What No One Tells You About Losing a Child

The Day Time Stopped

No one tells you how the world keeps spinning when yours comes to a sudden halt.

It was a Tuesday—sunny, unassuming. The kind of day where nothing monumental should happen. My son, Caleb, had just turned seven. He had a wild laugh that echoed off the walls and a tender soul that seemed too large for his little frame. That morning, he had asked me if whales could get sunburned. I said I didn't know, and he said, "Let’s Google it after school."

But we never got to Google it.

The phone call came at 2:43 p.m., and I remember that detail because it was the last moment I ever felt like a whole person. A truck driver had run a red light. Caleb’s school bus never stood a chance. Neither did he.

No one tells you that the body can physically ache from grief. My hands shook for days. My chest felt like it had caved in. I screamed into pillows, slammed doors, collapsed in showers. And then I got up, dried my face, and answered the door when someone brought over a casserole.

Grief makes you a shape-shifter.

The Things They Don’t Say

What no one tells you about losing a child is that it rewires your DNA. People will tiptoe around you, unsure what to say. Some will say the wrong things: “At least he’s in a better place,” or “Everything happens for a reason.” You will want to scream. You will want to disappear.

Others will say nothing at all. Friends will slowly drift. Invitations will stop. Conversations will become filtered. Your very presence will remind them of something too dark, too unimaginable. And so they avoid you.

But what they don’t realize is that you crave the opposite. You want to talk about him. You want someone—anyone—to say his name.

Caleb. His name was Caleb. He loved dinosaurs, orange popsicles, and stories about space. He was here. He mattered.

The Quiet Moments Are the Loudest

Grief doesn’t always come in tears. Sometimes it shows up in the grocery store when you pass the cereal aisle. Sometimes it finds you in a child’s laugh that sounds almost—but not quite—like his. Sometimes it’s in the stillness of night when the world is asleep and you’re wide awake, staring at the ceiling, bargaining with a God you no longer recognize.

And the guilt—oh, the guilt. No one tells you that grief comes with guilt, that somehow you’ll feel like you failed. Even if it wasn’t your fault. Even if you loved them every single second of their life. You’ll replay everything. The last words. The missed signs. The what-ifs.

The Rebuilding (That Never Ends)

Here’s the part they don’t write about in grief pamphlets: you will laugh again. You will smile and feel the sun on your skin and maybe even dance in your kitchen. The first time this happens, you’ll hate yourself for it.

But slowly, gently, you’ll learn that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. That moving forward doesn’t mean moving on.

There will be a day when the memory of your child brings more warmth than pain. It may take months. Years. But it comes. Not like a sunrise—sudden and brilliant—but like a candle lighting in a dark room. Small. Quiet. Steady.

The Unexpected Gifts

I used to think nothing good could ever come from something so terrible. But grief deepens you. It makes you soft in places you were once sharp. It opens your eyes to pain in others and teaches you how to hold space for it.

I now volunteer with parents in hospitals. I sit beside them, not with answers, but with presence. Because I know that presence matters. Just having someone willing to sit in the dark with you—that’s everything.

If You’re Reading This

Maybe you’ve lost a child, too. Or maybe you’re here out of curiosity, fear, or heartbreak. Either way, I want you to know this:

You are not crazy. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not alone.

Your child mattered. Your pain matters. Your story matters.

And even though you will never be the same—you can still be whole.

Not in the way you were, but in a new way. A quieter, deeper, more compassionate way.

No one tells you that. But I will.