When Quinten died, people gave us cards.
They brought food.
They sent messages.
They hugged me.
They told me they were sorry.
And I was grateful for every act of kindness.
But there was something else I desperately needed.
I needed someone to tell me how I was supposed to live when my son was dead.
Not how to get over it.
Not how to find closure.
Not how to move on.
Just how to get through the next hour.
And then maybe the one after that.
I Didn’t Know How to Do This
Nothing prepares you for losing your child.
Even when you know death is coming.
We had been caring for Quinten for two years through cancer. We eventually entered hospice. I knew what the doctors had told us.
I knew what was happening.
But knowing your child is going to die and understanding how to live after they do are two completely different things.
After Quinten died, I entered a world I didn’t understand.
Suddenly there were decisions to make when I could barely think.
People to call.
A funeral to plan.
An obituary to write.
Belongings everywhere that still smelled and looked like him.
And then, eventually, everyone went home.
That’s when another part began.
How do I live here without him?
No one could answer that for me.
I Wish Someone Had Told Me There Were No Rules
I wish someone had told me that grief wouldn’t look the way I expected.
That I might cry one moment and laugh the next.
That I could have a good day and then feel guilty about having it.
That an ordinary trip to the grocery store could suddenly become unbearable.
That dates on a calendar would take on entirely new meanings.
That sometimes I would want to talk about Quinten constantly.
And sometimes I wouldn’t want to talk at all.
I wish someone had told me that none of those things meant I was grieving incorrectly.
I especially wish someone had told me:
You don’t have to figure out the rest of your life today.
Sometimes you only have to figure out today.
I Wish Someone Had Told Me That People Would Go Back to Their Lives
This one is difficult.
In the beginning, people check on you.
There are messages and phone calls.
People ask how you’re doing.
Then weeks become months.
Life begins returning to normal for everyone else.
Except yours doesn’t.
I wasn’t angry at people for continuing their lives.
But I wasn’t prepared for how lonely grief could become once the rest of the world became quieter.
I wish someone had warned me about that.
I wish someone had told me that months later I might need someone to ask about Quinten even more than I did during those first few days.
Please don’t be afraid to say his name.
You aren’t reminding me that he died.
I haven’t forgotten.
You’re reminding me that he lived.
I Wish Someone Had Told Me I Could Keep Him With Me
For a while, I wondered whether healing meant eventually letting go.
I’ve learned something very different.
I don’t have to leave my son behind in order to keep living.
I can say his name.
I can tell his stories.
I can keep his pictures around me.
I can light his candles when the Saturday sirens sound at noon.
I can bring flowers to his grave.
I can make his favorite things part of our family traditions.
I can laugh at something he would have thought was funny.
I can miss him terribly and still experience joy.
There is room for both.
That may be one of the most important things grief has taught me.
Love doesn’t have to end just because someone’s physical life does.
I Wish Someone Had Told Me Healing Wouldn’t Mean Forgetting
This was one of my fears.
If someday I hurt less, would that mean I loved him less?
If I laughed again, was I moving on?
If I began building a life that didn’t physically include Quinten, was I leaving him behind?
I’m beginning to understand that healing doesn’t ask any of those things from me.
I don’t have to remain in the deepest part of my pain to prove how much I love my son.
I can heal and grieve.
I can laugh and miss him.
I can be grateful for the life I still have while wishing with everything in me that Quinten were still part of it.
These things can exist together.
Maybe This Is Why I Keep Writing
When I started writing about losing Quinten, I was writing because I needed somewhere to put my grief.
Then something unexpected began happening.
Other grieving people found my words.
They told me they understood.
Sometimes they told me that I had put words to something they hadn’t been able to explain themselves.
And slowly, the purpose of The Q Life began changing for me.
I’m still writing about my son.
I always will.
But I’m also beginning to think about the person who may be standing where I once stood.
The mother who has just lost her child.
The father who doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next.
The parent awake at 2 a.m. wondering if what they’re feeling is normal.
The person who doesn’t need someone telling them how to fix their grief.
They just need someone beside them saying:
I know this is hard. You don’t have to figure everything out today.
The Thing I Wish Someone Had Handed Me
I’ve thought about this a lot lately.
What if, during those first weeks and months, someone had handed me something that didn’t promise to fix me?
Something that didn’t give me stages to complete.
Something that didn’t tell me when I should be feeling better.
Just something gentle.
Something I could pick up when I needed it and put down when I didn’t.
Something that talked about the things I was actually experiencing—the loneliness, the guilt, the dates, the belongings, returning to everyday life, finding moments of joy again, and the fear that healing somehow meant leaving my child behind.
Most of all, I would have wanted it to say:
Your child mattered.
Your love still matters.
There is no deadline for your grief.
And you don’t have to walk through this alone.
I didn’t have that exact guide when Quinten died.
So I’ve decided to create it.
Not because I have grief figured out.
I don’t.
I’m still living it.
I’m creating it because I know what it feels like to be a mother desperately searching for some idea of how to live in a world that no longer contains her son.
And maybe everything I’ve learned since losing Quinten can make the road a little less lonely for someone walking behind me.
I’ll share more about that soon.
For now, if you’re grieving someone you love, I want to leave you with the words I wish someone had handed me:
You don’t have to move on.
You don’t have to stop loving them.
You just have to keep taking the next step.
And sometimes the next step is simply making it through today.
Walking with love after loss.
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