My Year 12 Reflection in a Continuing Journey of Grief
“The cross you carry can become someone else’s resurrection.”
That quote has lingered in my spirit lately. It reminds me that even our deepest suffering can become a source of hope, healing, and light for others. It is a truth that has quietly unfolded throughout my own journey.
Twelve years feels like a lifetime — and also like a moment that never fully passed.
There is a strange space I now live in, one only time and grief could create. The sharp, unbearable pain that once consumed my days has softened, but it has not disappeared. It has simply changed shape. It has become quieter, more familiar… but no less real.
In the early days, grief was loud.
It roared through my life demanding attention, leaving me breathless. Every memory cut deeply; every reminder felt unbearable. I searched for Jeggan in places he used to be — gyms, libraries, familiar songs, passing faces, and quiet rooms.
As the years passed, grief did not disappear.
It simply changed its voice.
It became quieter, yet deeper. It settled into my bones and into the rhythm of my days. It began showing up in unexpected moments — a scent, a date, a dream, a soccer game. It taught me that grief is not something to “get over,” but something to learn to live with.
There were seasons I thought I would not survive.
But somehow, by grace, I did.
Now, in year twelve, grief no longer shouts.
It whispers.
It murmurs.
It groans.
It appears in the stillness of ordinary days — when something beautiful happens and I instinctively think of you. In the silence where your voice should be. In the quiet knowing that no amount of time will bring you back, yet all of my love remains.
The hymn writer once asked:
“Can a woman’s tender care cease toward the child she bears?”
I have learned that grief is not something I leave behind or disentangle myself from. It has become part of me. It reshapes how I see the world, how I love, and how I endure.
There are still days when the weight feels unexpectedly heavy. A memory, a conversation, or a simple thought can pull me back into that deep place of longing. But I am no longer afraid of those moments. I have learned how to sit with them — to let them come and go like waves.
It is often in those very moments that grace and strength find me, and the promises of a loving God most evident.
During this crucial season of my life, I find myself facing increased loneliness, bouts of anxiety and renewed yearning for my son.
Yet what surprises me most twelve years later is not the pain — it is the endurance of love.
Grief deepens where love once lived.
Love has not faded. It has not weakened. If anything, it has stretched across time and absence. It lives in everything I do — in the way I care for others, in the way I hold space for those who are hurting- my fellow travelers.
To bereaved mothers struggling under the weight of grief:
I salute you.
I honor you.
I see you.
Together, we will amplify the voices of our children for the greater good. We will infuse purpose into our grief and illuminate hope.
Grief has been my companion, my teacher, and at times my burden. But it has also become the measure of my love. And love like this does not end. It endures — across years, across silence, across absence.
I carry Jeggan with me differently now.
Not only in grief, but also in strength.
Not only in sorrow, but in quiet resilience.
Twelve years later, I still speak your name. I still carry your memory like a sacred flame. You are present in the quiet strength I have found, in the compassion I now hold for others, and in the way I see the world with softer eyes. My story — with all its memories, scars, and marks — has become a ministry, an offering of hope, humility, and beauty born from pain.
Scripture echoes this beautifully in Psalm 56:
“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in Your bottle. Are they not in Your book?” — Psalm 56:8 (ESV)
Twelve years ago, I wondered how I would survive this loss.
Today, I know survival is not the end of my story.
Living is.
Living with grief.
Living with love.
Living while carrying both.
It is in living that Jeggan is honored.
And so, in year twelve, I continue.
Still missing Jeggan.
Still loving my son Jeggan.
Still here.
Rest well son
05/19/
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