Letter to My Teenage Son Who is Grieving

I heard you from the dining room. At first I thought you were laughing. Then as I listened closer I realized that those ha ha ha’s were actually sobs. You were crying, sobbing your heart out, the first I’ve heard since you’ve become a teenager. You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve anymore – you try to keep your emotions close, and I’ve learned to respect that.

What could be making you cry? I wondered. Five minutes prior you walked through the door with your usual after-school "OK Boomer!!" shout. What could have happened to you in the 30 minutes since school ended? 

At first I thought you were crying because of girlfriend drama, but as I came into your room and looked at your grief-stricken face I realized it was something more. I put my arm around you and asked what was wrong. You didn’t pull away like you normally would and it was then I knew something horrible had happened.

“My friend died,” you said between sobs.

The realization hit me like a brick and I started crying too. Crying for you to have lost a peer, a friend, at this young and tender age of 14. Crying for your classmates for this is a hard and unimaginable loss for you all. Crying most for your friend’s parents and family because they are going to have a difficult road ahead. 

Breathe.

We cried together until we were out of tears. Later we talked about your friend and her death, about how tomorrow at school would be a hard day. You kept to your room for the rest of the night, connecting with your friends on your phone. I kept looking in to you to see if you needed my support or a hug or anything. You wouldn’t let me hug you - the one I gave you earlier was the only one you were going to let me have.

I wanted to tell you so much but I just didn’t have the words. 

At 9:30 I went into your room and saw that you had fallen asleep curled up around your cat. Your headphones were lying by your head and your phone was probably buried under your arms. I pulled the covers around you as best as I could so you wouldn’t be cold and I stood there watching you for a minute, soaking you in, loving you on my terms. On a normal night I wouldn’t get this chance, for you no longer let me tuck you in or hug or kiss you goodnight. But on this night I gave you a kiss on the forehead as I tucked you in, letting my love for you out through my actions. I suspect you weren’t really sleeping, but pretended to do so because you needed this from me.

This morning you came into the kitchen wearing a blue hoodie.

“A bunch of friends said to dress in blue and green today,” you said, “for Alexandria.”

You kids! So full of your own wisdom and ways to grieve. As we drove to the bus stop I was glad for the darkness of morning, so you couldn’t see my face tight with grief, the tears as they coursed down my face.

As I dropped you off I was unsure of what to say. I thought about telling you to be strong and brave as you faced the day, for that’s the message society tells us – to put on a brave face and push all our feelings down. But being strong and brave for others means we just push our grieving inside where it will grow and stagnate. 

“Have a good day,” was not appropriate but “I love you” was. That was the only thing I could say. But what I wanted to tell you was this:

This is why I grieve. I grieve that at 14 you have to face death head on, that you have to face the death of a friend. That you have to feel all the feelings of true loss, all the emotions, and start asking questions that have no answer, those questions that I too am grappling with, the simplest of which is “Why?” You’ve seen death before, when he took your Grandmother in January, or your Great-Grandmother a few years ago. But to a young person, that type of death is kind of unreal. It’s not in your face every day, as this death will be.

Alexandria was your friend and you’re going to feel a loss. Every day when you are in 1^st hour band and she is not there to play her part on the saxophone you will feel it. You will feel it in science when you look across your table at an empty seat. When you see friends and teachers crying, you will feel it. And I hope you don’t keep it in. I hope you cry along with your friends. I hope you take my advice from this morning to just be real.

As a mother I cannot fathom what her parents are going through. It is every parent's greatest fear to lose a child and it causes a pit in my stomach to even think about it. So I hope you understand that I’m going to be hovering over you closely, showing you as much affection as you will allow me to. Because I am grateful that you are alive. And I want to love every precious second of you.

We can’t see into the future and know how long we have on this earth and how much time we will have with our friends and families. All we can do is to live in the moment.

As you process your feelings I have some advice on how to handle your sadness. Don't be afraid of grief. Facing grief head on is scary, but also necessary. You can run and hide from it but eventually it will catch up to you and force you to deal with it, perhaps in the form of depression or illness. Grief can be a friend and show you how to be real and truly present in life. Grief can show you true healing if you let it.

That’s the silver lining here, son. To see this difficult time of your life for what it is – a wake-up call. A call to be thankful for everyone and everything. A call to be grateful for your life, even the parts you think are hard, for in the big picture of things they aren’t as hard as dealing with this death. And so, I encourage you to forgive and to be kind and compassionate. Love fiercely your friends and family.

Hard things happen in life - that's a fact. Some things we are not prepared for and could never be, and if grief were not there we would all be walking around numb or angry. Grief softens the anger, it makes us human. 

So sit with grief as long as it takes. Know that when grief comes it is time to be still and listen and feel:

Feel all the feelings that are climbing their way out of your gut. 

Open your heart and love a little more.

Be vulnerable. 

Cry. 

Feel sad (and you will for a while). 

Be brave enough to wear your heart on your sleeve, for that is true bravery.

I am sorry for your loss. I cannot replace your friend but I can grieve with you. Know that I am here for you in whatever capacity you need. And that I love you. Always and forever.

Love, Mom