When everything else did…”
Somewhere in the middle of everything shifting…
you start to notice something unexpected.
Not everything moved.
It’s subtle at first.
You don’t recognize it right away because you’re focused on what changed.
What broke.
What’s missing.
What no longer feels the same.
But then, in a quiet moment, you realize something is still steady.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
Just… present.
And you didn’t create it.
You didn’t hold it together.
It was already there.
That realization doesn’t answer your questions.
It doesn’t undo what happened.
But it gives you something different.
Not control.
Not clarity.
But steadiness.
And sometimes, in grief, that’s enough.
Yesterday was our late nephew’s birthday.
He would have turned twenty-one.
It’s been eighteen years since he and his sister passed away.
Eighteen years.
Long enough for children to become adults.
Long enough for families to move houses, change jobs, celebrate graduations, weddings, birthdays, and countless milestones.
Long enough for life to continue moving forward.
And yet grief has a peculiar relationship with time.
In some ways, everything changes.
In other ways, time stands completely still.
For my husband’s family, Hannah and Q are not simply memories from long ago. They remain part of everyday life. Their names are still spoken. Their birthdays are still remembered. Their absence is still felt.
The grief has changed over the years.
It no longer sounds the way it once did.
The sharp edges have softened.
The conversations carry different tones.
The memories are often accompanied by smiles now rather than only tears.
But the loss remains.
It always will.
No one feels that reality more deeply than their parents.
I won’t attempt to speak on their behalf because that grief belongs uniquely to them.
What I can say is that loss never leaves them.
What I can say is that it continues to shape the way they see the world, the way they love, and the way they remember.
What I can also say is that grief remains with Ricardo too.
He speaks about Hannah and Q differently now than he did years ago. Time has changed the expression of his grief, but not the love beneath it.
And as I have watched the people I love navigate profound loss, I have learned something important.
Grief depends on where you stand.
A parent grieves differently than a sibling.
A sibling grieves differently than an aunt.
An aunt grieves differently than a friend.
We may stand in the same storm, but we do not stand in the same place.
As a sibling, I understand certain kinds of loss.
As an aunt, I can imagine others.
But there are depths of grief I will never fully know because they are not mine to carry.
Parents alone occupy the space left by the loss of a child.
No one else can truly stand there.
The closest I can come is to bear witness.
To remember.
To remain present.
To love people through the impossible.
Perhaps that’s why one conversation remains etched into my memory all these years later.
My brother-in-law became seriously ill when my nephews were still young.
He had a defect in a duct within his pancreas and ultimately underwent a Total Pancreatectomy Auto Islet Cell Transplant.
It was a complex medical journey filled with uncertainty.
As a family, we prayed.
We hoped.
We celebrated victories when they came and worried when setbacks followed.
Some days brought optimism.
Others brought fear.
There was no roadmap.
Only faith, family, and the determination to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
One day my sister sent me a message.
They had spoken with my older nephew about his dad’s condition.
He was upset and wanted to call me.
I agreed.
Then I sat quietly waiting for the phone to ring.
I knew this would likely be one of the hardest conversations I would ever have.
I loved those boys deeply then.
I still do.
There is very little I wouldn’t do for them.
When the phone finally rang, I answered.
And I heard his little voice.
“Mimi… my dad is very sick.”
My heart sank.
“I know, baby.”
He was crying.
Then his voice cracked.
And he asked the question that broke me.
“But God can heal my dad, can’t He?”
I still tear up when I think about that moment.
Not because I didn’t know his dad was sick.
Not because I didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.
But because in that instant I fully understood the weight that little boy was carrying.
I understood what he was really asking.
Not about medicine.
Not about procedures.
Not about outcomes.
He was asking whether hope was still allowed.
Whether miracles were still possible.
Whether the person he loved most would stay.
And suddenly I saw the future through the eyes of a child.
The birthdays.
The graduations.
The life lessons.
The milestones.
The empty chair.
The moments that would arrive whether anyone was ready for them or not.
I took a moment to compose myself before responding.
Then I said,
“Timothy, absolutely God can heal your dad. And we’re praying for that every day. But healing comes in different forms and sometimes in ways we don’t understand.
Your dad will always be with you whether he’s here on earth or in heaven.
And no matter what happens, Gee, Poppa, your Tio Josh, and I will always be there for your mom, your brother, and you.
And God will be with you too.”
There was a pause.
Then he quietly replied,
“Okay, Mimi.”
We talked a little longer after that.
Nothing profound.
Just enough for him to know he wasn’t alone.
Then we hung up.
And I broke.
I cried because I knew life was asking a little boy to carry something far too heavy for his age.
I remember talking to Ricardo afterward.
He immediately understood why the conversation had affected me so deeply.
He understood the gravity of the situation.
But more importantly, he understood what that loss would mean if and when it came.
He understood why I became so determined to provide stability wherever I could.
To show up.
To be present.
To make memories.
To become another steady voice in the lives of two young boys navigating circumstances they never asked for.
That conversation changed me.
It shaped many of the choices I made in the years that followed.
It influenced how I invested my time.
How I showed up for family.
How I thought about presence.
And I am unapologetic about those choices.
When people are hurting, presence matters.
Not because it fixes anything.
Not because it removes the pain.
But because it reminds people they do not have to carry it alone.
Just a few years prior, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law lost two of their six children.
One was eleven.
One was two.
The loss of a parent.
The loss of children.
Different grief.
Different experiences.
Different wounds.
Yet both leave behind empty spaces that can never truly be filled.
I often think about how differently those losses unfold.
A child losing a parent carries memories forward.
Parents losing children carry memories backward.
Both grieve.
Both ache.
Both learn to navigate a world that no longer looks the way it once did.
And neither journey is easy.
We may never understand why some people are given more time than others.
We may never understand why some prayers seem to be answered one way and others another.
We may never understand why loss enters some stories far too early.
My brother-in-law was given the gift of time.
Though his life ended far too young, he was given years he might not otherwise have had.
He watched his boys grow.
He created memories with them.
He left them stories, lessons, laughter, and love that continue long after his passing.
My nephew and niece were given eleven years and two years.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
None of it does.
But grief has taught me something I never would have learned otherwise.
The questions don’t always get answered.
The pain doesn’t completely disappear.
The losses don’t stop mattering.
But there is a steadiness that remains underneath all of it.
A presence that doesn’t leave when everything else changes.
A God who does not abandon us in confusion.
Or sorrow.
Or heartbreak.
The years keep moving.
Birthdays come and go.
Children become adults.
Families continue forward.
And somehow, in the middle of all of it, He remains exactly where He has always been.
Steady.
Faithful.
Present.
The anchor beneath every storm.
The constant beneath every loss.
The One who didn’t move when everything else did.
~ Louda
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