This past Sunday, I attended a social gathering on my own for the first time since Jesse was killed three years ago.
To most people, that may not seem like a significant milestone. But for me, it was.
I almost didn’t go.
The anxiety leading up to it was overwhelming. I questioned whether I wanted to be there, whether I had the energy, and whether it would simply be easier to stay home where everything felt safe and familiar.
Before leaving, I let my dogs out to run around the backyard. As I stood there debating whether to cancel, a cardinal landed on one of the bird feeders.
I smiled.
I took it as a sign from Jesse.
Maybe you believe in those kinds of things, and maybe you don’t. I believe there are moments when the spiritual world gently reminds us that we are not alone. In that moment, I heard, “Go, Mom. You need to do this.”
Whether it was truly a sign or simply the encouragement I needed, it got me moving.
As I drove to the barbecue, I realized that the hardest part isn’t just walking through the door. It’s everything that comes after.
When you attend a gathering where you don’t know everyone, the conversations are predictable.
“How do you know the host?”
“Is your family here?”
“Do you have children?”
Simple questions. Questions people ask without thinking.
But for someone carrying profound loss, those questions don’t have simple answers.
The truth is, I want to talk about Jesse. I want to tell people about all of my children. I want them to know what happened to Jesse—not because I want sympathy, but because his life matters. His story matters.
I want people to understand why helping others matters. Why calling 911 without hesitation can save a life. Why supporting families after unimaginable loss is so important. I want people to understand that when tragedy happens, it doesn’t end with the event itself. The impact ripples through an entire family for years.
Yet I also know that sharing Jesse’s story changes the atmosphere.
People almost always respond with, “I’m so sorry.”
It’s a kind and compassionate response, and I appreciate it. But it also shifts the mood of the conversation. Suddenly the lighthearted gathering feels heavy, and often I find myself standing alone once again.
That can be one of the loneliest parts of grief.
If I’m fortunate, there are one or two people there who know my story well enough that I can quietly gravitate toward them. People who don’t need me to explain everything. People who aren’t uncomfortable with my grief or afraid of saying the wrong thing. Their presence becomes a safe place to rest for a while.
I’ve come to realize that carrying grief also means learning when to share, how much to share, and with whom.
There isn’t a handbook for that.
Sometimes I get it right.
Sometimes I don’t.
And I’m learning to be okay with that.
This season of life is about putting my proverbial toes back into the water of social gatherings. I’m not diving in. I’m simply testing the temperature, seeing what feels manageable, and giving myself permission to leave when I need to.
I’m learning to pace myself.
To set boundaries.
To listen to what my heart and mind need instead of what I think others expect.
Healing doesn’t mean returning to the person I was before Jesse died. That person no longer exists.
Healing means learning how to live as the person I am now with grief as a companion, with love that has nowhere to go, and with hope that, little by little, life can still hold moments of connection.
Yesterday wasn’t just a barbecue.
It was another small step forward.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
From Jesse’s Justice
No one should have to walk through grief alone.
Through free grief resources, advocacy, education, and community support, we strive to honor Jesse’s life by helping others navigate theirs.
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🖤♥️ For Jesse. For Justice.