Lost My Son. Here’s What I Wish People Understood About Grief.

Grief doesn’t end. It just changes shape.

My son, James, emigrated to heaven on 28th February 2024. He was 28 years old. Bright, funny, gentle-hearted. My only child. He would’ve turned 30 this June.

Even writing those words, there’s a part of me that can’t quite believe I’m saying them.

When people ask, “How are you doing?” I know they mean well, but how do you answer that, really?

There’s no roadmap for losing a child. No instructions. No timeline. No quick fix.

I want to share a few things I’ve learned, not because I have it all figured out, but because if you’re reading this in pain, or loving someone who is, you might feel a little less alone.

Grief isn’t one feeling, it’s all of them

People imagine grief as sadness. But it’s also rage, Numbness, Confusion, Relief, sometimes, followed by guilt for feeling it.

Some days I feel like I can breathe again. Then a smell, a song, or a date knocks me to the floor. Sometimes, it’s just seeing a father and son walking together. Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

Grief isn’t tidy. It’s not stages. It’s waves, and you don’t always see them coming.

Time doesn’t heal everything

Whoever came up with “Time heals all wounds” wasn’t a parent who lost a child.

Time does soften things, eventually. But it also stretches out the silence. It shows you every birthday they don’t get to have. Every future you imagined, now missing.

Grief doesn’t mean you’re stuck in the past. It means you’re still carrying love with nowhere to put it.

I don’t want to be told to be strong

People mean well when they say it. I get it. They want to encourage you, help you keep going. But here’s the truth, strength isn’t holding it together.

Strength is feeling it. It’s crying when you need to. It’s getting out of bed when you don’t want to. It’s saying, “Today is hard,” and letting that be enough.

Grief takes every ounce of energy. If I’m still here, still breathing, still remembering James with love, that is strong.

Please don’t change the subject when I talk about him

I will always be James’s dad. That doesn’t stop because he’s not here.

I still want to say his name. I still want to tell you about the time he launched rockets with me, or how he lit up every room he entered. When people shy away from talking about him, when they change the subject or act awkward, it hurts.

Mentioning him doesn’t remind me he’s gone. I never forget. What it does remind me is that someone else remembers him too and that matters more than I can explain.

Some days are landmines, and I never know when they’ll hit

The date he left. His birthday. Christmas. Father's Day. Even the first warm day of the year, those were our rocket-launching days.

Those dates are brutal. I brace myself for them like storms. But sometimes, it’s an ordinary Tuesday that breaks me.

That’s grief. It doesn’t follow logic. It doesn’t respect the calendar. And it doesn’t need a reason to show up.

I don’t need fixing. I just need space

Please don’t try to fix this. You can’t and I’m not broken, I’m grieving.

If you want to support someone who’s lost a child, you don’t need to have the right words. You just need to be there.

Say, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.” Say, “Tell me about them.” Say nothing, even, just sit with us in the silence. That silence is sacred.

I walk with my grief now. Not in it.

That’s what I’ve come to understand. Grief doesn’t leave, but it changes shape. It becomes a companion. Some days it’s quiet, sitting beside me. Other days it roars. But I don’t fear it anymore.

I’ve learned to walk with it, not be consumed by it. I’ve also learned I’m not alone. There are so many of us carrying invisible losses. If you’ve lost someone you love, especially a child, know this:

You’re not broken.

You’re not failing at grief.

You’re still a parent, even if your child lives in your memories now and if you’re someone trying to support a grieving friend or family member, thank you.

Keep showing up. Keep listening. You might never see the difference you make, but trust me, you’re making one.

James will always be part of my life. Just in a different way now and if this blog helps even one person feel less alone in their pain, then I know he’s still lighting the way.

—Carl

P.S. "If you're navigating grief, you're not alone, our 3-day Grief Retreat offers space to begin breathing again."