As a new month begins, you may notice mixed emotions. I don't think it takes a new month to feel those emotions. Some people feel hopeful and motivated. Others feel tired, overwhelmed, or discouraged that healing isn’t happening as quickly as they hoped. Wherever you find yourself today, it’s okay. Because that is grief, up and down, side to side. Healing isn’t measured by how productive you are or how much progress you make in a month. Sometimes healing looks like getting through a difficult day, reaching out for support, setting a boundary, or simply giving yourself permission to rest. This month, consider adding one new coping resource to your toolbox. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe it’s taking a short walk, spending five minutes in prayer or mindfulness, journaling before bed, listening to calming music, or talking with someone you trust, lowering comparison to others. You don’t need an entirely new version of yourself. You need the next small step. As always, remember that support is available. Healing happens in connection, not isolation. Be gentle with yourself this month. Growth often happens in ways we can’t immediately see. One day at a time is all we have.

One thing I have learned from working with mothers of great loss, survival is sometimes all they have. Losing a child to violence changes everything. Some days may feel unbearable. Other days may feel numb. You may cry one moment and feel completely disconnected the next. BUT None of this means you are grieving “wrong.” Sometimes survival itself is enough. Start Smaller Than You Think In deep grief, even simple things can feel hard. Instead of focusing on getting through the week, try focusing on the next small step: drink some water (yes, water) step outside for a moment eat something simple answer one text rest when you can (pausing helps) Small things still matter. Grief Does Not Move in a Straight Line Some days, the pain may feel lighter. Other days, it may feel fresh all over again. That does not mean you are moving backward. Birthdays, holidays, songs, or memories can bring the grief back unexpectedly. Be gentle with yourself when they do. You Do Not Have to Be Strong All the Time Many grieving mothers try to carry everyone else while hiding their own pain. But you are allowed to need support too. You are allowed to say: “I’m struggling today.” “I need help.” “I don’t have the energy right now.” Needing support is human. Coping Does Not Mean Forgetting Healing does not mean leaving your child behind. You can continue loving and remembering your child while also learning how to care for yourself again. Some mothers find comfort in: journaling lighting candles looking through photos speaking their child’s name spending time with safe people There is no right way to remember someone you love. On the Hardest Days When the grief feels overwhelming, try to focus only on the next hour instead of the future. Breathe. Rest. Cry if you need to. Reach out to someone safe. You do not have to figure everything out today. A Final Reminder Your child mattered. Your grief makes sense. And even in the middle of unimaginable pain, you deserve care, support, and gentleness too.

Mother’s Day can feel like it belongs to everyone else when you’re grieving. The world is full of flowers, celebrations, and expectations we cannot escape, and meanwhile, your heart may feel heavy, quiet, or even numb. If this is you, you’re not alone. Grief and love live in the same place. The depth of your pain reflects the depth of your connection. Whether you’re a mother missing your child, a daughter missing your mom, or holding both at once, this weekend may bring waves. Let them come. You don’t have to rush through them or make the day look a certain way. It’s okay to do Mother’s Day differently. It is okay to be honest about your heartbreak. You might choose to keep it simple, or you might also need distraction, rest, or space from it all. There is no “right” way to move through this day, only what feels most needed for you. If joy finds you, even briefly, you are allowed to hold that too. Love doesn’t disappear in grief; it changes shape. Sometimes it shows up as tears, sometimes as quiet strength to keep moving, and sometimes as a small moment of peace you didn’t expect. This coming Mother's Day, be compassionate to yourself. Lower expectations. Say no when you need to. Say yes to what brings even a little comfort. Surround yourself with people who understand and see you. Most of all, remember this: You are still a mother. You are still deeply connected to the love you carry. And that love has not been lost.

People often believe that when there is finally justice, an arrest, a trial, a sentence, there will also be peace. That somehow, after all the waiting, something inside will settle. But in my clinical and advocacy experiences, this is rarely the case. In this, there is a truth we need to talk more about. A sentence can hold someone accountable. It can validate what happened. It can matter deeply. BUT it cannot bring your loved one back. It cannot undo the loss, the trauma, or the years spent waiting for answers. And when that long-awaited moment finally arrives, many are left feeling… not at peace, but overwhelmed, numb, or even empty. I am often asked why this is so complicated. Here is a thought: After years of bracing, we need to acknowledge that two things can and are true at once. We may feel: Relief and grief at the same time Anger that still lingers Numbness instead of closure (this is an illusion anyway) Guilt, especially knowing other families didn’t get justice None of this is wrong. It means your love is still here. It means the loss is still real. The idea of “closure” can feel comforting, but murder loss doesn’t work that way. You close a case, but not the life lost.  Instead, healing becomes about learning how to carry both the love and the loss, without expecting one moment, even justice, to resolve it all. Justice matters. It truly does. BUT it’s not a cure, and our healing was never meant to depend on it.

My son is a powerlifter. My daughter is a scientist. We travel around the country chasing their dreams. Without fail, precious, kindred souls are placed directly in our path. Conversations are started, common ground is established, then we realize another commonality: the murder of a loved one. Quietly, we find a place to sit and unpack and share our stories. Contact information is shared along with tears and hugs. We find comfort in total strangers who have experienced similar horrors and debilitating grief. There is zero coincidence in these meetings. It’s a feeling, intuition, vulnerability that pulls like a magnet. Every encounter brings peace and comfort. We call it ‘networking’. Some of these strangers have become ‘framily’ (friends who are family). We call and text one another on anniversaries and birthdays, and are present to listen when no one else truly understands the grief and pain. I am forever grateful. -Claire Cunningham

There are parts of grief we expect, at least as much as we can expect something so life-altering. But there are parts no one really talks about. The part I wasn’t prepared for is this: losing one parent, and then watching the other slowly decline as I continue to age. This year, my mom has had some physical issues and mental changes, too. It’s the subtle shifts. The moments where things feel different. The realizations that things are not what they once were. That kind of grief is layered. It’s not just about loss, it’s about anticipatory loss. It’s loving someone while also grieving what’s changing right in front of you. It’s holding memories of who they’ve been, while trying to stay present with who they are now.  And if I’m honest, it’s heavy. Yet there is gratitude because she is here while my dad is not. After all, underneath it all is this quiet awareness: as I get older, she is who we have left. That thought doesn’t always come loudly. Sometimes it just sits in the background. Other times, it hits all at once. If you’re walking through something similar, this kind of grief can feel isolating because it’s not always visible to others, and we don’t have to carry it alone.

Easter is a season that speaks of hope, renewal, and life after death. But for mothers who have lost a child to murder, these words can feel distant, almost impossible to reach. How can anything feel hopeful when your world has been shattered? For most, hope can feel like something meant for other people. And yet… even here, hope can still exist. Not the kind of hope that rushes healing or erases pain. Not the kind that asks you to “move on” or pretend everything is okay. But a quieter, deeper hope, the kind of hope that gently sits beside your grief and whispers, you are not alone. Grief after homicide is complex. It is the most complicated grief I have experienced and counseled others through. It carries layers of trauma , unanswered questions , and a deep sense of injustice . It is important we remember, as mothers, that your love didn’t end when your child’s life was taken. The love you feel is still alive, strong, present, DEEP , and aching . And that love is not something to be fixed. It is something to be honored (valued). Easter reminds us that even after the darkest day, something new can emerge. Not the same life. Not the same joy. But a different kind of living; a way of carrying both sorrow and meaning at the same time. Hope might look like: Getting out of bed on a day that feels heavy Saying your child’s name out loud Allowing yourself to feel, even when it hurts Connecting with another mom who understands (community) Hope is not loud. It doesn’t force itself. It often shows up quietly, in small moments that remind you that your story is still unfolding. As we know, holidays can amplify absence . They can highlight the empty chair, the missing voice, the life that should still be here. And also, with allowance, if we look, we may be able to see even the smallest glimpse of light. Because hope, like Easter, doesn’t deny the pain of what came before. It simply reminds us that pain is not the end of the story. You are carrying the unimaginable.  Carry it with HOPE AND LOVE.

I was scrolling on social media recently and came across a deeply emotional video. Like so many others, this man lost his sister on 9/11, and the pain is still very real for him. In the video, he stepped into a phone booth and was invited to leave her a voicemail. It struck me how powerful it is to speak to our loved ones, even after they’re gone. I truly believe that writing to them or talking to them is one of the most meaningful ways we can move through grief. If you’ve ever worked with me, or even just met me, you know this is at the heart of how I approach counseling: we go toward the emotion, toward the healing. I decided to write my own “voicemail" below, and I want to encourage you to try it too. It’s private, it’s powerful, it’s hard, and above all, it’s loving. Grief is love. And continuing to include our loved ones in that love is one of the most beautiful things we can do. It’s all for them. 🤍 Hey Dad, It's been 17 years since I ever called you, heard your voice, your laugh, or touched you. You were always a part of my days. My routine was changed forever. I often think of you. You have a granddaughter now. Yep, Paul reproduced. She is hilarious and beautiful. She's almost 15. So much has happened since you have been gone. Our family was never the same, and we all recovered differently. I went back to school (again) and I also help people for a living now. Who knew lol. I remember always wondering who I would be. One thing you always taught us was to work hard, and structure is important. Dad, not a day goes by that I don't wish you were here. We could watch movies, go to markets, and I miss you telling me all you got at Walmart. You were such a significant part of our lives that it feels like a distant memory now. I wish I could remember parts of you that are now gone. I know you more now, though. I learned so much about you after your death. I am thankful, because I love you more because of it all. I will always live to honor your life, Dad. You deserve to be remembered with LOVE and not violence. I choose your life and legacy over whatever happened on that terrible night. I love you, and I miss you every moment.  Love always, your little Coos-Coos princess.

Two decades have passed since February 25, 2006. So Luc, yet so little has transpired since that dreadful day. Time has slowed, yet time has sped by. I wanted everyone in the world to search for Toby’s murderer. My expectations were such that I assumed everyone was as highly motivated and ready to fight with the same vigor and passion that fueled my soul. The police didn’t seem to be advocating for Toby. The media slowly lost interest. Toby’s story faded to background. I felt defeated and crushed by the ominous weight of ‘fighting’ alone. Until I was introduced to an incredible group of survivors and advocates who wanted to walk with me. They lifted me upon their shoulders giving me the strength, courage, and platform to share Toby’s story far and wide. These earth angels have advocated for our family in every way possible. These advocates have held my hand and navigated the maze of media campaigns, interviews, online vigils, posters, podcasts, and conventions. I am forever grateful for their compassion, integrity, wisdom, creativity, and insight. They have kept Toby’s story alive. My heart is full. These advocates continue to show up and support our family in this relentless fight for justice. I am eternally grateful for their grit, tenacity, and perseverance. -Claire Cunningham