I still mother them….

I read something today about the tenderness grief gives you and it just sat with me all day.

Not the sadness part. We all know grief is sad.

Not the anger part either, because if you’ve grieved big losses, you know anger sneaks in too.

But the tenderness.

The softness.

Nobody really talks about that part.

Losing Vincent changed me.

Losing Gabriella changed me all over again.

I don’t think you survive losing your children and stay the same person. Some days I miss the old version of me. The one who didn’t automatically think the worst when the phone rings late. The one who didn’t know life could split right down the middle into before and after.

But grief has softened me in ways I never expected.

I notice people differently now.

The cashier that looks exhausted.

The mom trying to hold it together while her kid is losing it in the grocery store.

The person sitting in their car for a little too long before going inside.

The friend who says, “I’m okay,” but something about them tells me they are anything but okay.

Maybe when your own heart breaks wide open, you stop assuming everybody else is okay too.

Maybe grief teaches you that everybody is carrying something.

Some people carry loss.

Some carry loneliness.

Some carry addiction.

Some carry fear, anxiety, shame, heartbreak, regret, or things they have gotten really good at hiding.

And because I know what it feels like to carry the unbearable, I think I move through the world differently now.

I give more grace.

I judge less.

Because the truth is, we really have no idea what somebody is surviving.

Vincent softened me in one way.

Gabriella softened me in another.

Losing Vincent taught me compassion for families living with addiction. It taught me what it feels like to love somebody so much that you are terrified every single day. It taught me about recovery, relapse, hope, fear, and what it means to love somebody through all of it.

And if I’m being honest, I don’t think Gabriella’s heart ever healed from losing her brother.

Vincent was her person.

Anybody who knew them knew that.

There was just something about the two of them. A bond that was bigger than words.

After Vincent died, something shifted in her.

I think part of her broke in a way that never fully healed.

She never really found another person after losing him.

And her relapse last year reminded me of something I already knew, but still hate admitting:

Nobody is safe from this disease.

Nobody.

Not the person with one year in recovery.

Not the person with ten years.

Not the person everybody points to and says, “They’re doing amazing.”

This past year alone, several of my friends in long-term recovery relapsed. Some have gone back to treatment. Some are starting over again. And every single time it reminds me how powerful and patient this disease is.

Addiction does not care how much time you have.

It doesn’t care how loved you are.

It doesn’t care how hard somebody fought to get well.

And that truth has softened me too.

Because recovery isn’t linear.

Starting over is not failure.

Going back to treatment is not weakness.

And people deserve grace while they are fighting for their lives.

I think grief made me softer toward people carrying things I cannot see.

It made me kinder.

More patient.

More aware that everybody is fighting something.

I say “I love you” more now.

I pay attention to little things more.

Dinner around the table.

Grandkids laughing outside.

A random text from somebody checking in.

Someone showing up without being asked.

Because grief teaches you something nobody tells you:

Ordinary moments are the big moments.

And while I would give anything, absolutely anything, to have Vincent and Gabriella back, I also know this:

Loving them changed me.

Losing them changed me.

And somehow, through all of this heartbreak, they still continue to soften parts of me that life could have made hard.

Maybe that’s part of love too.

Maybe love leaves fingerprints.

Even after people are gone. 💜