The Weight of Grief and the Fight for Peace

I made it through my first hockey tournament without Samson. This past month has truly felt like hell. The happy face you have to put on—it was Thanksgiving, the Gala (essentially organizing a wedding), while wanting nothing more than to grieve and soak in the milestones: Gabe’s birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and hosting family. I can hold it together for so long, but then I crash.

That’s one of the biggest things I’ve noticed about grief: you can pretend, pretend, pretend, and then that fragile wall of cardboard crumbles, spilling everything out. It’s like the closet you shove all your junk into. Think Monica on Friends—you don’t dare open that closet. That’s the best way I can describe it. Keep it shut, hide the mess, but if you open it, it all comes tumbling out.

Before the tournament, I sobbed for two days, trying to get everything out, knowing that “spill” would hit the moment everyone left. I kept thinking, Get it out now so you can be there for Gabe.

And I did. I made it. I lasted until day three before crying again. All it took was one dumb comment to knock the wind out of my sails. Sometimes I think the world is so incredibly selfish—so self-centered, so oblivious to life outside its perfect little bubble.

If I could get one point across to anyone who hasn’t lost a child, it’s this:

You may see a smile.

You may hear a laugh.

That doesn’t mean we are healed.

It means the band-aid is on.

You will never understand what it takes to show up. You will never understand what it takes to stay alive. You will never understand how everything—everything—reminds us of the gaping hole we carry. You will never understand the pain. And I hope you never have to.

So, if you don’t know what to say, or feel the need to say something thoughtless, don’t. Sometimes no words are better than careless ones. Be grateful you don’t know this kind of pain. Be grateful you don’t cry when someone says something cruel about your child who isn’t here to defend themselves. Be grateful you’re not living in daily, excruciating pain. Be grateful you don’t have to fake it just to survive.

Maybe I’m writing from an angry heart today. And you know what? I am angry.

I’m angry I don’t have my son.

I’m angry Gabe doesn’t have his brother.

I’m angry the world didn’t stop when mine did.

I’m angry life keeps moving forward when I’ve lost life itself.

I’m angry people expect us to move on.

I’m angry at unkind people.

I’m angry at toxic family.

I’m also sensitive—overly sensitive, maybe. But how could I not be? Wouldn’t you be more sensitive after losing a child? How can I not feel the sting of careless words or thoughtless comments when my heart is already shattered? Everything feels bigger, sharper, and harder now.

I am just plain angry and sensitive.

And you know what? I don’t care. I bent over backwards to appease everyone after Samson died. I think my last ounce of “people-pleasing” left with him. I let people who weren’t even an active part of his life speak at his funeral, and for what? Maybe I’ve reached my breaking point—maybe I’m finally standing up for myself.

Thank you, Samson, for helping your mom be brave.

I used to think bravery was going to the edges of the Grand Canyon because that’s what you wanted. That’s not bravery. Bravery is standing up for yourself when no one else will. Bravery is waking up every day when all you want to do is stay in bed and cry. Bravery is choosing not to be the victim, but the hero of your own story.

That’s what Samson was. A hero.

We went through hell together. I remember him saying, “Mom, I actually have a story. It wasn’t easy. People might think I had everything handed to me, but they don’t know what we’ve been through.”

I was so proud of him. He was an anomaly. A child born to a teen mom without his bio dad being active in his life. Despite it all— he still was an honor roll, triple athlete, who loved the Lord and stood up for what was right. After his funeral, I’ll never forget one of his best friends saying that. “No offense Micheala, but coming from a teen mom, you wouldn’t ever think he would have been the person he was, or lived the way he did. You’d never have known.” I didn’t take offense. I was way too proud of Samson overcoming odds, and people seeing that to be offended. And Samson was right, he did have a story. We had a story. At 16, I moved out. By 18, I was managing a store, making $9.25 an hour, paying $775 in rent, and supporting Samson and myself. By the grace of God, we made it. The math doesn’t add up, but somehow, we did it. Many times of selling plasma just so Samson could play hockey. He didn’t know that. I wanted him to just be a kid—to play hockey and be happy. He didn’t need any burdens. He needed to be a child. And he was— the nickname “Smiler” was Samson. He always had a smile.

I am beginning to feel like I want to share everything with all of you who have followed our journey. But I also want to honor Samson and keep what’s private sacred. I’m trying to find the balance. Maybe no one cares. Maybe this will just be a journal for me to reflect upon as time continues. I’m learning day to day myself how to handle this new life. I’m sharing so other parents who lose children don’t feel alone. I share to keep Samson’s name alive. I share for those who may know someone that lost a child. I share to help heal myself.

I will say this: people have made this past year a thousand times harder than it needed to be. All Tom and I have ever wanted is peace. Peace to grieve our son in peace.

That’s it. Just peace.