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Now, I’m in my early twenties! I’ve made it through teenage grief, and now I’m navigating young adult grief. (Yay.) I’ve been writing about my grief for more than half a decade, and I want to know – what do you want to know?

I want to create a space where you feel comfortable asking any questions you have or suggesting topics for discussion. That’s what this article is all about! Use the comments section to ask me anything, anytime. I’ll respond to your questions, use your topic ideas to inspire future articles, and share as much (or as little – depending on the topic!) as I’m comfortable with.

So, go ahead – ask away!

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A routine phone call from my grandmother while I was on vacation in 2019 rudely shoved me down the hole of grief again. Just nine months after my dad passed, my bonus mom passed, too. At home. At my childhood home. My bonus mom died in my childhood home. Who would have thought that my life would turn out this way? Who would have thought that this would be my story? It still doesn’t feel real.

I was states away when she died. Still states away when I got the call. States that took forever, yet no time at all, to rush home through. Rush home to what? She’s dead. No matter how fast my mom drove, it wouldn’t change the fact that a year ago, I had three living parents, I had left my state with two living parents, and I came home with one.

I remember when I was in middle school, my dad and bonus mom would take my little sister and me on a fun back to school shopping trip every year. My dad traveled a lot for work, and he would accumulate hotel points that were used for a free stay in a fun hotel in a city near us - a little mini vacation for the four of us. One of the last times we all went together, we checked out of the hotel and went straight to a store that one of my parents wanted to go to. (The name of the store and what we went to get is right on the tip of my tongue. It’s in my memory somewhere, but not quite accessible. It’s funny how many of my memories are like that now.) I looked down at my wrist and made the horrifying realization that I had left my watch at the hotel. I told my dad, and he was upset, but we ran back to the hotel - leaving my sister and bonus mom shopping. Once we made it into our room, past a kind housekeeper and his annoyance, I found my watch under the pullout couch I had slept on and my dad grabbed a few things that he had forgotten as well (and conveniently not mentioned when he was upset at me earlier… or maybe he hadn’t realized). He hadn’t forgotten anything as big as a watch - just a charger and something else I can’t quite remember - but we probably laughed about it. I miss laughing with him. In that moment, almost losing my watch while I was on vacation was devastating. At least, I thought it was. Then I lost my bonus mom, just a few years, on vacation. She has lost in a different way than the watch. No amount of turning around and looking under the couch will lead to me finding her. Now that was devastating1

The story of how my bonus mom passed away is full of blanks in my mind. No one will ever know the full story, because the one person who was the closest to knowing it passed, after all. But the story that lives on in the people who were there or in the people who heard bits and pieces is bigger than the story that lives in my head. I know about a sleepover for my sister, a house signed over, and a night presumably spent alone watching television. I know about texts unanswered, my dad’s coworkers/friends who were called, a back door left unlocked, and my bonus mom being gone before anyone knew to look for her. What I don’t know is a lot more. I don’t know why my dad’s coworkers were the ones that were called. They were people I had known my whole life, but I thought - or well, I assumed - that my parents had closer friends than them. Maybe not. Or, maybe my parents didn’t have other friends who could come during the workday (I always wondered why those two, acquaintances with each other but not the closest, were the ones to come, but as I write this, I realize that it was during work hours, and they were probably in the office, my dad’s old office, and the only people my family knew who could rush over right away). I don’t know who else was called or how long they tried to get into my house. I don’t know why they didn’t use our door code to get in, and instead found a way in through the back. I don’t know what they expected to find or how they reacted when they realized she had died. I don’t know who was called first, the police or my family? Who called my family? How did these two people, people I knew my whole life, break the news to my grandparents? Or did someone else? How did my grandparents tell my sister? How do you do that?

In the blank spaces in this narrative, I have filled in my own story. I imagine that they called the police, and then ambulances filled the half-circle driveway of our house. (I loved that driveway growing up, but hate that it has become a metaphor of what is left of our family. We’re a semicircle now, whichever way you look at it - 1/2 of us are here, 1/2 of us are gone.) I imagine the tens of sirens calling out our pain.2 Rationally, I realize that probably only one or two ambulances came - she was one person and she was gone - but I still imagine a big scene for some reason. Maybe because it was so big to us. I imagine the neighbors looking outside and learning of the devastation before we, her two kids, did. The realization that we lost not one, but two of our parents. The realization that our worlds were about to shatter again, for the second time within a year. The realization that my sister just ran out of parents. The realization that what had been broken by my dad, and was starting to heal with time, was shattered again, maybe beyond repair. I imagine my grandparents learning what happened, or, rather, what we know of what happened, and rushing over. I imagine that long drive between our house and theirs. What did they say? Did they speak at all? They must have been crushed under the weight of the world that was settling on their shoulders more and more each minute. Or maybe they didn’t feel it yet. When did they start feeling it? I imagine them realizing that someone would have to tell my sister, tell me, and that it was their job to do at least one of those talks. How do you plan that? How do you tell a kid that?

Whenever I hear an ambulance, it brings me back to those moments that I was not a part of, moments that I did not have to live through, and I feel the weight of them. It also brings me back to the pain that I do know existed, the moments that I did have to live through, and the weight I still carry with me - often starting with the second time my world stopped spinning. It was a rainy day, or maybe it just felt like one, and my mom, aunt, and I were on our way to Wendy’s. We were talking and planning our orders, when my grandma called. She asked where I was, then said a sentence with words that I don’t remember but pain that I do, and I screamed. I don’t know how long I screamed, how my mom and aunt reacted, how long it took for my aunt to grab the phone and ask what could have possibly happened, and I don’t know how I stopped screaming. I don’t remember ever stopping screaming - either time I lost a parent. But I must have, right? I’m not screaming now. How did I stop? How could I? How did I stop the screaming and start living with this? It still repeats in my head to this day: They both died. How could they both die?

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There are millions of questions I have - about my parents lives and about their deaths. When I was younger, I sought out as many answers as I could. It felt like I was always just a question away from finding a cure to an incurable disease (could grief be that?), that the next answer could - would - heal everything. But at some point in high school, I stopped asking. Sometimes, answers open windows and bring the light in, but sometimes, answers pull the curtains shut and swallow you in darkness. When I wonder about my bonus mom’s death, I can put little flourishes of grace in the story I tell myself. Maybe she died in her sleep and didn’t know. Maybe she felt no pain. Maybe she was really happy beforehand, then she died, quickly and painlessly. Died with a smile. The minute I find out answers, maybe these hopeful stories will be confirmed - maybe it’s even better than I hope - but maybe, just maybe, I will find out something that breaks my heart. Something that I can’t erase from my memory. Something that takes away the flourishes. Something that takes away my hope. It already happened to me once. The story of my dad’s death was presented to me neatly, tied into a cute little bow. Later, I learned that what once looked like a bow was actually a knot of tangled threads, a knot that I still can’t manage to untangle, but that I seem to carry with me wherever I go. Am I glad I know? Yes. Do I wish that I didn’t know? Yes. The possibility of going through that again is enough to make me doubt the value of my questions. I struggle with wanting to know more, sometimes feeling like I need to know more, but also wanting to protect myself from the unknown.

Don’t get me wrong - of the answers I have gotten, plenty have brought peace or comfort. Some of stories I have learned or found help me understand my story more and help me sleep easier at night. Some answers, though, have stripped away that peace and comfort. Right now, I have hundreds of questions swirling in my head, but I don’t know if I am ready to know the answers. I worry about waiting too long to ask the questions though, like I did before. The evening my dad died, I texted him asking him to cancel my Minecraft Realm subscription. (A symbol, maybe. I was outgrowing the games we played together. I was growing up, growing past our games, and I was leaving him behind with them… tying that part of our story into a neat bow. Maybe it was a knot, though, because I still play today, and find pieces of him in the worlds he left behind.) In that text to my dad, sent just hours before he died, I didn’t say I love you. I remember re-reading it after I clicked “send” and thinking that I should have said it, but for some reason, I didn’t write back. The last time we had texted was just a few days before that, and the final thing we each said was that we loved each other. I wanted that to be our story. I hope he didn’t read the Minecraft text. I hope that the last things we said to each other were that we loved each other. I hope that is our story. I hope that on his side, we ended with love, but I don’t know. The only person who probably would have known, the only one would have remembered, was my bonus mom. After he died, I kept putting off asking her, out of my fear of the answer, until it was too late. Now, there is no one left to ask, and I don’t think I will ever know the answer. Would knowing have brought me peace, or pain? If he read it, what did he think? What did he say? Was he okay? Would I be okay? Will I be okay?

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A few months ago, I was chatting with a new intern at work, and she asked me if we always had so many sirens going past our office. I was taken aback by her question, because I hadn’t noticed any and sirens were normally difficult for me, but as I started to pay attention over the next few weeks, I realized she was right. A handful of sirens - police cars, ambulances - passed by my window every day, and I had unknowingly tuned them out. So, when I hear an ambulance in the background now, I apparently tune it out. Who knew? I hadn’t realized that it no longer took the breath out of my lungs. A twinge of pain will still pass through me if I give the sound a second thought, especially if I am driving and need to pull over and wait for it to pass, but I am no longer consumed. That’s how a lot of grief is, I think - it consumes you at first, but gets smaller over time, and sometimes you don’t realize how small certain pieces have gotten until someone points it out.

With time, the space between me and the story of my bonus mom’s death that I made up in my head has increased. The questions I have still remain, and grow, but I still am unsure of many answers I want. Maybe some things are best left unknown. Maybe I will find my peace by hoping that the best - the best of a tragic situation - happened. Or, maybe, it’s better to know. Maybe stopping the speculation and listening to the stories that are still around will be what brings me peace. Maybe I need to face the pain, and maybe knowing will lead to healing. I don’t know. As I am trying to figure it out, I ask some of my questions and I don’t ask others. I listen when people volunteer their stories, pieces of my story, but I don’t always seek it out. Maybe “to know or not to know” will be a question I ask for the rest of my life. Maybe I’m okay with that. Maybe I’m not.

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One of the worries I struggled with most was whether or not life would be okay again. As far as I knew, their passings might have ruined my chance of living a good life. The devastation I carried around me at all times was an incredible burden, and I didn’t see a way forward from it. I didn’t see how I could ever have a good life again.

That was almost six years ago. Now, I’m an adult. The first few years of my grief had many “what ifs.” Here’s what I wish I could have told myself back then.

1. Grief will not ruin your life.

I live a relatively normal life, and no, grief did not ruin it. (Younger me would be jumping for joy after reading that sentence.) Grief is a significant part of my life still, but it is no longer my entire world. My good days outweigh the bad, and I have built a good, big life around this terrible loss. I am sure that grief changed the trajectory of my life, at least to some extent, but it doesn’t keep me from living a good life. Yes, I still miss my parents dearly, but no, my life is not ruined.

2. Grief changes over time.

Every single day was a challenge after I lost my parents. My grief was all-consuming, and I had no idea how I could live the rest of my life with it being so. However, over time, grief has looked different for me. 

There are some “seasons” of my life where grief is on the back burner. I mostly think about my parents fondly rather than sadly, and I don’t feel great pain about the losses. Other “seasons” are rough. I feel so sad and miss them constantly. I cry and cry and just wish they were here to talk. Mostly, though, I’m somewhere in between. I think of them often and fondly, but I am sad when I think too long or am reminded of their absence somehow. 

I don’t know if everyone experiences grief like this, but I have heard that it does evolve over time for many people in some way or another. As we learn to adjust to our loss(es) and how to live life while grieving, our grief does tend to get easier over time.

3. There will be hard times - but they don’t last forever.

Like I said, I still have rough “seasons” of my grief. There are times when I feel just as devastated as when I found out my parents died (if not more). In the moment, I feel like grief is constant and crushing and that there is no goodness beyond it. That’s not true, though. These moments will pass, sometimes within a few minutes and other times within a few weeks (or somewhere in between). 

Usually, for me, these times occur around significant moments - such as birthdays, anniversaries, or graduating high school. Or when life is just hard in general, and I grieve the support and advice that I would have gotten from my parents if they were here. To make it easier, I seek out support from the people around me (sometimes in advance if I suspect that I will need it - such as before a death anniversary) and make sure I have coping skills at hand that will help.

4. Hard moments get easier once you learn how to cope.

Whenever I’m having a hard time, I let myself be sad and miss my parents, and when I’m ready, I turn on a good audiobook, rewatch one of my comfort TV shows, go on a run, play a video game, journal, or call a friend to help myself feel better. That may seem like a basic list, but actually, it’s taken a long time for me to figure it out.

 One of my biggest struggles after my dad first passed was that I had no clue how to cope with grief. When I experienced big feelings, I didn’t know what to do besides letting them overwhelm me. While it is important to allow yourself to feel your emotions and process your grief, you can’t sit in them forever - which is where coping skills come in. What usually works for me when I’m having a hard time is wading through my emotions for a while, and whenever I feel too overwhelmed or am ready to feel better, I turn to a coping skill. The type of coping skill I turn to depends on what I want to feel. For example, if I want to explore my emotions more, I turn to journaling, but if I need a distraction from what I’m feeling, I watch a funny television show.

Over time, I have tried out different coping skills and found what generally does and doesn’t help me. There’s a lot of trial and error with this! It can be frustrating at first, especially when you are struggling to find coping skills that work. For example, I tried meditation and yoga many times, and they just never worked for me. At first, I thought I was doing something wrong, which would make me more upset, but over time, I’ve just realized that other things work better. (That’s not to say that meditation and yoga won’t work for you - they’re great tools, but they aren’t for me at this point in my life.) On the other hand, whenever I journal, I tend to feel refreshed and have more control over my emotions. 

It can be really frustrating at first, especially when you have a hard time finding things that do work (they’re out there - keep trying!), but over time, creating a list of what works for you and then doing one or more things on it during hard times will make life a lot easier.

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5. There will be people who understand grief or care about you enough to try to.

There were only a few kids in my high school who had gone through a similarly significant loss when my dad and stepmom passed away, and I wasn’t friends with any of them. It was frustrating that no one understood what I was going through, and I felt quite alone.

A mistake I made was thinking that anyone who hadn’t experienced a loss couldn’t fully be there for me. However, over time, I’ve learned that many people want to give support after a loss, but they just don’t know how to, and the simple fix is to tell them what you need. “I’m having a tough day and miss my stepmom. Do you have the headspace for me to talk about her?” “I’m really sad today and could use a distraction. Are you free to FaceTime for a bit?” I have also (politely, because people often mean well) asked for different support at times than what my friends are providing. “I noticed that you avoid bringing up dads in general, and I want you to know that it’s okay to talk about them.” “Do you mind not talking about your plans for Father’s Day? I’m happy for you, and I hope you and your dad have a wonderful time, but it’s just a bit tough to hear about.” (This has been a trial-and-error experience! Sometimes, when I ask for support, what I get doesn’t work for me, and I just let my friends know that so they can support me differently in the future. I am lucky to be surrounded by people who love and care about me, and I hope you know that there are people out in this world who love and care about you, too.)

Before I continue, I want to say that high schoolers are generally not the best at emotional support. I do think a big part of my issue after my parents first died was that, when we are in middle school and high school, we think we’re the entire sun, moon, and stars, and it’s hard to see beyond ourselves. My friends have gotten a lot better at supporting me, and some of it is definitely because of the work we have all put in - me with asking for help and getting better at explaining what I need and them with providing support - but also a lot of it is because we are all older now. So, if you are feeling frustrated and think no one around you understands, I want to reassure you that people will - even if they don’t right now.

6. You don’t have to go through it alone.

There is so much strength in reaching out for help and accepting support when you need it.

I remember the night after my dad died, my stepmom offered to let me and my sister sleep with her, and I said no. Instead, I just sat up in my room and cried all night. I really wish I had said yes. I needed that support, and I hated feeling so alone.

Whenever I am going through a hard time now (not just with grief, but with life in general), I reach out to the people around me for support. A few months ago, I went through a breakup, and while struggling with that grief, I made it a priority to spend more time with friends and family. I started visiting my grandparents more and asking for advice, and I prioritized seeing friends and texting them regularly, which helped quite a bit. 

Grief will forever be a part of my life, but six years in, it is no longer the biggest, most significant part. Everyone has a different timeline with their grief, but I am writing this so you know that, at some point, your life will get better. You will have a good, beautiful life, even though you have lost someone you love. There is always hope for a better day, and I hope that day comes soon for you.

Teenagers are infamously known for making poor choices. This was a fact my mom made a point to remind me of every single time I left the house my freshman year of high school.

“Don’t do drugs!” she’d say as she dropped me off at the local bookstore to meet my friends.

“Don’t drink and drive!” she’d say as she dropped me off at school (I neither drank nor had a driver's license).

My mom was always worried I’d do something I’d regret, and she made it her life’s mission to warn me about every single thing possible. I swear, I learned more about the trouble teenagers get up to from her than from any of my peers.

I was a really good kid, even without my mom’s consistent nagging. On top of that, I had near-crippling anxiety at the time, and the anxiousness that came from forgetting a homework assignment in another classroom that one time was enough to keep me from any serious trouble. I thought I’d be okay and never look back with regret.

But, little did I know, I was already making choices that haunt me still.

In late August of that year, one of my childhood best friends invited me to a birthday pool party. I was so excited - the only downside was that I wouldn’t get to see my dad that weekend. It was honestly a pretty easy choice: Pool party versus Dad’s pool-less, party-less house?... pool party, for sure.

A few weeks later, after a student council meeting, I got on my phone and saw that my dad had called me. I texted him, asking what was up, and he said he was giving me a call back. I was confused, since I hadn’t called him in the first place and my dad was tech-savvy enough to know that, so I just said I hadn't called and didn’t call back.

Those two moments still play in my mind, over and over, five years later. It wasn’t the regret my mom or I had pictured myself living with, but it’s the regret that stayed. My dad died just a few weeks after that pool party. I had barely seen him that last month because he was sick and I was busy with school and band, and I missed out on my last chance to see him. The missed phone call was just days before he died. When I didn’t call back, I missed out on the last chance to talk to him, ever.

The regret of those two choices engulfed me after he died. How could I have chosen a pool party over him?! Why didn’t I call him back? Those two choices I made were big and terrible, and I hated myself for them. Now that I was living in a world without my dad, it made no sense why I would have made those two, terrible, horrible, mistakes.

"Now" is the key, though. Now that I was living in a world without him. For me, logic tends to work best when I’m coping with hard situations, so that’s how I’ve dealt with this. I didn’t get it at the time, and honestly even if I did it might not have helped, but those two things were perfectly normal choices for a teenager to make. Most teens would choose a party - let alone a pool party - over spending time with one of their parents. Teens are also notorious for not returning phone calls. Neither of these situations would likely still be strong memories now if he hadn’t happened to die right after - and I didn’t know he was going to. Looking back, there were so many signs that it might happen, but I didn’t see them. I was a kid, I was a teenager, I didn’t know what would happen next, and that is not my fault.

If I had known, of course I would’ve chosen to see him. I would’ve called him back - or, better yet, I would’ve spent that entire last week with him. If I had known, of course, of course, of course I would have chosen differently - but I did not know.

To be honest, I think even if I had spent that weekend and I had called him back, I’d still have regrets. This article would still exist, just with different context. In a strange way, that is comforting to me. There never would have been a perfect ending, even if I had called. No amount of him with him would have been enough. Even if I spent every one of his last days with him, I’d probably still be right here, regretting all of the days I spent without him.

Regret and grief suck, but I’m trying to move forward. I wish I had spent more time with my dad, but I didn’t, and I’m trying to make that okay. I’m trying to forgive the me that didn’t know. I’m trying to remember that I was a kid, and I still am (just not legally). We all do things that we regret, but living in it won’t change anything. The only thing we can do is try to improve for the future. For me, that means trying to spend more time with my sister. I don’t let myself take her love, support, and life for granted. I call her, and I visit her, and I tell her I love her all the time. It doesn’t erase my regret about my dad, but it does help me feel better. If he were to show up here, I know he’d regret the time he’s missed in her life, so I don’t let myself miss it.

Forgiving yourself is a journey, a hard one, but it’s worth it, of course. I encourage you to channel your regret into something else - like how I reach out to my sister - and to remember that it’s not your fault that you didn’t know what you were going to lose. I didn’t, either.

Around Christmastime, my grief goes into overdrive. It feels like every little thing reminds me of who I've lost, which is even more overwhelming than usual. Over the past few years, I have learned a bunch of coping skills that have helped me get through the holidays, and here are my favorites:

1. When you're feeling overwhelmed, take a step back.

For me, this means heading to a private corner or even the bathroom and spending a few minutes scrolling through my phone. This year, I plan on bringing headphones to my Christmas celebration so I can listen to a song that cheers me up whenever I get upset.

2. Let yourself be sad!

I know, this probably sounds counterproductive, especially if you're like me and just want to figure out how to have a happy holiday! When you suppress your emotions, though, they tend to only get stronger, and burst out at what feels like the worst possible time.

Whenever you're reminded of your grief or who you've lost, take a few minutes and sit in those emotions. Let yourself be sad, cry, do whatever you need to do! Just because you're feeling your emotions, though, doesn't mean that you have to sit in them forever. Afterwards, I recommend trying to find something to do that cheers you up - like watching a funny clip on YouTube or spending time with a family member that always makes you laugh.

3. Talk about how you're feeling.

People can't know how you're feeling unless you tell them. I know, it sucks, and things would be so much easier if everyone could read your mind, but people can't. Your loved ones may not realize how hard the holidays are for you or they may be feeling the exact same way and not know how to express it. Either way, it's worth it to reach out and talk about how grief feels right now and ask for support in the way you need it.

4. When you ask for support, be specific.

If I had a penny for every time someone told me that they wanted to support a grieving person but just didn't know how, I'd be rich.

Even though it may seem really obvious to us what we need and how we can be given support, it isn't always that obvious for other people. I've found that being more specific about what I need will cause more people to show up for me, because the problem wasn't motivation, it was that they didn't know how to be there for me.

Saying things like "can you ask me how I'm doing on Christmas because that'll be a hard day?" or "When you notice I look sad can you try to make me laugh so I can be distracted from my grief?" gives your loved ones specific instructions they can follow, so there's no question in what to do for you.

(Of course, there will be people who you try this with and who still don't show up for you. It's hard, I know, and while sometimes it's just that they need more time to figure it out, other people don't put the effort in. Don't let that discourage you, though! There are so many people out there who want to help you and support you.)

5. Plan something that you enjoy doing.

The way I was able to get through the first Christmas after my dad died was because I was in my room having fun redecorating and eating leftover stuffing. While that may not sound like fun to you, it was fun for me, and doing something I enjoyed made the day a lot easier.

While I'm sure many of you will enjoy your holiday celebrations, others won't, or will feel drained afterwards. During your holiday, try to incorporate plans that sound fun to you - whether it's a big thing, like going somewhere with your family, or a small thing, like watching an episode of a good television show.

6. Be easy on yourself.

It's okay if holidays this year aren't as good as they used to be. It's okay if you have big emotions and feel like you can't enjoy the celebrations.

I often push myself to enjoy holidays and ignore my grief, even though I know that is not the answer. I have such big expectations for myself, at times, and get disappointed when I get sad. But it's okay that I'm sad and I'm still grieving, even during the holidays.

Take it easy on yourself. Give yourself space to grieve and don't push yourself to ignore grief and pretend to be happy, if you aren't. Yes, try to enjoy the holidays if you can, but also know that it is okay if it's hard or if you can't. Grief takes time, and it's hard, and you don't have to pretend to be okay when you aren't.

Originally published in 2022.

I have so many good memories of Christmas from when I was a kid. My parents were divorced, and every other year I would spend the night of Christmas Eve and Christmas day at my dad’s house.

My dad and stepmom did the same thing every year for Christmas. My stepmom would pick out pajamas for my sister and I to wear Christmas morning, and excitedly give them to us to wear on Christmas Eve. My grandma always spent the night and somehow was always just as excited as my little sister was to open up presents on Christmas morning.

We’d go to bed on Christmas Eve, my sister rushing to fall asleep and I, for some reason, always staying up way too late. While I was still fast asleep, my sister and Grandma always managed to wake up around 6 in the morning on Christmas Eve. They’d stay quit for a little bit, letting the rest of us sleep but typically around 8 would decide that they had waited too long for gifts and were going to wake everyone up. After going to bed in the wee hours of the morning, I was never thrilled to be woken up by my grandma and sister rushing up to my room and jumping on my bed, telling me I had to come downstairs so we could open gifts. They always convinced me to get up, though.

Half asleep, I’d trudge down the steps, and be greeted by my stepmom making her Christmas breakfast casserole. I’d grab a plate and head to the living room, where my sister would already be surveying her presents and deciding which one she would open first. I would eat my casserole as my sister started opening her first gift, then we’d take turns opening each of ours. I woke up more with each gift, and was fully awake by the time we got to stockings - my favorite part. My dad and stepmom always gave us delicious candy in them and I loved snacking on it throughout the day.

In the afternoon we’d sometimes go see family or just stay home and mess around with the gifts we got. Either way, it was always so much fun.

Christmas used to be fun. Even though I was usually half asleep for part of the Christmas morning joy, and back then I would’ve definitely traded a few pieces of my candy for a few more hours of sleep, I look back on it now and would give almost anything to relive one of those mornings. I didn’t act like it back then, but I secretly loved the pajamas, being woken up early, having the same breakfast, the gifts - everything. I loved Christmas morning at my dad’s house.

Christmas has been different since my dad and stepmom died, though. All holidays have been. Instead of having a good feeling in my stomach when Christmas gets closer and closer, I feel anxious. On Christmas morning, no matter how much fun is put in front of me, it’s hard to enjoy it. Instead of waking up around 8 on Christmas morning, I sleep in. No one comes to jump on my bed and beg me to open gifts with them. When I go downstairs to open gifts, we don’t have casserole. My grandma doesn’t spend the night. Everything is different. No matter how good the day itself is in theory, it just feels like a shell of what it used to be.

It sucks. It sucks that Christmas isn’t like what it used to be. It sucks that I have a hard time enjoying the celebrations because I know it can’t live up to my memories of Christmas as a kid. It sucks that Christmas morning is sad now, because my dad and stepmom both passed away, and all of those good memories I have with them are now surrounded in grief and sadness. It sucks that Christmas, and all of the other holidays I used to love, just feel empty at times, now.

The first Christmas after my dad died, I didn’t even leave my bedroom. We had family over to celebrate and I couldn’t bring myself to join in. The whole day felt like a terrible reminder of my grief and what I had lost, and I didn’t find any joy in it.

The next year still hurt, but was a bit easier. I had fun, but that fun was cloaked in grief. I couldn’t see a stocking without seeing the one at my dad’s house or do a simple tradition without remembering all of the ones that were left behind.

The years after got easier, but were still hard in some ways. I can have fun and not think about my dad and stepmom for a bit, but they’re always in the back of my mind. Christmas has gotten better, but it’s not the same, and sometimes that’s all I can think about. This year I am able to enjoy the festivities surrounding Christmas, but when I stop and think about it too much, I get sad. It has gotten easier, but it’s not easy.

No matter where you’re at this year, I want you to know that it’s okay to be there. It’s okay if Christmas feels daunting, if it’s the day you’re looking forward to most, or if you don’t even know what to feel. It’s okay if you’re in the mood to celebrate and it’s okay if you’re not. There is no right or wrong way to grieve and there is no right or wrong way to grieve during a holiday. You don’t have to make yourself be sad all day and keep yourself from having fun, but at the same time, if you are sad, it’s okay to sit in it for a bit and give yourself space to feel those big emotions.

Holidays can be hard, especially when you’re grieving. This holiday season, I hope you give yourself space to feel whatever emotions you are having - good or bad - and that you surround yourself with love and support. I hope you are able to find some joy in it, too, and if you don’t, that you hold onto hope for a better holiday in the future. There is always hope for a better day.

Originally published in 2022.

The day after Christmas, I lost my sister. She originally wasn’t supposed to live the first twenty-four hours. She lived to be ten years old. She was born with a lot of health issues (cerebral palsy, microcephaly and a few other issues I can’t remember).

I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. It was my 12 year-old sister’s birthday and I was going up to my mom’s to spend the day with them and have dinner with them. I met up with my sister at a park that was in between my house and my mom’s house. We hit the corner to walk up the street when we heard the sirens, then we saw the ambulance and the police cars.

We got closer to my mom’s house and that’s when my sister and I realized that the ambulance was at my moms house and we started to run. We hit the corner right across from her house and I heard “Those are my girls! Stop my girls!” I recognized the voice as my mom's. She was sitting on her front porch with an officer next to her to help her, while my sister was being carried to the ambulance. I had called my grandma when we heard the sirens and then I called her again to tell her what was going on. She then called my grandfather to come get me and my sister and bring us home. I sat in the truck while I watched my mom run to the cop car to get taken to the hospital.

My grandfather took me and my sister home, my other grandfather called and said my sister had died, even though we weren’t a hundred percent sure. My other siblings were brought to the house. I sat there waiting for any new information on my sister, my grandma got a call from my mom saying she wanted my gramma to go to the hospital and sit with her. My grandma took me into my computer room and told me my sister died. My aunt and cousin came to sit with us while my grandpa took my grandma up to the hospital. I tried my best to not be hysterical but it was really hard not to fall apart.

After my grandma came home, I left to go be with my boyfriend and his mom. I sat in his bed and cried for a long time and just talked to him about how I felt. After a few hours I went home. Five days after my siblings were removed from my mom and placed into foster care.

January 2nd we had my sister’s funeral, I was in shock and couldn’t cry. I didn’t want to believe that my sister was gone, I blamed myself for the longest time. I thought “if I had gotten there sooner, I could’ve done something”. I felt like it was my fault that my sister died. I didn’t want to get out of bed. After all of this I was expected to go back to school and that was one of the hardest things in my life.

After my sister was gone for a couple months, I made the decision to go see my sister’s teacher and see the classroom. It felt extremely hard but I did it.

Odessa Jayde lost her sister the day after Christmas of 2020. She has decided to share her story online.

Last month, Teenage Grief Sucks hosted a Student Grief Twitter Chat, which was part of an essential ongoing conversation looking at how grieving students can support themselves and be supported by others, especially by their educators and peers.

During the chat, many amazing people and organizations shared their insights on teenage grief, including To Write Love On Her Arms, The Grief Reality, the Rader Ward Foundation, YouAreLoved, and Families for Depression Awareness. We want to say a big thank you to these organizations, and all the others who participated, for helping us share the importance of being there for grieving students.

If you're interested in checking out the highlights from the chat, click here to view the Twitter Moment.

Originally published in 2021.

A day less than one month after my dad died, I didn’t text someone goodnight.

It was a night that was eerily similar to the one when my dad died. It was a Friday. My dad had died on a Friday. I was also at a school football game. My dad had died while I was at a football game. I was also planning on going out after the game. The only other time I had done that was the night my dad died. All of these similarities made me a bit nervous at first, but I ended up thinking nothing of it.

During the game, I texted one of my best friends. Demi.1 She had thought about going to the game, but to my disappointment, had chosen not to. So instead I spent a good portion of the night glued to my phone, until, near the end of the game she texted me goodnight. While I’m usually one of those people who replies to a text 0.5 seconds after I get it, for some reason, I didn’t say anything. I can always reply later.

The game ended, and I still hadn’t texted Demi. I went out with friends and ate pancakes at midnight. That part really reminded me of the night when my dad died, which hurt, but I still had fun.

I’ve always wondered if things would have been different if I had answered her text. If, instead of putting my phone away after seeing her goodnight, I had kept it out. Goodnight Demi. Be safe. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. :) Maybe she would have replied. Told me how she felt. Tried to distract herself. Or, it would’ve led to her talking to someone else, or just going straight to bed. The rational side of my brain knows that my reply wouldn’t have changed anything, but the other side still wonders.

I texted her back later that night and got no reply. I thought nothing of it, assuming that she was asleep.

The next morning, I woke up. It was one month since my dad died. A hard day. She didn’t text me. I tried convincing myself that everything was fine, she was sleeping in, she was grounded, she was mad at me, anything. But a thought kept coming back to me - What if she died?

I knew about her struggles with depression. The fact that it might have killed her was the first thought that came to my mind. As the hours passed and she still didn’t reply, I began to realize the likely truth: she was gone.

I kept on replaying the previous night in my head. The similarities between that night and the one my dad had died kept on popping up in my mind, but as I kept thinking about it, I realized that there was one key difference.

The night my dad died, I was with Demi, and I was really happy. I was walking through the football stands, when suddenly, something felt wrong. My chest suddenly got really heavy and it was like the weight of the world had been placed on my shoulders. I felt empty, and like everything good that existed had suddenly vanished. This pain was so much that I actually sat down. At the time, I was confused, having no idea why I had gone from feeling happiness to hurting that much for seemingly no reason. The feeling passed after a minute or two, my joy resumed, and I mostly forgot about it until after I found out my dad died, when I looked through time stamps on photos and realized that I had felt that way around the time my dad died. It was him leaving.

This time, though, I didn’t remember having that feeling, no matter how much I searched my memory. Even though I knew that my momentary emptiness the night my dad died might’ve just been a coincidence, I still held onto the little piece of hope, that if Demi had died, I would’ve felt it.

Every time my phone went off that weekend, I rushed to it, hoping above all else that it was her. That she was okay. None of the notifications I got were from her, though. I Googled her name, her name and city, her name and “obituary,” and every other possible combination I could think of. She actually came up, which scared me at first, but it was for something unrelated. I checked her social media hourly, hoping she was online. I was waiting for the moment I’d see her “like” a post, breathe a sigh of relief, and then be upset that she wasn’t there for me for the one month since my dad died. I wanted to be upset with her. I wanted her to text me and then have to remind her that it was the one month. I wanted her to just have forgotten, to have made a mistake, to be alive. I was terrified that she wasn’t, though.

That was one of the worst weekends of my life. The pain I felt was similar to what I had experienced just a month beforehand. Constant nausea, emptiness, and like my worst nightmare was coming true. Honestly, my worst nightmare was coming true. She was dead. She must have been.

I thought that the worst feeling in the world was knowing that someone died, but then I began to wonder if the worst feeling in the world was not knowing if someone had died. Taking every breath wondering if that person is also breathing, going outside and wondering if they’ll ever see the bright blue sky again, and thinking of hundreds of things you want to tell them, and not knowing if you’ll ever get to.

How am I supposed to do this without her?

I still hadn’t heard anything from her by Monday. While I usually ignored a lot of what happened at my school, when I walked in that day, I was on high alert. A student dying seemed like something that would spread quickly, so I listened to every conversation that I could, dreading the moment I heard one about her.

No one was talking about her, though, which gave me a lot of relief. To top it all off, I saw her best friend walking down the hallway, and I assumed that she would’ve skipped if Demi had died. Letting myself have a bit of hope was scary, mostly because I knew how terrible it would be if I got hope, and then found out the worst, but I started to get some. Maybe she is alive.

The days passed, each one a bit more painful was the last. I developed a routine. Get up, check my messages, check social media, Google her, go to school, see if anyone was talking, and see if her best friend was there. I went from being convinced that she was dead to having no clue what had happened. So if she’s not dead… where is she?

A whole week passed, and it was time for another football game. I got onto the bus, to drive to whatever school we were going to, and as we started driving away, I got a notification.

Hi.

She was alive.

Where were you?

You don’t want to know.

Tell me.

She told me. Turns out I was right. Well, partially.

She had spent the week in the hospital, after almost dying by suicide.

I cried. We texted for a bit, and I felt relief. I didn’t have to be scared anymore. It was over. She was alive. She wasn’t okay, but she was going to be. That was the end of this story. It was just one terrible week. Everything was okay.

Except… it wasn’t.

That whole week, I had assumed that if - when. - she texted me, it would be all over. That I’d breathe a sigh of relief, tell her I loved her, and move forward. That I would be okay, and she soon would be too.

So… why wasn’t I okay?

Instead of just becoming a part of the past, that week became a permanent fixture in my mind.

When I would lay in bed at night, I’d think about how she could’ve died. That the text she sent me about going to bed could’ve been the last time I ever talked to her. That she would never have seen my reply. That I would’ve had to live the rest of my life without her. That I’d never get another hug from her, never hear her laugh again, never tell her another dumb joke that she probably wouldn’t enjoy anyway, or experience any part of life with her again.

When my mind would wander during the day, I’d feel guilty. Guilty that I was angry, because I knew it wasn’t her fault that her world had gotten so heavy that she thought death was the only answer. Guilty that I hadn’t noticed. That whatever signs were there had gone over my head. Guilty that I didn't reply. That maybe, if I hadn’t just ignored her message at first, things would’ve gone differently.

When things would get difficult, I’d feel anger towards her. Selfish, terrible anger. I wondered how she could try to leave me, just a month after my dad died. Why I - and everyone else in her life - wasn’t enough. How she could possibly do that to me, even though I understood why, and knew it wasn’t personal.

On top of all of that, I felt fear. Constant, unbearable fear. Fear that it would happen again. That, like the last time, she would be in unbearable pain, and I wouldn't notice. That she would be gone forever. This fear didn’t just lie with her, though, and began to apply to every single person I knew. Whenever someone didn’t answer a text or phone call, I would freak out, wondering if they were dead. Even though I had no reason to worry, I’d text them hundreds of times, call them repeatedly, or check their social media for activity, just looking for a sign of life. The moment someone told me they were struggling, I’d start thinking that they were going to die, even if their struggle had nothing to do with suicide. I started trying to analyze people, trying to find the signs I somehow had missed with Demi, even if I had no logical reason to think that there would be any. I started keeping my phone with me at all times, and replying to texts instantly, and swore that I’d never ignore another “goodnight” text from someone. If I found out that someone was actually feeling suicidal, I’d lose it. I’d panic, not be able to breathe, and feel just like I did during that week I thought Demi was gone, even if I knew they were safe.

These feelings only got worse over time. I told no one, including Demi. The only time we had ever talked about it was the night she got out of the hospital, and we barely talked then. I felt like, because she was alive, I couldn’t say anything about the pain I was feeling. That I didn’t have a right to be upset, I was selfish for not just being happy she was here, and that I should only feel positive things about it.

I was facing this silent struggle alone, on top of all the grief I was feeling for my dad. I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. That, if someone found out, they would think I was a horrible person and not understand.

The first time I really talked about it was months later. The same thing happened to one of my friends with her boyfriend. When she got to school, I rushed over to her and gave her a hug. I understand. She and I talked about it. It was the first time I had told anyone how I felt, and she understood. It was like momentarily taking a heavy weight that I had been carrying for months off my shoulders. For the first time, I knew I wasn’t alone.

After that, I slowly began bringing it up with the people I was closest to. Explaining that there was a reason the littlest of things would terrify me so much. I learned that, while some people didn’t understand, most were compassionate, and many had gone through similar things that they also didn’t talk about much. I was finally able to get support and begin to realize that a lot of the fears I had developed were irrational. I still didn’t bring it up to Demi, though.

What I didn’t realize until later was that I was experiencing grief from this experience. That was strange to think about since, before then, I had always assumed that grief was only caused by a death. Grief can be caused by any type of loss, though. The grief I felt for Demi closely mirrored what I felt for my dad. The way it was different, though, was that I felt the pain of what did happen, and the pain of what could’ve happened.

Every year, on the anniversary of it, it’s strange. Knowing that it’s just an “average” day, but could be the anniversary of her death. It’s terrifying. This year, I cried. It was strange. I texted her and told her I loved her, though didn’t mention that I knew it was the anniversary. I don’t know if she remembered. As I talked to her, I kept on thinking, Right now could’ve been two years since I last talked to her. Today could’ve been the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life. I could be missing her so much. I grieved her, even though she was right in front of me.

In October of 2020, I went over to Demi’s house, and for the first time, I brought it up. She sat and listened as I told her how guilty, upset, angry, afraid, and sad I was. How I couldn’t imagine this world without her in it, and how terrifying that week was when I thought I’d have to live without her. It was one of the most difficult yet rewarding conversations I’ve ever had.

She looked at me after I finished talking.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

That simple sentence made me cry even harder than I already was. It was strange, but those four words coming from her, the four words that I had been trying to unsuccessfully convince myself of for years, suddenly seemed true.

If she had died that day, the world would’ve lost so much. I would never have gotten to know Demi as well as I do now. I wouldn’t have known what kind of dog she wants in the future. I wouldn’t know that she is a backseat driver and absolutely hates how slowly I drive. I wouldn’t have known that she can (occasionally) be really funny. I wouldn’t have known that she cannot do math. All of those are just a few of the things I’ve learned about her in the past week, and are just a few of the millions of other little things I’ve learned since that day. I would’ve missed so much if she died that day. There would forever be a Demi-sized hole in my life that no one else could ever fill.

It took me a long time, and a lot of opening up to people, but it’s slowly gotten easier for me. I’ve stopped making up scenarios in my head about what would’ve happened if I had texted her back that night, or noticed any warning signs beforehand. Instead of being scared to talk about the difficult stuff with people and just worry in private, I’ve started to ask people how they’re doing, and not shy away from the hard conversations. I’ve started asking Demi more about her mental health and if she’s feeling suicidal, hoping that, whenever she feels that way, she knows that I will always be here to remind her why she has to stay. The biggest thing I’ve learned is that, no matter how much I obsess over the past, it cannot be changed, and that loss can never be prevented completely.

Every time I hug Demi now, I do it a little longer than I did before, remembering how much it hurt when I thought I’d never get to again.

If you or a loved one is struggling, please reach out. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can be reached by dialing 9-8-8. For more urgent support resources, click here.

Originally published in 2021.

I often feel very alone in my grief. Like I am the only person experiencing everything I’m going through, and no one in the world could possibly understand. Loneliness has been one of the worst parts of grief for me.

A few months ago, Carole Geithner reached out to me and sent me a copy of her book, If Only, about a teenager whose mom had just died. Before I read the book, I honestly had no clue what to expect. I read online about it a bit, and was interested to learn that this book was actually influenced by Geithner’s experience of losing her mother in her early 20’s and working with grieving teenagers as a social worker.

When I got the book, I read it, and then read it again. The biggest thing I can say is: Wow. She gets it.

The book starts out with the main character, Corinna, a 13 year old who just lost her mom, being annoyed by a person who thinks that they’re helping, but is really just making things worse. Then, Corinna goes back to school for the first time since her loss, and one of the first things she sees is a mom saying goodbye to their child, which reminds her of her grief. I reread these pages at first, in shock. It was like I was reading my own experiences in a book, just with different people. After reading those first few pages, I was hooked.

During the story, Corinna goes through the things I thought I was alone in experiencing. Struggling to maintain close friendships with people who haven’t been through a loss, observing that people avoid talking about the person who died, and experiencing difficulty going back to school are just a few.

It’s easy to feel alone in grief. Like you are the only one going through something. And then you come across something, like this book, and see what you are going through described almost perfectly, and are able to realize that maybe you aren’t as alone as you feel.

Even though If Only focuses on the life of an 8th grader who lost her mom, as a highschooler who lost her dad, it still resonated with me. While parts of the book are specific to losing a parent or guardian, many parts of it describe aspects of grief that are universal, such as seeing other people move on with their lives while you feel stuck. Geithner wrote a book that is relevant to all kids who have gone through a loss, and is an interesting read for anyone who wants to learn more about grief.

If you’re interested in learning more about this book, you can visit carolegeithner.com. Thank you, Mrs. Geithner, for sharing this exceptional read with me, and I hope anyone else that reads it finds as much comfort as I did.1

Originally published in 2021.

I wear black maybe some white

Can someone please take my hand?

Drag me into the light

the pain hurts in my heart

its broken I've been taken apart

Piece by piece I’m fading away

Maybe someone will hear my words one day

I run and run chasing my own tail

trying to be the best but in the end, I always fail

people always leave and that’s that

they left so did the cat

it pains me to know they’re out there

it pains me to know they don’t care

My eyes aren’t dry but rivers pour

and if we were friends why aren’t you here anymore

well you see I sometimes go to the park

but then again I’ll always be

LEFT IN THE DARK

Hello everyone, I'm Alex. This poem is pretty much about how I felt at the beginning of my grief which for me was a rough dark part. I felt I was alone and didn't have anyone. When I lost my Step-Father, I felt destroyed, like a hole was left in my heart. I eventually discovered I am not alone and have my entire family and all my friends by my side. Just remember that you are not alone when it comes to the passing of a loved one and you can get through this. I believe in you.

The anniversary of my school closing down due to COVID just passed. It was definitely odd, looking at the calendar and realizing that, one year ago on that day, I was packing up my locker, thinking I was just getting an extended spring break.

One of the strangest things to me about the pandemic is that my dad will never know about it. This big thing that has completely changed my - and everyone’s - life is something he wasn't here for. My dad will never experience wearing a mask everywhere, getting his temperature checked all the time, and having the world temporarily shut down.

I’ve talked about this before, but I avoided change after my dad died. Some part of my brain was convinced that I had to be the same person I was before he died. The person that - if he saw me - he’d recognize me instantly. Physically and mentally. It’s been years since he died, though, and change has been inevitable, even when I still avoided it.

While that fear of changing myself has gone away, seeing the world change so much over the past year has brought back some of those feelings. I hate the fact that, if Dad came back right now and walked around where he used to live, he would barely recognize it. The world he left is completely different than the world I’m living in right now.

Something I’ve started reminding myself is that change is going to happen no matter what. Even if this pandemic didn’t happen, the world would have eventually have changed a lot. Change is scary, especially when you’re experiencing it without someone you love, but it has to happen.

When it feels like the world is changing a lot, I sometimes talk to my dad. When I’m driving, trying to fall asleep, or doing something important, I fill him in on my life. Sometimes these little “updates” are as little as me cutting my hair or as big as the pandemic. Even though I’m not actually having a conversation with him, it helps me feel like I’m not leaving him behind, and he’s still a big part of my life.

I got past my fear of changing myself, so I know I’ll get past the fear of the world-changing, too. Coming up with little ways of coping, like talking to him, helps a lot.

We can all get through this.

Originally published in 2021.

Why do all teenage heroes have to be orphans? Harry Potter, Wade Watts, both heroes, both orphans.

That’s the beginning of a story I started before my dad died. It was about a heroic teenager who wasn’t an orphan. I don’t really remember anything else about it besides that.

It’s always fascinated me how many writers have their heroes be orphans. Something about childhood trauma and a lack of parental guidance seems to turn fictional characters into unstoppable heroes.

Let’s take Harry Potter for example. Harry was orphaned as a baby, had a rough childhood, was shipped away to school when he was 11, and somehow became one of the biggest heroes in the wizarding world.

Before my dad died, that didn’t seem too surprising to me. Harry’s rough childhood probably made him more empathetic and having dead parents made him want to save other people. If his parents hadn’t died, he might not have had those qualities, and he wouldn’t have become a hero.

Since Dad’s death, though, I’ve started to see it completely differently. I see an 11-year-old kid who may be starting to realize the full extent of his loss. A kid who suddenly has his whole life changed when he finds out he’s a wizard and going to boarding school- with the only other big life change being when his parents died and he moved in with his aunt and uncle. Someone who is going through one of the worst things that could happen to a kid.

Compared to Harry, I’ve been pretty unproductive since my dad died. I’ve gone to school, made and lost a few friends, and started a website. None of that seems even close to being as heroic as the fictional characters I read about.

But… couldn’t that stuff still be considered heroic? Yes, I haven’t saved the world like Harry, but there’s a reason that he’s called a fictional character. Maybe, even though the small things I do every day while grieving don’t seem amazing to most people, they still are.

I didn’t get accepted into a cool Wizarding school, but I worked hard to keep up in school after my dad died. I didn’t risk my life for my best friends, but I took care of myself when I needed to. I didn’t try to save the world, but I’ve tried to save myself. While all of these things would seem so little to Harry Potter, they’re really big to me.

Maybe all of us grieving teens are heroes, just not the type you read about in books. The little things we do every day to keep going after the losses we’ve experienced are incredible, and it’s okay to think of them that way. I mean, when you’re grieving, the smallest things can seem like the biggest battles, and when you win a battle, aren’t you considered a hero?

Originally published in 2021.

That day, part of me wanted to not release it. To call TGS another failed project of mine, and never think about it again. But I didn't listen to that part of me. Instead, I went through my articles, removing some details and stories I wasn't comfortable with sharing online, and then released my website.

Sharing my grief has been much more complex than I expected. I never thought I'd have to decide what parts of my story to share, who to tell it to, and that I wouldn't always get positive reactions. Even with that, though, I've never regretted sharing it.

Whether you're sharing your story with a friend or on our website, it can seem really scary at first. It actually isn't usually as bad as you may think, though. This article gives advice for sharing your grief with friends and on the Internet.

Tips for Sharing Your Grief with Friends

1. Figure out what you're comfortable sharing beforehand. You never have to share more than you're comfortable with. Try imagining yourself telling someone your story, and see what bothers you to say. It's okay to wait to share some of your story - or just not talk about it with certain people.

2. Allow yourself to be vulnerable. It's okay to share complex emotions with people and admit that you may not be okay.

3. Write it all out beforehand. If you haven't told your story before, it may be difficult to figure out how to share it. Writing it all out can help you decide how you want to share your story, and what you do and don't want to mention.

4. Make a note of key parts down. If there are details that you don't want to forget, be sure to write them down on your phone or a piece of paper. That way, if you get stuck while telling your story, you can reference this to remember what to say.

5. Practice! Beforehand, figure out what you want to say and how you want to say it. It's a lot easier to talk about something once you've done this.

6. Talk individually with a person. This eliminates distractions, may make you feel more comfortable, and makes sure that your friend is completely focused on you.

7. Know that, just because someone reacts negatively, doesn't mean that everyone will. Some people just don't get grief. However, there are people who do. If someone reacts negatively to you sharing your story, chances are they just don't know a lot about grief, and it has nothing to do with you.

Tips for Sharing Your Grief Online

1. . Your first draft may not be your final draft. I usually write two or three drafts before publishing an article. The first draft is just me rambling about an idea I had, the second is removing extra details that I don't need, and the third is editing it. Just start writing, and don't worry about your first draft being perfect.

2. Have people read your story before you send it in. This can ensure that you're okay with people knowing the information in it and that it makes sense.

3. Choose a story that you're comfortable with sharing. If you're unsure about publishing something online, don't. It's okay if you're not ready to share some details with the world yet.

4. Use Grammarly if you need grammar help.

5. Read other stories online for inspiration. You can share your story however you’d like, but sometimes it helps to see how other people do it!

Originally published in 2021.

The Grief Out Loud podcast did a Valentine's Day special this year centered around love stories between grievers and their "person." I was lucky enough to be one of the people invited to share their story for this episode.

This is a really good episode, and I hope you'll take some time to listen to it.

Click here to listen to Grief Out Loud's "A Griefy Valentine's Special."

Episode description:

"Even if you don't really celebrate it, Valentine's Day can be rough when you're grieving. This year, we decided to bring you a compilation of love stories from listeners answering one of these questions: How did your person love you? How did you love your person? How did you fall in love? Even though Valentine's Day is usually marketed as only about romantic love, this episode focuses on the love that exists in any connection. The idea for this episode came out of our conversation with Alesia Alexander, LCSW in Episode 162. Alesia and her daughter, Kahlo, join us to talk more about why love stories are important in grief, especially for children and teens. Thank you to everyone who contributed to this special episode! Hear more from Alesia in When the Professional Becomes Personal."

Originally published in 2021.

I hate being unproductive.

I once thought that this was my best quality. Not wanting to be unproductive meant that I was always trying to get something done. I was ahead in school, working on side projects, and making a lot of progress overall.

Then… my dad died.

That would seem like the perfect time to take a break, but I didn’t. I didn’t miss a full day of school. I kept my grades up. I kept on participating in my extracurricular activities. I forced myself to keep moving forward and not stop.

Except… here’s the thing. I needed to stop. I needed a break. Even though being productive all the time meant I got a lot done, it also meant that I was sacrificing something important: my mental health.

I ignored my mental health and didn’t let myself grieve. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. If I just ignore my problems, they’ll go away! Except… they didn’t go away. When I eventually let myself grieve, it made things a lot harder for me. I felt horrible all the time, making it harder for me to do work, which then made me feel even worse because I wasn’t getting much done.

Looking back, I wish I had missed school. I wish I had let a few grades drop. I wish I had missed more practices. I wish I had taken care of myself.

It’s okay if you need to take a break. Whether it’s because of grief, other mental health-related things, or just because you need one, it’s okay.

I’m still working on being okay with having unproductive moments, but I’ve gotten a lot better than I was before. Now, whenever I’m struggling, I let myself take a break, even if I have a difficult time doing it.

It’s okay to take breaks.

Originally published in 2021.

In middle school, I was one of those kids who was slightly friends with everyone. I had around 30 good friends, and I talked to most of them weekly. It made me happy to have so many people around me.

When I started high school, though, all of that fell apart. The people I had once considered my closest friends became strangers that I only texted on holidays, if that. While I’ve casually talked to a few of them since and kept a bit of hope that, somehow, our friendships would come back and be what they used to, there have also been some that I’ve had almost no contact with. Including Anna.1

Anna and I were good friends in middle school. We shared a few classes, occasionally had deep conversations, and I enjoyed being around her a lot. Near the end of middle school, however, she transferred, so I mostly lost contact with her.

Then, a few weeks ago, her Instagram account popped up in my suggested. I clicked follow, and then I messaged her.

“HI IT’S NATALIE, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU REMEMBER ME. I MISS YOU AND I HOPE YOU’RE DOING OKAY OR IF YOU AREN’T THAT YOU’RE GETTING SUPPORT and I don’t know why I wrote that in all caps.”

She replied. Said she missed me too. We talked for a few minutes, and then she asked me how my life had been.

I knew exactly what I wanted to say.

“Actually, things have been really difficult. I never told you this, but around the time you left my dad was sick. I didn’t realize how sick he was, though, so I didn’t really tell anyone. Then I started high school and he died and everything sort of fell apart.”

It’s the same response that I wanted to give to everyone who asked how my life was. Except, there was always something stopping me from saying it. It’s so much easier to hide your grief than it is to vocalize it. I usually just ended up telling people that I was “okay” or “tired,” which is sort of code for “everything sucks,” though no one ever realized that.

This time, though, I asked her if she wanted to hear the full story, and when she said yes I clicked SEND. At that moment I felt like I needed to tell her. It wasn’t that I wanted her to feel bad for me or pity me. It was sort of my way of saying, “Everything is different, including me. I miss you, but we’re not the same anymore.” While I wrote it, I realized what I had been unable to realize with my other middle school friends that I had tried to rekindle friendships with in the past. That it wasn’t going to happen.

Anna and I occasionally talk and I still care about her, but we’ll most likely never be the friends that we were before. It sucks, but it’s okay. Some friendships just aren't meant to last, and I’ve started to realize that.

Originally published in 2021.

A few days after my dad died, one of my former teammates came up to me after school.

“My grandma saw on Facebook that your dad died and she told me that I have to tell you ‘I’m sorry.’”

Um... what?

The best part is, she never actually said “I’m sorry,” just that her grandma told her to say it.

Honestly, that conversation made me feel horrible. It made me feel like she didn’t care about me at all (we had played multiple sports together for years), and like maybe everyone else who had said sorry didn’t care at all - but they were just better at hiding it than her.

About a week later, I overheard this girl talking to one of her friends after school, and realized something: She was rude. Like, very, very rude.

The conversation we had a few days earlier suddenly made a lot of sense. It wasn’t that she didn’t care - she just didn’t know what to say.

Like this girl, many people don’t know what to say to someone who is grieving, and end up saying something rude or insensitive. I’m pretty sure that this girl thought that what she was saying was nice, and just didn’t realize how rude it sounded.

While I never ended up talking to her about her comment, I’ve talked to a few people since then about insensitive things they’ve said regarding grief, using this method:

1. Find a time to talk to the person privately.

“Hey, can I talk to you after school?”

2. Identify what the comment was.

“Earlier, you said that your grandma told you you had to say sorry to me.”

3. Explain how the comment made you feel.

“When you said that, it made it seem like you weren’t sorry at all, and like you were forced to do this.”

4. Offer an alternative comment.

“Instead of saying that, you could’ve said, ‘My grandma and I saw on Facebook that your dad died and just wanted to say sorry.’”

While people sometimes make rude comments, I’ve found that many didn’t even realize that what they said came across as anything but nice. By calling someone out (politely) for their comments, you can help them understand what they said, why it hurt, and what they can do instead.

Even if the person continues to say rude comments, it’s good to use this method. By helping educate other people about what to say to grievers, you’re not only helping yourself but others who have lost or will lose a loved one.

Originally published in 2021.

For most people, the new year is like a “fresh start.” A time where you can try to break bad habits, create good habits, and leave behind everything that happened in the previous year.

A new beginning is a nice idea. Many things have happened this year that I’m more than happy to leave behind. Even though I know going from 2020 to 2021 won’t actually change more than my calendar, it’s nice to think of January 1st as a fresh start.

Except… whenever you have a start new, something is left behind. For many people, that’ll be bad habits, but for me, it’s something else: My dad.

January 1st will be the beginning of another year that my dad isn’t a part of. Everything that will happen in those 365 days we call 2021 will happen without one of the most important people in my life.

That’s kind of a scary thought. The fact that nothing that happens this year will involve my dad. That this is the start of another new beginning that he won’t be able to witness.

Every new year brings me farther and farther away from Dad. It’s something that I’m never ready for but is unavoidable.

Thinking about all of this is hard, but I’ve tried to focus on the more positive aspects of 2021. My New Year's resolutions (which I hopefully won’t break this year), the goals I have, and everything that will happen. I’m hoping that, like in previous years, once I get into the first few days of January, I’ll be okay.

It’s okay if the New Year is a struggle, but please know that you’ll get through it, and it will get better.

Before I end this, I want to say a quick thank you. Thank you to everyone who has supported me on social media, sent me messages, and read my articles. While I only get to interact with a portion of you, every single one of you is appreciated, and I’m so thankful that you’re here. Happy New Year.

Originally published in 2020.

I’m dreading Christmas.

That’s strange to say, I know. My younger self would be shocked if she knew that I wrote this now.

Right after my dad’s death, this dread was because I didn’t know what to expect. I had never grieved before, and had no idea what the holidays would be like. Now, many holidays later, it’s because I have no clue what’s coming.

After those first few holidays, every “big” day has fallen into one of two categories: “Absolutely terrible” or “sorta okay.” “Absolutely terrible” holidays are like the first Christmas I had without Dad, where I spent the day alone, redecorating my bedroom while eating stuffing. The “sorta okay” days are like this Thanksgiving, where I was able to get through the normal rituals of the day, but had a sick feeling to my stomach the whole time.

Three days from now, on Christmas day, I don’t know if I’m going to wake up and want to run downstairs and open presents, or if I’ll want to roll over and lay in bed for another hour. I don’t know if I’ll be really excited to have Christmas dinner, or if I’ll want to stay in my room all day. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say that this was the first really good Christmas since my dad died, or if I’ll say that it was another bad one. The “not knowing” is horrible.

To deal with this anxiety, I’ve started telling myself this: No matter what happens, you will be okay.

It’s true. Christmas is only 24 hours long. One day. I have good coping methods, and will be surrounded by the people I love. No matter what happens on Christmas day, I will be able to wake up the next morning and feel better. Even if I don’t feel better the next day, I will soon after.

No matter how you’re feeling this holiday season, it’s valid. All of your feelings are valid. It’s okay if you’re not excited for the holidays, or if you’re really, really excited.

There is no “perfect” way to deal with holidays, but there are a few things that you can do to make sure that they are a bit easier. Keep a list of coping methods on your phone. Whenever you get upset, you can refer to the list. Tell loved ones ahead of time that you may struggle. This allows them to check in on you. Know that it’s okay if the holidays look different this year. Don’t hold yourself to expectations for the past - holidays are looking a bit different for everyone this year.

Finally, just remember that you are not alone. There are so many people who struggle with the holidays, including me.

Originally published in 2020.