Tears, Tools and Treasure ~ Guest Writer Esther Stanway-Williams

Over the next three weeks I’ll be returning to each of the three questions which form the basis of pieces written for the Collaboration, Tears, Tools and Treasure, and putting together a digest of the different strands that have emerged. As I said in last week’s post, there is such a wealth of hard-earned experience and wisdom in our community of grieving parents, and I think the variety of writing this has produced remains one of the greatest strengths of this collection of essays. At the same time, I know that the common themes running throughout it make this publication an immensely helpful one for grieving parents, reflecting as they do that, however we lost our child, so many of the feelings which accompany our experience are universal.

Tears feels such an inadequate word to describe the emotions that course through our system when our child dies, meaning that defining the saddest, hardest and worst part of this loss is nigh on impossible. So I’d like to start by paying tribute to Katie Rizzo, who lost her son Nicholas, for her characteristically honest answer to my question:

The whole thing is hardest; it’s awful. 0 stars, avoid at all costs, do not recommend.

What follows is my attempt to encapsulate the central core of the answers parents have given to this first question. And I’d like to take the opportunity of thanking every one of you who has written so far (my goal is to quote from each of your posts over the coming weeks.) Selecting specific words is not easy, as each post deserves a full read in its own right, and I encourage anyone to click on the links provided to visit the full posts of any writers who they feel particularly ‘speak’ to their own experience.

Losing a child is seismic: the world as we knew it is no more. With this comes an undeniable shift in our sense of who WE are now, because not only has our child gone, so has our previous identity. And this feeling of no longer recognising ourselves can be deeply distressing and disorientating.

Many writers describe this heart-breakingly accurately. Nancy Eddy-Holroyd, says how she has felt anchorless. Bereft. Rudderless. Living with Sheila’s loss has been so excruciatingly hard at times. And Dawn Hennessey, Rhiannon’s mum, describes how part of me…died that day. I am not who I was, and I won’t be her again. Like my humor, and a lightness I didn’t even know I carried until it was gone.

When the loss has extra layers of complexity, it can be accompanied by a profound sense of self-doubt and guilt and, knowing personally how much of a challenge this has been in grieving for my own child, I’m immensely grateful for the other mums who have written so courageously and openly about this. Joanie Madsen, the very first parent to offer their sacred story, shares how when she lost Douglas she felt her inner critic taking over, and saying horrible things to me that revolve around what kind of mother would have a child who turned to drugs? And Chano Itwaru, Kevin’s mum, describes how Grief turns the past into a courtroom where every decision is examined. Suicide leaves behind the tyranny of hindsight, where self-compassion feels out of reach.

How much more difficult trying to navigate our loss is, when we can feel so alone and isolated, emerged as another common theme from the answers to the Tears question. In the words of Eric Fulmer, Nathiel’s dad, It is so hard to reconcile that the world can continue (mostly unaware) despite someone so amazing being gone. It creates a strange dissonance to witness the relative normalcy…in the midst of such an overwhelming sense of horrible loss. And Laurel O’Sullivan, Patrick’s mum, writes how There is a particular loneliness in child loss that is difficult to explain. The world continues. People return to their routines and their children. And you are left standing in a wilderness without a map.

Feeling that others simply do not understand is central to our sense of loneliness, and some parents describe being uncomfortable in the presence of parents who fail to recognise the impact losing their child has had on them. Liane Cooper, Jemma and Lev’s mum, writes about the painful experience of moving within spaces which just seem to accentuate her tragedy: Our community is full of families with many living and healthy children and it can feel extra isolating to be grieving the children we have lost with little to no capacity to engage with our friends’ kids. Nalda Seidman, Josh’s mum, explains that No one wants to face the possibility of child loss. I certainly didn’t before it happened to me. All of this isolated me in a way I hadn’t expected.

This feeling of being unseen or misunderstood is so prevalent in child loss. And it serves to highlight the importance of building communties where grieving parents who have gone through the experience themselves can meet. In these spaces others will know the immense sorrow they carry: here are place where their pain can be witnessed.

And then there is the deep ache, the longing we feel to have our child back again, something many parents describe so movingly. Sally McQuillen, Christopher’s mum, quotes words from her memoir, Reaching for Beautiful, about being heart-struck, catapulted into an abyss filled with desperate yearning, gasping for air and grasping for safety. And Jennifer Ranville, writes that The hardest part of losing Brady is the loss of his presence…the way he filled a room…Now there is an overwhelming, quiet void where he should be…that hurts in ways I did not know were possible.

Romey Macdonald describes this ache so viscerally, how she has struggled with such physical longing for my baby. Lyra was just 2 years and 10 months old, and my arms ache to hold and care for her. I confess to finding accounts of parents losing their children very early some of the saddest to read. As Allegra Wakest Lamb says, the hardest part of losing Yogi is that I’ll never know the man he would have become.

But whatever age our child was when they died, coming to terms with their physical absence is one of the most difficult things things we have to do. As Emily Tammam, Neve’s mum, says Her absence is palpable and present, and I imagine it always will be. Yet I struggle to process this reality. As if on repeat, my brain asks…where are you? And Maggie Delaney-Potthoff, Henry’s mum, describes the work this involves so movingly: the worst part was knowing I’d never be able to hug him one more time, and knowing I had to work on accepting that.

I know this will have been a tough read. But there is no sugar-coating this loss. As all bereaved parents know, we will carry it for the rest of our lives.

This is why I’m grateful to the writers who have so honestly shared their own stories in this meaningful collaboration. My hope is that, in hearing the words of others who understand what they are going through, because they are doing this themselves, the many who come here to read their posts will find comfort in the knowledge that, in this respect, they are not alone. And I’m aware that some readers are not bereaved parents, but read these posts to gain understanding of how they can best support them, and would like to acknowledge what an act of kindness this is: thank you.

I hope that next week’s post will feel a little lighter. In it I will be moving on to the theme of Tools, describing the many wonderful answers to the second question I posed to the writers here, namely what have you found most helpful in navigating your tragedy? And I look forward to exploring the many diverse and creative ways in which bereaved parents have managed to move forward in their grief, whilst taking their child with them into their future life.

I’d like to end by leaving two links to things I’ve found personally helpful as a bereaved parent. Here are Nick Cave’s words, taken from his Letter To Cynthia, which I listened to just after losing my own son. Click the link for the whole video

It seems to me, that if we love, we grieve. That's the deal. That's the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is non-negotiable.

Cave’s song, Push the Sky Away, is something which still takes me back to those very early days. Listening to it always acts as a reminder of the work that carrying this loss requires and why I should never stop extending compassion to myself. And finally here’s a photo I took 6 months after Dom died, at a time when this loss felt so incredibly raw.

Sending love to fellow warriors.

Esther x

My aim in all my writing is to share my journey in ways which help other parents navigating child loss feel less alone. Posts are free…but if you wish to show support, I always appreciate new subscribers and any sharing of my work. The buttons are below, thank you.

Here is the link to Tears, Tools and Treasure. If you would like to share your own story here, you are warmly welcomed to DM me.

Unless otherwise stated, every word in this post is my own. No form of AI was used to produce it as I believe in the importance of lived experience and authentic expression.