The Q life Grief Journey

One year.

Somehow, an entire year has passed since I held Quinten’s hand for the last time.

A year since I whispered, “Go with God.”

A year since I heard the words I miss most:

“I love you, Momma.”

People often say that time heals.

I have learned that time doesn’t heal the loss of a child.

It teaches you how to carry it.

Over the past year, I have lived through emotions I never knew could exist together.

There has been disbelief.

How could my son really be gone?

Even now, there are moments when my mind forgets for just a second. I hear a funny story or see something that would have made Quinten laugh, and my first thought is that I can’t wait to tell him.

Then reality gently, and sometimes painfully, reminds me.

There has been anger.

Not the kind that lashes out at others.

The quiet kind.

The kind that asks why cancer had to steal the life of a man who loved so deeply, laughed so freely, and found joy in the simplest things.

The kind that grieves the birthdays, holidays, fishing trips, and ordinary Saturdays that will never happen again.

There has been overwhelming sadness.

The kind that settles into places words cannot fully describe.

The sadness of missing one more hug.

One more conversation.

One more Saturday afternoon.

One more chance to hear him say,

“I love you, Momma.”

That longing has not disappeared.

I don’t believe it ever will.

Because love doesn’t end when life does.

If anything, love becomes even more visible in the ache that remains.

But this year has also surprised me.

Not because the grief became smaller.

It hasn’t.

But because healing quietly began to appear in places I wasn’t expecting.

Our family has grown closer.

Losing Quinten reminded us how precious each other truly are.

We have leaned on one another.

Held one another.

Laughed together.

Cried together.

And somehow, together, we’ve found the strength to keep taking the next step.

I have found healing in hugs.

Simple hugs.

The kind that don’t fix anything but somehow remind me I’m not carrying this alone.

And I have found joy in the eyes of my grandsons, Lincoln and Everett.

Their laughter doesn’t replace what was lost.

Nothing ever could.

But it reminds me that love continues.

Life continues.

Hope continues.

I see pieces of our family’s future reflected in them, and for that, I am deeply grateful.

People sometimes talk about “getting back to normal.”

I’ve learned there is no returning to normal after losing a child.

No matter how old they are.

My normal included Quinten.

He was woven into my everyday life.

My Saturdays.

My phone calls.

My conversations.

My celebrations.

My heart.

When he died, that version of normal died too.

So this past year has not been about finding my old life again.

It has been about searching for a new normal.

One where I carry both unimaginable loss and enduring love.

One where grief walks beside gratitude.

One where tears and laughter can exist in the same day.

One where I continue to honor my son by speaking his name, telling his stories, and living a life that reflects the love he gave so freely.

I know I will grieve Quinten for the rest of my life.

Not because I am unable to move forward.

But because I will always be his mother.

That part of me did not end when his life did.

It never will.

If anything, this first year has taught me that grief is not something to overcome.

It is love that has nowhere to go.

So I will keep loving him.

I will keep missing him.

I will keep telling his stories.

I will keep saying his name.

Because Quinten mattered.

He still matters.

And he always will.

One year has passed.

Not a day has gone by that I haven’t loved him.

Not a day has gone by that I haven’t missed him.

And not a day will ever come when that changes.

Until we meet again, my sweet boy…

I love you, too.