5 Years After…

Five years.
2026 will make five years in September. 

It sounds like a long time. It is a long time. And somehow, it can still feel like yesterday.

Surviving five years after child loss isn’t about “moving on.” It’s about learning how to live while carrying something that never gets lighter—only more familiar. Grief doesn’t disappear with time; it changes shape. It softens in some places and sharpens in others.

It becomes part of your body, your calendar, your identity. 

It’s about learning how to live again while holding grief in one hand and faith in the other. It’s about trusting God when the answers don’t come, and choosing to believe He is still good—even when life feels unbearably broken.

What the Last Five Years Have Been Like

The early years were about survival. Breathing. Getting out of bed. Making it through milestones that felt cruel—birthdays, holidays, ordinary days that suddenly weren’t ordinary anymore.

Grief was loud then. It demanded attention. It interrupted conversations, sleep, faith, and certainty.

Over time, the grief became quieter—but not smaller. It learned how to sit beside joy. I learned how to laugh again without betrayal, how to feel happiness without guilt (most days), and how to carry love and loss in the same breath.

I learned that:

• Grief is not linear. It circles back when you least expect it.

• You don’t “get over” losing a child—you integrate the loss into who you are.

• The world keeps moving, even when yours stopped.

• People mean well, but most don’t know what to say—and that’s okay.

• Love doesn’t end. It just changes form.

Some days, surviving looked strong. Other days, it looked like bare minimum effort. Both counted. Both still count.

Faith didn’t make the pain disappear. It didn’t silence the questions, but it gave us something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

We learned that grief and faith are not opposites. They coexist.

Scripture is filled with lament, tears, and cries of “Why, Lord?” God never asked us to pretend we were okay. He met us in our sorrow and stayed close, even when His presence felt quiet.

Over time, the grief changed. It didn’t shrink—but it softened. Joy began to reappear, not as a replacement for loss, but as a companion to it. We learned that loving our child deeply and trusting God fully could exist at the same time.

What Grief Has Taught Us About God

Loss stripped away easy answers and forced us to wrestle with our faith, and in that wrestling, we discovered something sacred: God is not afraid of our grief. He does not rush our healing. He does not waste our pain.

We’ve learned that:

• God is near to the brokenhearted, even when healing feels slow.

• Faith doesn’t mean understanding—it means trusting.

• Our child’s life, no matter how brief, was intentional and eternally known by God. Praise the Lord!

• Hope doesn’t mean the absence of sorrow; it means believing sorrow will not have the final word.

This journey has deepened our compassion, sharpened our purpose, and strengthened our calling to walk alongside God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.  And now we are finally ready to walk alongside others in their darkest moments too.

How I’ve Changed

I am not the same person I was five years ago. Loss stripped away what was shallow and forced me to confront what matters. I am more intentional. More honest. More direct. Less patient with nonsense. Less concerned with culture and more concerned with Heaven.

I am even more aware of pain hiding behind other’s smiles.

I’ve learned to sit with people in their suffering instead of trying to fix it. I’ve learned that presence is more powerful than words. I’ve learned that grief can break you open—and if you let it, it can grow compassion in places you didn’t know existed.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that surviving is not passive. It’s an act of courage repeated daily.

Where to Go in the Next Five Years

The next five years are not about leaving grief behind. They ARE about carrying it with intention.

They’re about:

• Honoring my child’s life, not just his death.

• Building meaning from pain without romanticizing it.

• Allowing joy to expand again—without apology.

• Using what I’ve learned to support others walking this road.

• Creating a legacy that says: Aiden’s life mattered, this love mattered, and it still does.

I want the next five years to include more purpose, more connection and more remembrance. In these last five years, Aiden is not the only person I have lost.  My mom, “Gigi”, joined Aiden in heaven in March 2024 and just recently Aiden’s great-uncle, “Uncle Mike”, joined them as well in October 2025. 

To Those Earlier on This Journey

If you’re reading this and are only months or a year in, know this: surviving five years doesn’t mean forgetting. It means you’re still here. It means you’ve learned how to carry the unbearable.

You don’t have to know where you are going yet. You only have to take the next breath.

And if you are five years in—or ten, or twenty—and still struggling, that doesn’t mean you are doing it wrong. It means you loved deeply.

Grief is the price of love. And love, even in loss, is worth surviving for.

Know this: God is with you, even here. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have answers. You only need to keep bringing your broken heart to the One who holds it gently.

Five years later, we are still grieving—but we are also still believing. Believing that love never ends. Believing that God redeems what is lost. Believing that his legacy matters.

“And surely I am with you always.” (Matthew 28:20)