Grief has a way of magnifying every “what if” and making us question things we can’t change, but I’m learning to replace guilt with self-compassion, reminding myself that I love deeply and did the best I could with what I knew at the time.

If you're carrying guilt in your grief, you’re not alone. Give yourself grace.

Also, if you know someone who is grieving, I hope you will share this with them. It may be just what they need to hear today.

Looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you liked it and shared it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

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Grief is complicated. It changes you, and sometimes it changes the people you can be around, too.

One of the hardest things to realize is that healing sometimes means setting boundaries with people who make your heart and spirit feel heavier instead of lighter. That’s not an easy choice, but protecting your peace is a major step in taking care of yourself.

For a lot of us, self-care can feel selfish, but grief has a way of teaching you that self-preservation is different. When you’re already carrying so much, it’s okay to honor the parts of yourself you are discovering.

If you’re in that place right now, give yourself permission to choose you. You don’t have to apologize for protecting your heart while you’re learning how to carry your grief.

Thank you for being here. I hope you find comfort in knowing that you are not walking this journey alone. Always remember that grief is personal and that you are finding your way. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

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Survive and Advance.

That’s become the motto my husband and I live by as we navigate life after losing our son.

Grief doesn’t come with a playbook. Some days you’re playing defense, just trying to make it through. Other days, you find moments of joy, purpose, and even laughter.

If you’re showing up today even with a heavy heart, you’re still moving forward. No matter what kind of day you’re having, you’re still advancing.

And that’s more than enough.

Thank you for taking a few moments to be here. Grief is easier to carry when we share it with others. If my story speaks to you, I hope it reminds you that you’re not alone, and if your path through loss is different, that matters too. Every grief journey is personal, and each of us finds our own way forward.

Looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

Patient Endurance is reader-supported. Consider becoming a paid subscriber if this space brings you comfort or insight. Your support keeps it going.

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If you want to love someone who is grieving the loss of a child, remember their child.

For me, that means remembering Wyatt’s birthday, saying his name, sharing a memory, and letting me know that he is still deeply loved.

One of the greatest gifts you can give a grieving parent is letting them know their child has not been forgotten. You don’t have to find the perfect words, just the simple act of remembering matters.

So if you’re wondering how to show up for someone walking through loss, start there. Remember...Speak their name. Mark the important days. Those simple acts can mean more than you’ll ever know.

Thank you for spending a few moments with me. Conversations about grief can be hard, but I’ve found that healing starts when we acknowledge and share our grief with others rather than trying to carry it alone. If any part of my experience resonates with you, I hope it reminds you that others have walked similar paths. And if your journey through loss looks nothing like mine, your loss is just as important. Grief is deeply personal, and each of us learns to navigate it in our own way.

Looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

Patient Endurance is reader-supported. Consider becoming a paid subscriber if this space brings you comfort or insight. Your support keeps it going.

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Grief is something we all share, but everyone grieves differently. This has been one of my biggest struggles. When grief becomes part of your story, so many fears creep in. In the first video of this summer series, I share some of the fears I’ve experienced as a mother who has lost a child.

Thank you for taking a few minutes to watch. Talking about grief isn’t always easy, but I’ve learned that hiding it doesn’t make it any lighter. If you’ve wrestled with fears like these, too, I hope you know you’re not alone. If your grief looks different from mine, that’s okay, too. We all carry loss in our own way.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments. What’s something you wish people understood about grief? I hope that by sharing our stories, we can remind each other that even in the hardest seasons, we don’t have to walk through them alone.

Looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

Patient Endurance is reader-supported. Consider becoming a paid subscriber if this space brings you comfort or insight. Your support keeps it going.

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Then I came across pictures of Wyatt when he was little, and it’s different. Immediately, a lump swells in my throat. My stomach hurts. It’s such a physical reaction.

What’s strange to me is that all of those phases of my children’s lives are gone. They are not little anymore, but the ache I feel when I look at pictures of Wyatt isn’t the same ache I feel when I look at childhood pictures of my two living children. I think it’s because, with Winston and Zoey, I can see where those little kids went. They’re not little anymore, but they’re here. I can look at them and see the continuation of their story.

But with Wyatt, there is no next chapter. I can’t turn the page. I think my brain, and maybe even my body, still doesn’t know what to do with that. It can’t fully make sense of the fact that this little boy is gone forever.

That’s one of the things about losing a child that people don’t really talk about. Maybe they don’t even realize it exists.

I want the pictures. I treasure the pictures, but looking at them can be incredibly painful. Maybe it’s because Wyatt is frozen in time at 17. Maybe that’s part of it. I know that the physical reaction I have when I look at childhood pictures of my living children is very different from the reaction I have when I look at childhood pictures of my child who died.

That difference is something I feel deep in my body, every single time, almost five years into this journey of grief.

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Grief has a way of changing how you see the world. It doesn’t just live in the background, making a small appearance now and again. It moves through everything. Major holidays come and go, Mother’s Day, birthdays, ordinary days that are not really ordinary at all, and they still carry the weight of who is not physically present.

Those special days like Mother’s Day and birthdays are when the people who love you celebrate you. When you lose a child, part of those days change. The cards, the hugs, the small gestures that would have come from that child are no longer there. It’s hard, and I think some people sit in that void for a long time. I have sat there too. I still do at times, but I have also learned to make something else out of those days. To create small moments that belong just to Wyatt and me.

There is this quiet desire I still carry, to know what he would have said, how he would have shown up in those moments. It can sound really weird when said out loud. I understand that. Almost, like I am focusing on myself and clinging to a false reality, but it is not really about that. It is about a missing piece of my heart, and I have learned to let it be what it is without apologizing for it or feeling the pressure from society to move on.

So, during those personal celebrations, sometimes I buy my own card from Wyatt.

Even now, it still feels a little hard to explain to you, but I will be standing in a store looking through cards around Mother’s Day or my birthday, and I will find one that feels like it is speaking directly to me. It is usually something unexpected. A llama. Something playful. Something that stops me. And in that moment, it is like hearing Wyatt say, “Mom, this is me. I’m here. I’m celebrating you. I love you.” Even though his body is not here on this earth, I still feel his presence in those small exchanges. So I buy the cards, and I keep them.

Just last month, Tyson and I were in Seaside, one of the places we have always loved as a family. We went into Sundog Books, one of those small, independent bookstores full of books from floor to ceiling. I was browsing their card section up front because my 50th birthday was just a few days away, and there it was, a card with a llama that said, “Let’s dance.”

Wyatt and I have photos of us dancing together. Those images are something I love to revisit when I miss him terribly. One memory in particular stays with me. We were at my brother’s house for his fiftieth birthday. Music was playing, country, rap, Whitney Houston, every genre you could imagine, and Wyatt was in the pool. We were all singing and having the best time. A country song started to play. I did not even have my swimsuit on, but I just jumped in fully clothed and started two-stepping with my boy. It is not something I would normally do. In fact, most people don’t do it, but in that moment, I did. And I am so glad I did. I let my guard down and gave in to being present and playful.

We danced, laughed, and had the best time.

So when I saw that llama card, “Let’s dance,” I understood it in my own way. It felt like a message straight from heaven. Like a reminder that even now, especially now, I am still allowed to step into those moments and dance!

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America does not grieve well. Most workplaces give you a couple of days, and then they expect you to be right back at work. It’s unbelievable and, honestly, just cruel. Bereavement leave is a topic I could address on its own, but I won’t in this post.

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In those early months of grief, everything felt like too much. It was so disorienting, like being on a merry-go-round that never slowed down. Nothing I did before felt normal. After Christmas, everyone else was back to their routines, and I was at home trying to survive. I decided I had to focus on what I could do. Years before, I had gone through a really tough season, and from that experience, I now had tools in my tool belt that I didn’t have before, and I relied on them. I didn’t focus on the big picture, but on the small daily steps.

Looking back, three actions got me through some of the hardest months of my life, and I want to share them with you.

Getting Dressed

Every day I got out of bed, went to the shower, and then put on clothes. I didn’t dress up or wear makeup, but I always put on fresh clothes and got ready for the day. I wasn’t going anywhere because leaving the house felt like stepping into an unfamiliar world. My home was my safe place. I still knew it was important for my mental health to get dressed. I did it because I needed to prove to myself I was still here. Still capable of being a mom, wife, and teacher. Still able to do one small thing, even though everything inside me wanted to stay still.

Showing Up For My Students

I taught remotely every day. I made videos for the long-term substitute to show my students, and I tried to make them personal and intentional so they still felt me there, even when I couldn’t be in the room with them. I created the assignments myself, one day at a time, trying to keep things steady for them when nothing felt steady for me.

After school, when the school was quiet and empty, I went to my classroom every day. I checked attendance, prepared for the next day, and set things up so the room could keep moving forward. It kept my mind busy in a way I needed. It gave me something to focus on besides my broken heart. Every once in a while, toward the end of the year, I would show up in the classroom for a couple of hours. I just wanted to see my students’ smiling faces again. I also wanted them to see me and to know I was going to be okay, even if I didn’t feel okay yet.

This whole showing up for my students in an unconventional way let me do something I loved: teach. Even in the middle of grief, I still had that, and that felt normal.

Honoring Wyatt

This gave the hard days meaning. Some days it was something simple, like baking cookies or sending a note to someone who loved Wyatt, too. Some days, it meant working on something around the house that kept his memory close. I wasn’t trying to make it big or perfect. I just didn’t want him to feel so far away.

I would work on Love Theory shirts. I would make his favorite foods. I would light candles when we ate. I would buy his favorite book and send it to people. I would work in his memory garden that Tyson and I created. Little things like that, small ways of keeping him present in my life and in other people’s.

It wasn’t about moving on. It was about continuing to parent and love Wyatt in ways I could still hold on to.

None of this fixed my grief. It did give me routines and grounded my soul when it felt like it was on the fringes. When the world was slipping, these simple daily practices gave me something to hold onto. They didn’t fix anything. Not my broken heart. Not my waning faith. Not my questions or anger.

They just kept me moving, and some days that was all I needed to get to the next.

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As the day was approaching, I found myself wanting to give something in return. I wrote a piece to share with those in attendance, and I’m sharing it with you now.

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Being here with the eight of you and my family, sharing brunch in this small circle, feels like the perfect time to put my thoughts into words. Turning 50 has made me more reflective than usual.

So I ask, when was the last time you really thought about the little girl you used to be? Not in a passing way, but really stopped and remembered who she was before the world told her who to be. Before it told her what she loved, what she dreamed about, how she should feel.

Because turning 50 has made me realize something:

She never actually leaves.

She’s still here.

And today, I want you to meet eight-year-old Christy.

This is the eight-year-old version of me.

I want you to know what she loved, who she was, who she dreamed of becoming. What brought her joy. What made her sad. What she deserved and maybe didn’t always receive.

This little girl was a dreamer. She lived in a world of glitter, confetti, streamers, friendship pins, and tiny creatures. And honestly, that world made more sense to her than the real one sometimes. She had big feelings. Bigger than a lot of the adults around her knew how to handle or maybe even understood. And when your feelings are not understood, especially at eight years old, you learn to tuck them away, so she created a world where her imagination understood them.

She loved to create and make messes, but not the kind that left her hands dirty. Her messes were of little treasures: piles of collections, scattered keepsakes, bits of things she couldn’t bear to throw away. She was a magpie at heart. Her room was always in a state of beautiful disarray.

If her mom told her to clean it, she didn’t just tidy up; she transformed it. Everything came off the shelves, every corner reimagined. What should have taken an hour stretched into an entire day. By the end, her bedroom looked completely different. It drove her mom a little crazy.

And truthfully, big Christy still cleans like this today because to her, this process has always felt like magic.

She had friends. Kids liked her, but girls weren’t always kind. She was emotional and sometimes a little bossy. She felt everything deeply. She had a strong sense of right and wrong, not that it always kept her from bending, but she always felt it when she did; something she carried quietly. She was sensitive, too. What other kids thought was funny, she usually didn’t. Sometimes she struggled to find her place, even though she had this deep desire to be seen and truly known. But the more she showed those parts of herself, the more they seemed to stand out, not always in ways that felt good. She was labeled a goody-two-shoes and Christian Christy, so she started to quiet that part of herself, to hold back, to not say the things that felt true.

Until one day, she didn’t. She was playing Barbies with a friend who was being unkind, and for the first time, she said exactly what she felt: Well, f*** you! And wow…did that feel powerful. But that moment ended with her sitting on the bathroom counter, getting her mouth washed out with soap. Instead of anyone ever asking: What made you feel that way?

And that was the pattern:

Big feelings...misunderstood.

Expression…corrected. Very little curiosity about what was underneath.

So she learned to retreat into her imagination, into her creativity.

She played dress-up. She sang and danced. She pretended to sell clothes from her closet to her “famous” customers. She imagined she was a movie star on a soap opera. She lived a big, beautiful life inside her own mind. A world where she could be fully herself.

Even then, she had this quiet sense that she experienced the world differently, like wearing two completely different socks. Not wrong. Not broken. Just a little out of step. And somehow, that made the world feel both confusing and full of wonder.

Now, at 50, I look back at that little girl with such tenderness. I don’t just see her, I feel her. And more than anything, I want to honor her. Not because she didn’t have a good childhood, she did. She grew up surrounded by love and support, but she encountered the world in her own way, and somewhere along the way, parts of her got quieter.

So today, I want to celebrate her, and I want to thank you, because if you’re here, it means you don’t just love me now, you love her, too.

She’s here in my laughter.

She’s here in my creativity.

She’s here in my joy and my grief.

She’s here in my authenticity.

She’s here in how deeply I love.

She’s here in the life I’ve built, my kids, in my marriage, in this home.

She never really left.

And I think that’s something we all deserve: To reconnect with that younger version of ourselves.

To ask who she was. What she loved. What she dreamed about.

Because I really believe this: In the second half of life, we’re meant to come back to her.

To play again. To feel again. To find joy in the small things again.

So my promise to you, as your friend, is this: I will honor your little girl, too.

I want to know her. I want to celebrate her dreams, even the ones you forgot.

So take just a moment: Think about her. Who she was. What she loved. What she needed. And maybe, just maybe, we can spend the next part of our lives giving her exactly that.

Friends, thank you for loving me, but more importantly, thank you for loving her.

With gratitude for the little girl in all of us,

Christy

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Today I found myself thinking about the little girl who used to dream of doing BIG things. She was certain she would visit Mr. Rogers’ make-believe neighborhood one day and finally get to see inside Henrietta Pussycat’s house. She loved pretending she was magical and special. Somewhere along the way, those dreams faded under the weight of growing up. I wonder why childhood does not linger, and why the weight of growing up is so hard to bear.

It takes courage to remain carefree and to see the world through a lens of delight. Sometimes I want to be little again. A do-over. Can we do that at 50? What do we really have to lose? I have already lost so much. Why should I worry if others think I am a little unusual or eccentric?

What will the second half of life bring? I want more sparkle, more laughter, more coloring outside the lines, and less worrying about what the world expects from me. I want to be free. Free in thought, in expression, in creativity, and in grace. Grace for myself and for others.

I have known loss. Why wouldn’t I choose something different for the time I am given on this earth? I have never been described as wild or untamed, but maybe, just maybe, 50 will let me sparkle in ways I never dared before.

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I have always felt a little different. I am an Enneagram 4, if you know anything about that.1 We tend to live in the deep end and don’t snorkel through life. If we all took an honest pill, we’d all admit we feel different at times. But ever since Wyatt’s death, I do not see the world the same. Sometimes I do not recognize myself in it. Sometimes I feel like I do not fit anywhere.

When life changes instantly like that, it does something to your sense of security. It jacks up your nervous system. To wake up one morning and realize the person you were no longer exists, and the road in front of you is not the one you thought you were walking, is terrifying. It is not just that my life changed. I changed.

For almost 4 years, I have been working to find what brings me joy. I tell myself joy trumps fear. I do not want to live afraid for the rest of my days. But this is hard work. Some days it feels like I am faking it until I make it. Choosing joy does not cancel out grief. It sits right next to it and says, “Pass the beer.”

If I am honest, sometimes I just want the freedom to be an angry mom who lost her child. That feels real, but people do not like that version. They do not want you to rage, and they definitely do not want to hear the things that play on repeat in your mind. Grief is uncomfortable. Anger is even more uncomfortable. So I swallow a lot of it. I smooth it out. I make it easier for other people to handle.

There aren’t many people I can truly share my thoughts with. I have a couple, and I am grateful for them. But this is still a very lonely place to be.

I do not want to rank deaths. Pain is pain. But there is a but, if you are a parent, imagine losing your child. Sit in that for an hour. Let the fear, the anger, the ache rise. The helplessness. The disbelief. The unfairness of it. Then know that the hell and sadness you feel in that hour is what I live with every day. I carry it 24/7, and then I mask it so everyone else can feel more comfortable.

Some days, I am tired of being the strong one. Some days, I am tired of trying to make grief look inspiring.

This is the life I did not choose, but it is the one I am living.

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This season of the newsletter is opening up in a new way, making room for warmth, for home, for the quiet beauty tucked into ordinary days. Like grief itself, I’m not fixed or finished. Healing hasn’t moved in a straight line for me; it has curved, doubled back, and surprised me, guiding me toward myself in small, unexpected ways.

Each letter is an offering: reflections on loss and healing, on tenderness and becoming, on the moments that remind us life can remain meaningful even when it looks nothing like we planned. You’ll find soft comfort, the meal that nourishes, the glow of a candle, and the small return of feeling like yourself alongside honest words about memory, change, and learning how to live again.

If you arrive carrying new grief or the quiet, lingering kind, I hope this space feels like an old friend. So settle in with something warm, wrap yourself in whatever brings comfort, and stay awhile.

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She Has Held Us

I was telling Tyson yesterday how much I love our home. I love it more now, in this phase of life, than I ever have before. I do not know if it is something specific about this house or simply the comfort of having a space to truly call my own.

I have always loved tinkering around the house, decorating, rearranging, and making her pretty, but lately it feels different. For the first time, I am not thinking about needing something bigger or better. I am content with her. I do not want to replace her. I want to be her friend and support her through all her transitions, just as she has supported me through mine.

We have lived in this home for seventeen years. She has seen us through owning a business and closing a business, starting a home church, bringing our daughter home from Africa, homeschooling our oldest, walking through hard days of depression, COVID, Winston coming out, losing our son Wyatt, our youngest leaving the nest, and now Tyson and me learning how to reconnect in this second half of life.

This house has held space for so many, not just us. She has witnessed countless tears and just as much laughter. She has welcomed both stranger and friend. This home is holy ground to me, and I am deeply thankful that she is mine.

I love watching her blossom and grow old. I see when she needs a new window treatment like a fresh dress, and when cracks need repairing so she can continue to live her best life. I love the warmth she brings to me and to others, and the security found within her walls.

I am grateful for her. She has become one of my very best friends, like a sister, and I hope to honor her well.

What 2025 Taught Me About My Grief

One:

I learned that I don’t have to feel guilty for living.

Since the day Wyatt died, there’s been this quiet weight inside me, guilt that I’m still here. Guilt that I get to breathe, to laugh, to feel moments of joy when he doesn’t. When happiness would rise up unexpectedly, I’d feel the urge to shut it down. I’d dim it. Sometimes, sabotage it. As if joy was something dangerous, something I wasn’t allowed to hold for too long.

For the past 4 years, I told myself, “Wyatt isn’t here to live life, so I’ll do it in his honor.” But I’ve learned that doing things for someone else as a way to replace pain and anguish never truly works. It doesn’t heal the grief; it only masks it.

What I now recognize is that joy doesn’t need permission. I’m allowed to feel it. I’m allowed to chase the things that make me happy and sit inside those moments without guilt tugging at me. I don’t have to shrink my happiness to match my loss.

I’m not choosing joy for Wyatt. I’m choosing it for myself. And somehow, that feels like the most honest way to love us both.

Two:

Another thing I’ve learned about my grief is that I need people to remember Wyatt.

I don’t carry all of his story. I never did. Other people were part of his life; they loved him, laughed with him, and knew different sides of him. Every time someone shares a story about him or sends a picture, something in my heart softens. It grows warm and tender in a way nothing else can reach.

I didn’t know this about grief before, but most people who are grieving want to hear their loved one’s name. We want the stories. We want the memories spoken out loud. There is something deeply therapeutic, healing, and lovely about it.

I need those moments. I need to see him through other people’s eyes. They keep my focus out of despair and shine light in the broken places. They remind me that his life was real. When someone shares about Wyatt, they are remembering him, and in those moments, the weight I carry feels lighter. I don’t have to hold everything by myself. I can breathe.

Those moments feel like sacred ground to me.

Just even a video of him playing a game with his tennis buddies means everything to me.

Three:

The last thing my grief has taught me is that, at the end of the day, I am in charge of myself.

I am in charge of what I do and how I experience the world around me. I can use my voice to tell others what I need. I can sit in anger or express the truth. I can look for the joy that is around me, or I can choose to be sad.

All of it is normal. None of it is wrong.

The grief work is mine. No one else can do it for me. This grief belongs to me, and so does the way I carry it.

Joy Board

I love Pinterest. It is so inspiring to me. And now I love Instagram, not just any Instagram, but the account I created called The Brown Box Reimagined, where I share my frazzled fashion and my creative side.

When I created this account, I started following designers from all over the world: fashion designers, interior designers, artists, and chefs. My feed is full of inspiration and delight. This little corner of the internet has brought me so much joy and inspires me every single day.

So I thought I would share a “joy board” with you in my newsletter. These will be little bits of inspiration that I’m gathering. I love creating design and mood boards, and as a fashion and interior design teacher, I have my students do this a lot. I hope it inspires you to create your own.

I made this one on Canva, which is such a user-friendly graphic design platform. If you want to try your hand at creating design boards, start there.

Ok, Friends, get to creating, be inspired, and don’t let another day go by without captivating your senses.

Grace For You

If there is one thing I hope you take from all of this, it’s grace.

Grace to create.

Grace to feel joy without guilt.

Grace to remember and help others do the same.

Grace to explore and be curious.

Grace to discover beauty, inspiration, and delight in the small corners of your days.

Grace to be honest.

Grace to believe that your grief is yours. Your joy is yours too.

Grace to know you can hold them both.

Grace to just be.

There is grace for you here, exactly as you are.

If something in this small newsletter resonated with you, I’d be grateful if you’d like or share it. Those simple gestures go a long way, not just in helping this community grow, but in reminding me that these stories are worth telling.

Thank you for being here and for holding space for grief, love, and all the in-between moments.

On the journey,
Christy

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The video is of Thomas. I am not going to share his story because I want you to listen to it, but I am going to share with you what Tyson wrote to me, along with the video.

“On night one [this was our first night as bereaved parents], you slept in my arms. You hadn’t slept in my arms since we were newlyweds. As we lay there together, I wondered, “Will we sleep tonight or ever again?” In the quiet, between alternating cries, you asked, “Ty, what are we going to do?” I had no good answer for the traumatically uncharted waters such as this. As I blankly stared towards the darkness that seemed to swallow the bedroom window and us, I desperately tried to think of anything I could say to comfort you. I didn’t know what time it was, but I could imagine the rising sun trying to ease its rays through that window overlooking the garden sometime soon. Then from seemingly nowhere, these words just effortlessly came out, “I don’t know. But if that sun comes up in the east again, then so will we, and we’ll figure it out together.” I wonder if from that same “nowhere” those words were given to this gentleman in his time of mourning. I’d love to sit with him over a cup of coffee on that farm.

“…As surely as the sun rises,

he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains,

like the spring rains that water the earth.”

‭‭Hosea‬ ‭6‬:‭3‬ ‭NIV‬

And from that moment on, I began looking toward the sun.

For anyone reading this who may be standing in a similar darkness, whether from grief, fear, loss, or the weight of unanswered questions, I hope this encourages you. You do not need all the answers. You do not need to know what comes next. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply look toward the sun and trust that it will rise again.

Still looking to the sun,

Christy

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you would like it and share it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

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This is a new direction for the newsletter, one that makes more room for warmth, home, and everyday beauty. Just like grief, I am ever-changing. I’m learning that healing isn’t a straight line; it’s a series of twists and turns that help us return to ourselves in small ways.

Each letter is a small offering of reflections on loss and healing, the tenderness of ordinary days, and the moments that remind us life can still be beautiful, even when it’s different from what we imagined. You’ll find glimmers of warmth (the soup that feels like a hug, the candle that softens the air, the outfit that finally feels like you again), alongside honest notes on memory, home, and becoming.

Whether you come carrying fresh grief or the slow echoes of it, I hope you find something here that feels like company, so grab your favorite drink and a warm blanket and let’s visit.

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A Bouquet For The Soul

Grief is heavy, but noticing what brings us joy is part of the slow process of washing the soul. That’s why I designed a bouquet of sharpened pencils for my graphic. My favorite movie of all time is You’ve Got Mail, and there’s a quote I know by heart:

“Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms.”

Every time I hear this line, it reminds me of the simple joys in life, like receiving a sweet, simple bouquet of pencils tied with a big bow. Joy doesn’t have to be grand or elaborate; it can be small, unexpected, and full of warmth. Sometimes, leaning into those little sparks is what slowly washes the soul clean and leaves room for more joy.

Quiet Joy

There’s a specific ache that comes with anniversaries, and this month is the big one I dread, which marks the anniversary of my son’s passing. Dates can hold memory like muscle, and November begins the month of excruciating pain. Lately, I’ve noticed how time folds in on itself, and how small moments-a song, a sunset, a smell, a picture can open an old wound and, somehow, also soothe it.

I’m learning that tenderness isn’t always soft and easy to come by. Sometimes it’s intentionally choosing to keep showing up for your life, even when it’s different from how it used to be. Sometimes, in the day-to-day, it’s choosing to create your own small joy and remembering what brings you delight, like making bread, lighting a candle, using cloth napkins instead of paper, or eating ice cream over cookies at 9:00 pm, all small reminders that bits of warmth are still possible, even in the pain.

Glimmers

Frazzled Fashion: OOTDs That Remind Me to Play

Sharing my outfits on Instagram and doing a weekly Saturday recap has become my little ritual of joy. Fashion has always been my playground, but I forgot how much joy it brings me. At the beginning of the school year, I started sharing my daily outfits on Instagram, and these brief moments reconnected me to the little girl who spent hours playing dress-up and running a fashion store in her room. It’s a bit messy, a bit silly, and thoroughly delightful. A reminder that joy can hide in everyday moments and reconnect you with your inner child. Sometimes we just need to play.

Grace For You

Almost four years later, and I still get a lump in my throat when I look back on pictures or videos of Wyatt or of us as a family of five. I don’t think that feeling will ever go away, and honestly, I don’t want it to. It reminds me that we’re still connected.

People often assume it gets easier. It doesn’t. You just learn to carry it. Wyatt is missed every single day by his dad and me. I know others think about him, too. Sometimes, they’ll send me pictures or stories that remind them of him. I love it when that happens. I wish it happened more.

It doesn’t keep me stuck in my grief. It keeps him close. Losing a child is like losing a part of yourself. Imagine knowing that a piece of your heart is gone, and now you have to learn how to live without it. You walk around, and when people ask, “How are you?” what you really want to say is, “I’m broken.” But what would they do with that? They’d get uncomfortable, and then you spend the rest of the time trying to make them comfortable.

It’s such a strange and lonely space to exist in. Grief makes others uncomfortable, but it’s a constant companion in my life. So just know, I’m continually giving you grace for not knowing how to handle my brokenness. And so is everyone else who is grieving.

If you want to love someone in grief better, stop asking “How are you?” We’re not okay, and that question only reminds us how far from okay we really are.

Instead, say, “I’ve been thinking about you.” Or, “I miss Wyatt too.” Or, “Tell me something you remember about him.” Those words open the door without demanding anything in return.

Grief doesn’t need to be fixed; it just needs to be witnessed.

And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is to show up, stay present, and speak their name.

If this small newsletter spoke to you, I’d love it if you could like or share this post. It helps more than you might realize, not just in growing this community, but in reminding me that these stories matter.

Thank you for being here and for making space for grief, love, and everything in between.

On the journey,
Christy

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I saved this quote on Instagram back in the summer. When I read it, I immediately nodded my head. I get told all the time that I’m so strong, and I don’t want to discount my strength, but losing a child is like carrying around two gallons of water at all times. The weight wears you out mentally and physically, but you know you can’t set it down because you need it to survive.

I once heard actor Andrew Garfield share on The Late Show, when talking about the death of his mom, “I hope this grief stays with me because it’s all the unexpressed love that I didn’t get to tell her.” That is how I feel about losing Wyatt. He left this world at seventeen, but my desire to parent and love him didn’t go away with his death. And I don’t want it to go away, because I don’t want to forget him. I don’t want others to forget him either (that’s a whole other post).

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It’s complicated and heavy. It’s not easy being strong, and some days I’m just surviving. Some days, I’m just putting on my fake smile and fake attitude and grinning through the pain. Some days, I scream at Tyson. Some days I break things. Some days, I cuss because they are the only words that express my pain. Some days, I can’t remember what his voice sounded like, and that scares the hell out of me. Some days, I am numb. The love is there; it always is, but some days it’s so heavy I really don’t know how to carry it.

I HATE all of it, really. I can’t make it pretty. I want my boy back. I want my family of five back. I want my husband back before Wyatt died. I want me back. But that’s not my reality. My reality is that Wyatt died, and I will more than likely live more days without him here than I did with him. That is brutal, and that breaks more than my heart; it crushes my soul.

So yes, I am strong, but I am also exhausted. I am constantly on the verge of losing it, breaking into tears, or telling someone how ungrateful they are. So that you know, the person you think is so strong is actually judging and jealous of you. I do believe you have it easier, and I do feel sorry for myself. I’m a member of the dead kid club. You don’t want to join.

I’m sure none of that makes me strong in your eyes now. But I need you to know the truth.

This is the truth.

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you liked it and shared it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

Most of it was spent caring for Tyson after his heart surgery. I’ve been his caretaker for two weeks now, and during the second half of that time, I was with him at home full-time. Even though I love being home, I sometimes feel a bit gloomy when I’m not around other people or don’t have a reason to get dressed up. Being at school really keeps my mind busy and gives me a reason to rise with purpose. I’ve always loved fashion. It was my major, and I’m incredibly grateful to teach fashion design. Going to school gives me a deep sense of purpose.

That said, my guy needed a nurse, and I was honored to care for him. I wouldn’t say caretaking is my calling, but loving him is. So I stayed busy, giving him his meds, preparing meals and drinks, watching his every move, and just being present.

I also found myself diving into all kinds of projects around the house. I started stripping our nightstands, spray-painted some rechargeable lamps, became a sandwich connoisseur, baked zucchini bread, wrote some, and simply enjoyed being home.

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Between caretaking and home projects (and way too many sandwiches), I found myself catching small moments of light. These quiet, beautiful things reminded me that life is happening, I’m still paying attention, and still capable of delight. These glimmers didn’t change the hard parts, but softened them just like they have been doing for four years...little pauses of joy.

Here are a few from this past week.

It wasn’t the easiest week. Tears were shed by both Ty and me. Watching someone you love in pain is hard. Losing sleep is hard, and yet, there is something sacred about caring for someone, about showing up and being present, about noticing beauty even in the tougher seasons. The last four years have been full of that for us, so I’m getting pretty good at noticing the good when it shines. That’s why I want to share it with you.

I don’t just wake up and wait for delight to happen; I go looking for it. And I seem to find it. You can too.

What glimmers have you noticed lately, even in your hard moments?

Until next time-keep looking!

Christy

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Initially, I found myself teaching about grief because I wanted others to understand that grief is complex and nuanced. Grief can feel very isolating, and I thought that if I could explain it, teach it, maybe it would make it lighter for me to carry.

But I soon realized: I don’t want to teach my way through grief.

I want to live through it.

Living with grief is more than just surviving; it’s about noticing the small, beautiful things that help me stay present. The smell of bread baking in the oven. A thrifted find that makes me smile. A soft vintage sweater. A nostalgic scent. A song that helps me cry or a quote that finds me when I need it most. These glimmers don’t erase the pain. They remind me I’m still here, still becoming. Still capable of feeling joy even in my sorrow.

So Patient Endurance is evolving not away from grief, but toward the entangled living of life after loss. It’s now more spacious, more reflective, and more honest about the beautiful, messy in-between, the place where grief and happiness coexist side by side. It’s me living day to day.

You can still expect reflections on memory and healing. But now you’ll also find:

• Glimmers-little things that feel like light

  

• Worn & Loved-clothes and rituals that bring comfort and delight

  

  

• From My Corner-the spaces and rhythms that are holding me together

  

  

This space is for the healing and the hopeful.

It’s for those learning to carry sorrow and collect joy at the same time.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying.

Christy

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Tyson sent me these pictures he found on a flash drive. Oh, to see this baby again. I loved looking into his big blue eyes and running my fingers through those blonde curls. As my mind remembered sweet, beautiful memories, my heart broke all over again for a time that felt safer.

Wyatt’s death has changed so much about my world. And this, this depth of pain isn’t something people in grief usually talk about. The quiet, hidden places where pain and anger reside. The space that widens between broken hearts. The storms that come without warning. The terrifying silence where hope once was.

Losing a child is death in its ugliest form. It rips your heart into a million pieces, and you know nothing can mend it back together the same way in your lifetime. Everything changes in an instant, and then, slowly, you watch other things start to die too. Relationships. Routines. Promises. Even parts of yourself.

You long to go back. But you can’t. That’s the ugly truth of it.

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So how do you move forward, step by step?

Honestly, no one can truly tell you because the journey is profoundly personal.

I write about ways to cope with grief, but the truth is: at the core of grief is a space only the grieving can enter. It’s where you must find yourself; no one else can do that for you.

People will offer advice, suggestions, even comfort. Some of it might help. But let me share this: almost four years in, I still wake up, and the only thing that feels familiar is fear—like thick scar tissue wrapped around my heart.

This is the reality of death, the death I know: the death of my son, and the death of the life I once knew, and I would give anything to go back to a safer time.

I am a certified grief educator who has found purpose in my pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you liked it and shared it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

When I fall behind, I get stuck. And when I'm stuck, I tend to freeze and do nothing except shame myself for not keeping my end of the deal. That's not a good feeling, and it's definitely not a healthy place to land.

But instead of slipping back into old patterns, I'm choosing something different. If I've learned anything in these 3.5 years of walking through grief, it's that I am not who I once was. And I do have room for grace, so much grace for myself and others. It doesn't always appear right away, but when it does, it falls softly, just when it's needed. So, with that, I'm extending grace and staying on the winding path set before me.

Truthfully, I'm not even sure I like the "newsletter" style of writing. I like writing and sharing. Whatever form that takes, I'm learning to be okay with it.

I’m so very thankful you’re here. If even one person reads my words and finds a little peace, comfort, or understanding in their grief, or feels a bit more compassion for someone else, then I trust I’m doing the work I’m meant to do, in the way it’s meant to unfold.

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I wrote the post below on Facebook 111 days after Wyatt's death. Looking back now, my heart feels tender for the mom who wrote those words. She was trying to find her way in a world that no longer looked the same. And yet, I also see parts of her in me today. She was searching for joy, and I still am.

Joy isn’t fleeting; it’s enduring. It has meaning. It grounds me. Even now, 1,325 days later, my heart’s deepest cracks come when I think about living the rest of my days without Wyatt. Knowing that I’ll likely live more years without him than with him can send me into a place where I stare blankly into the void.

But just as it was back then, finding joy in pain remains my lifeline. It was crucial to my survival 111 days in, and it remains so today.

Here’s what I wrote then:

This morning I was reading someone’s story about mental health and they described themselves as a square peg in a round hole.

Immediately, I related to this description. This is how I feel since Wyatt’s death. The world I see is not the same, and I don’t sense that I fit in anymore. It’s scary to have an instant life change like that. To wake up and not be yourself, and to honestly know that life has been altered forever, is terrifying.

In therapy, one of the things I’m working on is finding what brings me joy. Joy trumps fear, and I don’t want to live afraid for the rest of my days. Consistently focusing on joy keeps me out of the pit. When darkness creeps upon me, if I don’t want to sink to the bottom with it, I must learn to keep swimming. Finding daily moments of joy are life preservers for me.

In this current season of grief, I still want to parent Wyatt. Being his mom didn’t just stop the day he died. That pull to nurture and love him physically is still very strong and alive. Losing Wyatt didn’t change the fact that I’m his mom and he is my son. Parenting Wyatt may look different now, but just like when he was here, it brings me so much joy. Some acts of love that I do to parent my boy:

❤️I write. Wednesday with Wyatt helps me share Wyatt with the world, and I love sharing him with you.

❤️I send out his favorite book, Love Does, to people who I believe Wyatt would want them to read it.

❤️I packaged the Love Theory shirts to be mailed out in our living room. That process was so special to me.

❤️I’ve created places in our home to keep his memory alive.

❤️I’ve printed out anything I could find written about him on Instagram after his passing, and I’m currently finishing up Facebook. I plan to put these beautiful memorials in a book so his dad and I can read them for years to come.

❤️I look for llamas everywhere. I send llama stickers, cards, etc., to people, reminding them that they are loved.

Joy in grief…it is possible to experience, and some days I feel grief is going to win, but then I hear my boy whisper to me, “Mom, just like you always told me, and now I’m telling you…keep your eye on the prize.” So, with that, I arise and get to work.

My grief still has a tight grip, but so does love. I still ache for the life I lived and for the days that were supposed to come. But even in that pain, I also find him. Joy comes in the pink sunsets and mysterious hearts found in unsuspecting places. It comes in the way I continue to mother him by tending his garden and spreading kindness through Love Theory. The sweetest joy comes in the quiet reminders he sends me, just between us, right when I need them most.

I keep searching for joy, not because the pain is gone, but because joy carries me through the storm. And when the darkness presses in, I remember to keep my eye on the prize and let the search for joy be my path forward.

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Christy is a certified grief educator who has found purpose in her pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you liked it and shared it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.

It’s in moments like these that the harder edges of grief rise to the surface, the new family picture without him, the memories created without Wyatt’s personality woven in. Sitting in the reality that he’ll never know his new brother-in-law and that he never saw Winston in love makes my soul pause.

I’m learning to hold these moments tenderly, allowing the full weight of reality to settle in. Grief doesn’t steal the joy; it just means learning to live in the tension of both beauty and pain.

This will be a heartfelt weekend full of love and goodness. But it will also be a weekend when my heart aches a little deeper, and that’s okay because loving Wyatt deeply means missing him deeply. And in that space of longing, I carry him with me as we continue to write our family story.

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Christy is a certified grief educator who has found purpose in her pain by helping others navigate their grief journey. This publication is dedicated to understanding grief and exploring its complexities. If something here spoke to you, I’d be honored if you liked it and shared it. Writing from the heart can be vulnerable, and your support means more than you know.