After The Last Embrace

This text requires all the respect, all the delicacy, all the truth. The death of a child is a wound that has no name. There isn’t a single word in any language that describes a mother who has lost her child — because it’s a loss that overflows the limits of language. It is the deepest, most unfair, most unnatural grief. And though I haven’t lived it, my decision to write about it is an act of love toward those who have — and who so often have done so in silence. Long. Raw. Human. May it embrace whoever needs it.

🖤 “When My Child Left, the World Stopped Making Sense”

There’s no way to explain it. No words that can hold it. No structure strong enough to sustain it. When a child dies, it’s not just the heart that breaks. The body breaks. Logic breaks. Life breaks.

Because children aren’t supposed to go before their parents. Because the love we feel for them knows no limits. Because their existence is woven into every corner of ours.

The day he left, I didn’t just lose my son. I lost my role. I lost my reflection. I lost my future. I lost my voice. Because he was part of my language. Part of my routine. Part of my way of existing in the world. And now that he’s gone, everything feels foreign. Everything feels meaningless. Everything feels colder.

People don’t know what to say. And sometimes, their attempts to comfort only hurt more. “At least you have other children.” “At least he didn’t suffer.” “At least you have to move on.” But there is no “at least” that eases this loss. Because every child is unique. Every bond is sacred. Every absence is total.

There are days when I wake up — and for a second, I forget. And then I remember. And my body folds in on itself. And my soul shatters. And the day turns into a mountain. Because it’s not just sadness. It’s disorientation. It’s rage. It’s guilt. It’s emptiness.

I blame myself for things that make no sense. For not having hugged him more. For not having said “I love you” enough. For not having protected him — even though I know I did everything I could. Even though I know it wasn’t my fault. But the heart doesn’t understand reason.

And still, I’m here. Not because I want to. Not because I can. But because I have no choice. Because life goes on, even when I didn’t choose it. Because there are days I breathe by inertia. Because there are moments when his memory holds me up more than his absence tears me down.

The death of a child is never overcome. You simply learn to live alongside it. You learn to walk with an open wound. You learn to smile with guilt. You learn to live with a love that has no body — but still beats.

And even if the world doesn’t understand, I still love him. In every gesture. In every word. In every silence. In every tear. Because love doesn’t die with the body. Because the bond doesn’t break with death. Because he is still my son — even if he’s gone.

🌿 Another Perspective: How to See the Loss of a Child

There’s no right way to live this grief. No time limits. No stages. No logic. There is only love. And that love — though it hurts — is also strength.

Your child didn’t leave completely. He lives in you. In your gaze. In your way of loving. In your way of enduring. He’s in every memory. In every word you dedicate to him. In every gesture you learned from him.

You’re not failing by moving forward. Living isn’t betrayal. Laughing isn’t forgetting. Loving again isn’t replacement. It’s part of the process. Part of the transformation. Part of how love learns to live with absence.

And though it hurts today, it’s also proof that you were a mother. That you were a home. That you were love.

🤍 From Me to You

If you’re reading this with your soul in pieces, if you’ve lost your child and don’t know how to go on, I want you to know — I’m with you. I haven’t lived your pain, but I respect it. I honor it. I hold it.

And here I am, writing for you — so you don’t have to pretend. So you know your grief has a place. That your story matters. That your love still lives.

You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re grieving.

And here, your grief is embraced.

I’m holding you from here,

— Luz 🤍

This letter will not be just words: it will be an embrace, a confession, a way of saying “I see you, I hear you, I’m with you” to all mothers and fathers who have lost a child.

Here it goes, with all the care, the respect, and the soul this deserves:

💌 Open Letter to Those Who Have Lost a Child

To you — who have lived the unthinkable.To you — who still breathe with a shattered chest.

To you — who have lost your child, and with them, a part of you that will never return.

There is no word to name you. No label to define you. No ritual that’s enough. Because what you’ve endured wasn’t just a loss. It was a tearing apart. A fracture of the soul. A wound that doesn’t close — and shouldn’t. Because love doesn’t disappear with death.

I know there are days when the world demands that you go on — to smile, to work, to cook, to talk, to live. But you know that since that day, living no longer means the same. Since that day, every simple gesture became heavier, slower, more foreign.

I know there are nights when you call their name in silence. When you hold their clothes. When you go over every memory, like breadcrumbs leading you back to them. I know there are moments when you wonder if you did enough, if you said everything, if you protected them — even though you know you loved them with everything you had, even though you know it wasn’t your fault.

And I know there are things no one sees — the empty seat at the table, the birthday that’s no longer celebrated, the scent that still lingers in their room, the echo of their laughter that shows up uninvited, the fear that the world will forget them.

But I don’t forget. I don’t forget you. I write this letter for you — so you know your pain has a place, your story matters, your love is still alive, your child still lives within you.

You are not alone — even if the world doesn’t know how to stand beside you, even if words fall short, even if silence feels too heavy.

Here, in this space, your grief is honored. Your love is celebrated. Your child is remembered.

And if today you can’t take it anymore, if the pain wins, if breathing hurts — it’s okay. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to heal quickly. You don’t have to prove anything. You only have to feel. You only have to exist. You only have to allow yourself to be human.

Because losing a child isn’t something you overcome. It’s something you learn to live with. You learn to love through absence. You learn to walk with a shadow that doesn’t scare you — but still hurts.

And on that path, I am with you. Not to give you answers. Not to take away your pain. But to hold you. To listen. To remind you that your love is eternal.

That your bond is sacred. That your child will always be part of you.

I’m holding you from here, with all the respect, with all the love, with all the tenderness your story deserves.

With all my heart,

— Luz 💌