The Q life Grief Journey

I made it through the first year.

I have heard people say that the first year after losing someone is the hardest.

Just get through the first birthday.

The first Thanksgiving.

The first Christmas.

The first Mother’s Day.

The first anniversary.

Once you’ve survived all of those “firsts,” somehow, things are supposed to start getting easier.

I believed there might be some truth in that.

I hoped there was.

But now I am on the other side of that first year after losing Quinten, and I need to say something that may be difficult for people who haven’t experienced this kind of loss to understand:

I don’t feel finished.

I don’t feel like I’ve completed the hardest part.

And I certainly don’t feel like my year of grieving is over.

If anything, crossing that one-year mark has brought an entirely different kind of grief.

Because now there are no more firsts to prepare for.

There is simply life without him.

What Happens After the First Year?

For an entire year, I could measure time by loss.

The first Saturday family dinner without Quinten.

The first holiday.

The first birthday.

The first time spring came.

The first Mother’s Day.

The first anniversary of the day he died.

Every milestone carried the words:

The first one without him.

And then July 15 came again.

One year.

I had survived 365 days without my son.

I don’t know what I expected to happen after that day.

Of course, I knew I wasn’t going to wake up the next morning and suddenly be okay.

But I wasn’t prepared for the strange feeling that came with entering year two.

It almost felt as though my allotted time for grieving had expired.

As if the world had quietly handed me a notice:

You’ve had your year.

Now it’s time to move on.

But move on to where?

My son is still gone.

I still miss him.

I still want to hear his voice.

I still want him walking through my front door on Saturdays.

I still want another family dinner.

I still want another hug.

I still want to hear:

“I love you, Momma.”

None of that changed because the calendar moved forward.

The Calendar Doesn’t Decide When Grief Ends.

There is something about the one-year anniversary that feels significant to everyone.

People remember it.

They check on you.

They understand that the day will be difficult.

And I am grateful for that.

But then the anniversary passes.

And life continues.

For everyone.

Including me.

The difference is that I am continuing without Quinten.

Again.

For another year.

I think that is what I’m beginning to understand about the second year.

The first year taught me how to survive all the firsts.

The second year is beginning to teach me something else:

This isn’t temporary.

There won’t be a year when Quinten suddenly returns to our Saturday dinner table.

There won’t be a Christmas when his absence disappears.

There won’t be a birthday when I stop being his mother.

There won’t be some magical anniversary when I have finally grieved enough.

This is part of my life now.

And maybe accepting that is its own kind of grief.

I Don’t Want to “Move On”.

I struggle with the phrase move on.

I know most people mean well when they use it.

They want to see someone they care about hurting less.

But moving on sounds like leaving something behind.

And I am not leaving Quinten behind.

I don’t want to.

I am learning to move forward with him.

There is a difference.

Moving forward means I can laugh again and still miss him.

I can enjoy my grandsons and still wish Uncle Q were here to watch them grow.

I can make new memories without replacing the old ones.

I can experience happiness without believing that my grief has ended.

I can build a life around the space Quinten left without pretending that space doesn’t exist.

Healing doesn’t require forgetting.

And moving forward doesn’t require letting go of love.

Maybe the Second Year Is Hard in a Different Way.

The first year was filled with shock.

There were days when I still couldn’t believe this had happened to us.

There were dates looming ahead that I dreaded.

There were constant reminders that this was the first time we were doing something without him.

Now the shock isn’t quite the same.

I know Quinten is gone.

And perhaps that’s part of what makes year two difficult.

Reality has settled in.

The world has gotten used to his absence.

I’m not sure I ever will.

There is a loneliness in realizing that everyone else’s life naturally keeps expanding while one part of yours will forever point backward toward someone who should still be here.

That doesn’t mean I am stuck.

It means I loved someone who mattered.

My Grief Doesn’t Need a Deadline.

I spent almost two years grieving the possibility of losing Quinten while he was still alive.

Then I spent the first year learning how to live after losing him.

And now I am beginning another year.

I don’t know what this year will look like.

Maybe there will be more laughter.

I hope so.

Maybe there will be more healing.

I hope for that too.

There will probably be days when grief knocks me down again.

I am learning to accept those as well.

What I will no longer do is measure my healing against a calendar.

I will not tell myself:

It’s been more than a year. I shouldn’t still feel this way.

I will not apologize for saying his name.

I will not stop telling his stories.

I will not put away the things that bring me comfort because enough time has supposedly passed.

I will not stop lighting his candles on Saturdays when the sirens sound at noon.

And I will not pretend that loving and missing my son has an expiration date.

There Is No Finish Line.

Maybe that’s what I wish people understood about grief.

The first year isn’t a finish line.

It’s simply the first year.

There will be a second.

Then a third.

Then a fifth.

Someday, God willing, I may have lived many years without Quinten.

And I imagine some part of me will still wonder how that is possible.

I hope grief will continue to change.

I hope the sharp edges soften.

I hope memories bring more smiles than tears.

I hope I continue finding joy.

I hope I keep healing.

But I don’t need healing to mean that I no longer grieve.

Because I am beginning to understand that those two things can exist together.

I can be healing and grieving.

I can be moving forward and remembering.

I can love the life still in front of me and ache for the life that is no longer beside me.

I made it through the first year without my son.

But I didn’t finish grieving him.

I never will.

And I’m finally realizing that I don’t need to.

Because grief isn’t something I have to complete before I’m allowed to live again.

It is something I am learning to carry as I live.

So this is year two.

I’m not moving on.

I’m moving forward.

And I’m bringing Quinten with me.

Walking with love after loss.