longer.blue

On a mild morning last December, my world shattered. My son—my brilliant, kind-hearted, deeply sensitive son—took his own life. There are no words that can fully capture the devastation of that moment. It was as if the axis of my life had shifted, and everything familiar became foreign. The days that followed were a blur of disbelief, pain, and questions that had no answers. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t follow a schedule or respect boundaries. In the weeks after his death, I found myself drifting through time, unable to anchor to anything. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t understand how the world continued to turn when mine had stopped. People offered condolences, meals, and prayers, but nothing could fill the void. I felt like I was underwater—watching life happen above me, muffled and unreachable. The challenge wasn’t just surviving the loss. It was facing the guilt, the anger, the helplessness. I replayed every conversation, every missed sign, every moment I wished I had done more. I questioned my worth as a parent. I questioned the meaning of life itself. There were days I didn’t want to get out of bed. Days I didn’t want to speak. Days I didn’t want to exist. But slowly, painfully, I began to realize that if I stayed in that place, I would lose myself entirely. And I couldn’t let that happen—not just for me, but for the memory of my son. He deserved more than a legacy of silence and sorrow. He deserved to be remembered with light, with love, with purpose. So I began to rebuild. I started by allowing myself to feel—really feel—without judgment. I cried in the shower. I screamed into pillows. I wrote letters to him that I would never send. I joined a support group for parents who had lost children to suicide. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who understood the depth of my pain without needing explanation. Their stories didn’t erase mine, but they reminded me I wasn’t alone. I also began to speak out. I shared my story with friends, with colleagues, and eventually, with strangers. I launched a blog through my company, Orion's Legacy Editing, where I wrote about grief, mental health, and the importance of compassion. Writing became my lifeline—a way to process the chaos inside me and transform it into something meaningful. Each post was a tribute to Hunter, a way to keep his spirit alive in the world. Through this journey, I learned that resilience isn’t about being strong all the time. It’s about showing up, even when you’re broken. It’s about choosing to live, even when life feels unbearable. It’s about finding slivers of hope in the darkest places. I also learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. I will never stop missing Hunter. I will never stop wondering what could have been. But I’ve come to understand that grief and love are intertwined. The depth of my sorrow is a reflection of the depth of my love. And that love continues—quietly, fiercely, eternally. This experience has changed me in ways I’m still discovering. I’m more empathetic. More present. More committed to creating spaces where people feel seen and heard. I’ve learned to ask deeper questions, to listen without rushing to fix, to honor the complexity of human emotion. Most of all, I’ve learned that personal growth doesn’t always come from triumph—it often comes from tragedy. It comes from walking through fire and emerging, not unscathed, but transformed. My son’s death will always be the greatest loss of my life. But the path I’ve taken since has taught me that even in the aftermath of unimaginable pain, there is room for purpose, for connection, and for growth.