When the Boxes Multiply: Living with Layered Grief
June 2, 2025
Expanding the Ball in the Box Theory to Make Room for Real Life
When I first heard the Ball in the Box theory, it changed the way I saw grief.
The metaphor goes like this: Grief is like a ball inside a box.
Inside that box is a pain button. In the beginning, the ball is so big it’s constantly pressing that button. Over time, the ball gets smaller. It still hits the button, but less often. The pain is still there, but it doesn’t consume every second of every day.
It helped me understand the waves. The triggers. The gut punches that come out of nowhere. It gave me language for something invisible.
But as I sat with it longer, I started to notice something missing.
The Ball in the Box theory assumes you’re grieving one thing. One loss. One story. One box.
What if you’re carrying ten? My life isn’t defined by a single loss.
There’s the loss of my mother, which will never not be a sharp ache. There’s the grief of divorce — two, actually — and everything I thought those relationships would be.
There are friendships that slipped away, the parts of me I outgrew, and the pieces I thought I’d get back but never did. There’s the version of life I imagined before the trauma. And there’s the version I’m still figuring out how to live in now.
Each of these losses has its own box. Its own ball. Its own pain button.
Sometimes, they all rattle at once.
There are days it feels like I’m walking around with a stack of grief boxes balanced in my arms, praying I don’t drop one.
Other days, it feels like a few of them have already fallen, burst open, and I’m standing in the mess trying to act like I’m fine.
And still, I keep going. I keep loving. I keep healing.
This is what most people don’t see when they picture grief.
They expect the pain to be tied to a single event. To have a timeline. To shrink on schedule.
But layered grief doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes, healing from one loss makes you feel another more deeply.
Sometimes, joy opens a door to unexpected sadness.
Sometimes, you’re celebrating one thing and grieving another, in the exact same moment.
What I’ve learned is this: You don’t have to earn your grief. You don’t have to justify it.
Whether it’s fresh or old. Whether it’s about a death, a breakup, a betrayal, or a dream that slipped through your fingers. If it hurts, it matters.
Your grief is valid, even if someone else doesn’t understand it.
Even if it’s invisible.
Even if you can’t find the words for it yet.
If you’re carrying more than one box, I want you to know you’re not alone.
You’re not dramatic. You’re not behind. You’re not too much.
You’re a human being living through real life, with a heart that’s been stretched and reshaped by loss.
The boxes may always be there. But with time, with tenderness, with the right support, the weight gets easier to carry. And you get better at holding them with grace.
- Survivor & Mental health advocate, Casie Ellison
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Tuesday, my daughter was followed by a suspicious car while taking our pup for an evening walk. My phone lit up with her text message, “Help! Weird car.” I sprinted out of the front door running toward where I thought she was, while my husband and son took off in the car. We were going to find her. Reunited in the kitchen we huddled and hugged. We stood in silence. We stood in the stillness praising God that she was in our arms. I hugged her so long and hard that she had to ask me to stop. Eventually, we were able to recount every minute detail. I turned into (an all too familiar) furiously focused momma bear detective determined to make sure this situation never happened again. Police were called, neighbors reviewed footage from outside cameras, posts were made on the neighborhood page, and pepper spray was purchased. …then I found myself huddled in my office (also known as the laundry room) weeping, drowning in fear, brimming with anger, and overwhelmed with anxiety. I was reliving the trauma that derailed my world 19 years ago. The anxiety, fear, rage, anger, disbelief, and questions relentlessly crashed into me. Listening as authorities told me there was nothing that could be done, yet reassuring my family that everything would be ok. I have disciplined myself to walk straight into each emotion in order to face each one. This will be a lifelong process: no cutting corners, no denial, no withdrawing . It must be done so that my heart continues to heal and my mind can rest. -Survivor, Claire Cunningham
Holy Moments. It is hard to imagine moments being holy in the pain a survivor of murder endures. The unknown of the who, why, and sometimes even how. I lived for years waiting to know how many times my dad was shot and where. So many questions prevented me from some of the holy moments around me. This past week, I graduated and my dad was not there, again. He missed another moment and another celebration. Every moment, I look up and I imagine him there. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders. I remember him here but that is fading every big moment at a time. Almost 17 years later, and he missed so many moments. God has been so good in the confusion, anger, and grief. I know he has been with me all along, and most of all he SEES the pain and has compassion. He does not leave us in the painful moments, he makes them HOLY . God is the ONLY thing that makes sense in the unknown and pain. A friend of mine got me a grief devotional and I wanted to share an excerpt with you all: I surely cannot change what happened. Or make sense of it. Or find some lesson in it. Or force the wheels of justice to spin to a satisfying end. And so I am left feeling vulnerable, and violated, and helpless. Be my refuge and my shelter, O Lord. Be my shield and defender. Hold me in this hour; hold me through this long, dark night when death’s shadow obstructs the light; cradle and carry me through this vale of sorrows; deliver me to higher ground. Let justice roll down, O Christ. Lift my head that I might see new evidence of your mercies in my life. I am too weak to walk this path alone, or to power through by force of my own will. I know, O God, that you would have me be completely honest in my words to you, voicing even these discouragements and volatile emotions. And you are more than able to bear their weight, never wavering in your constant love and care for me. For you, O God, watched one you love die violently— your only son. You sympathize with me. So I will freely speak to you the depths of what I feel.
“Happy Mother’s Day” is an expression that evokes tremendous emotions for those of us on this side of Heaven. I am spending Friday with my daughter foraging and hiking. Saturday, my son and I will support Charlotte FC as they play Nashville FC. Sunday we will share dinner with Mom. The sadness and immense sadness that I carry becomes crippling on holidays, so I prepare for these emotions by walking straight into the pain and anguish. I allow them to wash over me as I invite them to enter my heart. It’s a controlled burn. Every season without Toby is painful, but spring and early summer offer a tremendous sting anniversaries, birthdays, Mother’s Day. Mom is so very brave in the face of it all. I am so angry that she has to be, but I am proud of her for continuing to put one foot in front of the other at her own pace, in her own time. Mother’s Day isn’t exactly happy; it’s a swirling mix of happiness and sadness as we relive memories and imagine what life would be like if Toby was here. Either way, we are thankful for the brief time we had. Learning to live without Toby is an education none of us signed up for, but here we are figuring it out one step, one holiday, one tear at a time. -Claire Cunningham
This coming Mother's day was made for mothers' hearts, But yours is torn in shattered parts. Not by time, or fate, or chance— But by a cruel, unchosen hand. They speak of joy and breakfast trays, While you remember darker days. The sirens, silence, final breath— The sudden, senseless grip of death. Yet here you stand, still mother-strong, Still holding love where they belong. Their name lives on in how you speak, In every tear that stains your cheek. You are a mother—through the rage, The courtroom, grave, or empty page. Your child was stolen, not your bond— Their light in you still blazes on. So on this day, we honor you, The mothers bearing grief so true. Your strength, your love, your aching flame— We speak, we whisper, say their name. (unknown) To all the mothers who carry grief in their hearts, we see you. You are not alone. Your love is eternal, and so is the bond you hold with your child. Your loss is not forgotten. -Healing Roots Team
April 16, 2005. New Orleans in the springtime. Perfection: Crisp air, vibrant blue skies, and brilliant, intoxicating sunshine. It was your wedding day. Yesterday I opened up social media and let out a sudden breath of air as tears rolled down my face. There you were in your tuxedo smiling that smile that caused your cheek muscles to micro-tremor because you were ‘cheesin’ too hard’. Unexpectedly, I was whisked back in time filled with a flurry of memories that my heart and mind were not prepared to view. There you were, so very handsome toasting your gorgeous bride. There you were pounding and banging on the bingo drums right along with the band. There you were… The two of you would’ve celebrated your 20th wedding anniversary this year. You would’ve celebrated in stunning, elegant style. Initially, seeing your wedding photos left me stunned, but the initial shock quickly melted into storytelling and sharing memories of that glorious, perfect day 20 years ago. 20 years……ago. Happy Anniversary -Claire Cunningham
Birds. I always enjoy birds. I see them and sometimes I just watch them. They don't ask anything of me, they just exist, moving through the sky like they know where they're going; they are free. Sometime in 2013, I was sitting in my backyard, and I heard a bird chirping. I remember hearing it as if it were the first time. It wasn’t just background noise, it was music. It felt refreshing, new, and peaceful. I hadn't experienced that kind of stillness, that moment of presence, since my dad died in 2008. Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t just hit you once. It lingers, reshapes you, hides in your bones. I numbed so much of myself with anger. Anger became my armor. It felt easier than pain. Justice became my hope. I thought if I could just know; know who, know why, know how, then maybe I could heal. I gave so much power to the idea of justice, to the person who took my father’s life. But in doing so, I delayed my own ability to find internal peace. Who has the power to heal us? Is it the courts? The truth? Time? Or do we quietly reclaim it ourselves , moment by moment—maybe in a backyard, with a bird singing a song that reminds us we're still alive?
Tomorrow your niece presents her scientific research as a collaboration with her professors. Next week she will perform on the Lyra and trapeze. Tomorrow your nephew competes in Powerlifting America’s High School National championship. You would’ve been their biggest fan. You would’ve wanted to be included in every aspect of training and research, travel and strategy, ‘pre-game’ focus and ‘post-game’ celebrations. Competing was your thing. You were a stealthy, witty, stoic, skilled, and strategic competitor. You were fearless and so very friendly. You encouraged everyone and anyone to join in the ‘game’. My kids have your focus, wit, athleticism, and competitiveness. They are smart, rational and strategic just like you. I can hear your voice encouraging and chanting them forward. I close my eyes and imagine your contorted body language as you anxiously and nervously watch the kids compete. You would’ve had children of your own. The joy I would’ve had cheering for my niece(s) and nephew(s). I would’ve been ‘that’ Taunte Claire who made glittery posters and whose voice trilled with whooping howls of encouragement. My niece(s) and nephew(s) would’ve known their Taunte Claire was in the venue. Toby, I see you in my children. My heart is swollen with pride and gratitude. Your niece and nephew are your legacy. Oh, how I wish we could’ve shared these precious moments together, but we can’t. So, I’ll continue to bring your memory with me. I love you. -Claire Cunningham
My dad was shot and killed in a quaint neighborhood. It is the type of place that kids run around and the neighbors know each other. That is how I imagined it 16 years ago anyways. There is something I do sometimes. I take a drive. Sometimes I go to that area and drive the route I think my dad drove the night he was killed. I drive slow and just wonder to myself what went wrong? Who did he see? Who saw him? What happened? Was he scared? What were his last thoughts? All of these questions flood me in these moments. Then I get to the road he lived on. The road he never made it to again. I consider where he would be now. Would he still be renting this little place? Or would he be in a independent living home? Probably not. That thought makes me laugh. My dad was way too independent to live in a place like that. All of these thoughts remind me of who my dad was but also who I never got to see him become. An old man. He was taken at age 56; Which seems very young now more than ever. I am often told about people's loved one's deaths when they lived lives before their tragic deaths. Some final thoughts are the beauty of making meaning. We must find meaning in their life to live with their death. Making meaning from traumatic loss involves the process of reconstructing one’s understanding of the world, self, and relationships in the aftermath of profound grief. Their death, our pain, and the way we choose to move forward can be a beautiful integration. By holding both love and loss, we find strength and carry them with us.
I think about you often, more often than I’d like to. Time wasted wondering where on this planet you are. Mind numbing scenarios of you fleeing to another country or residing near the scene of the murder. I wonder if you had friends in the truck. Did they implore you to stop, or did they urge you to run? I think that you had to be local because those one way streets are tricky for tourists to navigate, or were you a college student with a family name to protect? Did you circle the block of the hospital? Were you in the crowd at the press conference? Has your mind been plagued by the image of Toby burned into your brain? Do you have night terrors? How do you explain your anxiety and anger to loved ones? Who have you told? Has the guilt ripped holes in your gut? I pray for you. I pray that your heart is softened so that you will do the right thing. I pray that if you have a family, that you are kind and loving. I pray that you forever see Toby’s face. I pray that anyone who knows what you did February 25, 2006 finds courage and bravery to tell the police. I pray that I get to meet you, say nothing, but just look into your eyes. I will always wonder where you are. I will always think that you are hiding amongst crowds somewhere in the city thinking that your secret is safe. It doesn’t have to be that way. I pray that you have a relationship with Jesus. I hope that you have confessed murder to Him. I hope that He stirs your heart and soul to confess. I do not wish you well, instead I wish you Jesus. I will continue to pray for you. What did you do with the truck? Did you sink it? Burn it? Hide it under a tarp for nearly 2 decades? -Claire Cunningham
Life goes on. Quickly, I would add. Grief can cause us to feel like it’s easy to exist and hard to live. I remember when my life was normal. I got up, I went to work, I went to college, and I was a normal 23 year old figuring out life. Then one morning at work I was told my dad was shot and killed. In one moment, whatever normalcy I knew was no longer. The first few days, people are there and concerned. Soon after, life moves on. I did not. Not at first. I began living my life again. I remember not having a place to land with grief. I never talked about my dad very much. I never shared much about his case or his murder. It was as if that part of my life never really existed. I did not realize this until I began to open up and help others. I listened to others and it became a sudden need for me. Grief, the notion of it. Grief became the most relatable feeling for me. I’m sharing this because grief is a walk, a run, and a journey. Murder loss is a layered, complicated road. One minute, it feels like being thrashed by hard waves; the next, like soaring in the wind. If we blink, we miss it all—the joys, the painful moments, and grief’s need to be grieved. Injustice in murder loss creates a dual loss. Cases may find closure, but grief does not. Our grief is here to stay. Will you befriend yours? "The only cure for grief is to grieve." -Earl Grollman
