When Goodbye Hurts

There’s a moment that splits your life into two parts—before and after.

For me, that moment was losing my father-in-law, Dwayne.

He wasn’t just family by marriage; he felt like a second dad. He made you feel welcome and loved, always ready with a smile or a joke. He was full of joy and laughter, so much like Josh. And now, as time goes on, I see more and more of Dwayne in him.

When I met Dwayne, his family had already come close to losing him once. I never knew the version of him before that moment. I only ever knew the man who had been given a second chance and chose not to take it for granted. He understood that God had spared him, and he didn’t waste that gift. He embraced every day with gratitude and lightness. He bought the truck he had always wanted. He spent every spare moment with his family. He laughed loudly, hugged tightly, and lived fully.

Looking back, I can say without hesitation that Dwayne lived his best life.

But his death still came out of nowhere. He was young. It was sudden. And it cracked something open in me I didn’t know existed. That deep, bone-deep ache of absence. The empty chair. The silence where a laugh should be. The days were when Josh just wanted to call and talk to his dad—to share something, to ask advice, and that hurts more than anything.

They were close, the way I am with my mom. And knowing he no longer has that connection breaks my heart in a different way, a way I know I’ll feel myself one day.

I’ve lost others since then—my grandma, my uncle. Each one brought its own sorrow, but none felt quite the same.

Maybe because Dwayne was the first to show me what it truly means to miss someone, not just during milestones, but in the quiet, everyday moments.

Grief catches you in the strangest ways.

It’s been three years since we lost Dwayne, and it still catches me off guard. Sometimes it's a sunny day, a quiet drive home, or a song on the radio—and just like that, the grief rushes in. The sadness feels new again, like it happened yesterday.

But even in those moments, I like to remember: to feel this deeply means we loved him deeply. And that kind of love doesn’t just disappear or fade away. It continues on in our memories, in the way we talk about him, and in the way we keep showing up for each other.

We take care of each other, just like he would’ve wanted. We keep gathering, laughing, and doing life together—because that’s what he taught us. Grief could have pulled us apart, but instead, it brought us closer. We hold tighter, not out of obligation, but out of love. That’s who Dwayne was—and it’s who he taught us to be.

That love, that closeness, is what makes the thought of losing someone else so hard. Last night, my mom said something that’s stuck with me and left me unsettled. She said, “I’m not afraid of dying. But I'm afraid of what I’ll leave behind. The pain my children will feel when I’m gone.”

Even in death, I’m convinced my mom will still be trying to comfort everyone else. That’s just who she is—always thinking of others, even when she shouldn’t have to.

I don’t want her to fear that we’ll fall apart—because we won’t. She’s poured so much love and strength into us. Yes, she will be a before-and-after moment in my life, one I can’t imagine facing I hope I don't have to for a long while. But if Dwayne’s death taught me anything, it’s to live fully and without fear of what’s to come. Because we don’t have control over it, but God does.

And I wish she knew what a beautiful thing that is—that she has imprinted our lives so deeply and in the best possible way.

A parent isn't meant to outlive their child.

Now that I’m a mother myself, I understand that fear more intimately. It goes against everything in us. I would never wish that kind of pain on any parent. And knowing that, I see my mom's words for what they truly are—a reflection of how profoundly she loves us.

So Mom, if you’re reading this... please don’t carry that fear. The pain we may feel someday isn’t yours to hold. It’s simply the proof that your love reached us, shaped us, and changed us. It’s the cost of a life well-lived and deeply loved.

You’ve given us faith that this earth isn’t the end. That we will see each other again, and that our goodbyes here are only temporary.

So when that day comes, God willing, a long time from now, let peace fill your heart and be proud. Proud that your love made a mark deep enough to miss. That your light shone so brightly, we’ll carry it with us always.

We don’t mourn like those without hope.

But we do mourn.
And that’s okay.

Because it means you mattered.

We will be okay, Mom. You raised us to be strong, to love deeply, and to lean on our faith when things feel impossible. We’ll carry everything you taught us, and we’ll keep walking, even through the sorrow we know will come.

Because you gave us the tools to do so.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” – A.A. Milne