complicated grief. What do we do when Healing isn’t linear? I have spent my career learning about complicated grief and how it impacts us differently. Complicated grief happens when loss overwhelms the nervous system. Though it’s common after a sudden and traumatic loss, this kind of grief doesn’t follow a timeline, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. Healing doesn’t mean grief disappears . This is something that I have sat in dark places with have had a hard time accepting. It means grief integrates into your life. Integration looks like learning how to carry loss while still living. Some days feel heavy. Other days feel light. AND both can/do exist together. Grief that’s integrating may still show up, but it doesn’t have to control everything. A simple coping guide Use this as a reminder of what healing can look like: • You can hold sadness and joy • Triggers still come, but recovery can be quicker • Hard days don’t mean you’re going backwards, you’re learning your new capacity • You CAN allow yourself to be where you are Your grief isn’t failing; it’s finding its place to rest. You’re not behind. You’re healing.

Some days, healing feels big and obvious. Other days it’s quiet, one breath, one step, one small choice at a time. If you’re walking through a slow season, remember this: God Is With You Psalm 34:18 tells us God is close to the brokenhearted. Even when we don’t feel better right away, He is right beside us, NOT on the sidelines . Slow Is Still Progress Healing may look like: Getting out of bed Making one healthy choice Asking for help Letting yourself rest Whispering a prayer Trusting the process Tiny steps still move you forward.... Reflection This week, try to ask yourself: Where did I feel God near me? What small thing helped me take a step forward? Prayer God, help me trust Your timing. Walk with me, guide me, and strengthen me, one day at a time. Amen. You are not alone. God is working in and through you, slowly, gently, and beautifully.

The new year often feels like pressure. Am I wrong? The start of a new year can feel complicated when we are carrying grief. While everyone else talks about resolutions, fresh starts, and big goals, we may begin feeling tired, guarded, and even unsure how to step forward at all. One thing to be sure of: you don’t need a “new you.” You just need support, permission to move slowly, and tools that help you breathe again. This year doesn’t have to be about fixing. It can be about coping with intention and choosing what feels supportive, possible, and not overwhelming. A Softer Way to Enter the New Year Instead of asking, “What should I change?” Try asking: What do I need more of to feel steady? What drains me that I can gently loosen my grip on? What feels grounding when the grief waves hit? Small shifts matter. Gentle choices count. Always one day at a time.

Nothing about Louisiana is easy (for me). That boot shaped piece of land contains all of the immense, naïve, joyful childhood happiness and the agony associated with the painful reality of death and shattered, fractured, gray familial relationships. Louisiana is a place remembered and spoken of fondly, yet in the same breath it draws forth raging emotions. ‘The boot’ holds old friends that I haven’t seen in a decade (plus), but who can always be relied upon to show up. Louisiana also holds family that should be loyal, but who choose to hold secrets, impose guilt and shame, and repulsive prideful embellishments.The quandary is how to navigate such a landscape without negatively affecting the ones I hold dear. How does one communicate boundaries in the slippery niceties of those who have good intentions, but who are offensively intrusive? How to not become hardened and bitter by the lack of effort, transparency, authenticity, and pride? Jesus . Jesus’ gift of removing the heaviness and anxieties, the imperfections and the hurts, the failures and the shame, the sloppy messes made because of pride- He takes it all from us so that we can be joyous in the excrement. He removes the weight from our chests so that we can breathe His crisp, clean, fresh air and be joyous! He does! He will because He is Savior! Only because of and through Him are we able to navigate the swamps of emotions and the rot of past hurts, mistrust, deceit, and lies. Jesus is the way through. So, I submit my dark fear, paralyzing anxiety, abysmal sadness, overwhelming grief and sadness, and shattering sorrow. Lord, I submit to you again and again so that my heart will be transformed by your gift of grace and mercy. -Claire Cunningham