When Does Grief Start to Get Easier? A Grieving Parent’s Honest Answer
11 years in, and I still don’t have the tidy answer you might be hoping for. But I do have this.
I get asked this a lot.
“When does it start to get easier?”
Usually by other bereaved parents who are newer to this road than I am. I’m into my 11th year without my daughter, Maddie. That number alone, eleven, seems to suggest I’m further down the path, like I’ve somehow figured something out.
The truth?
Some days still feel impossible.
Some days, they all feel hard.
It’s just different now.
The Light Comes Quietly
In the beginning, I think I was waiting for some big shift.
A light, maybe.
Something that would shine down and let me know, “Okay. You’re going to be alright.”
That moment never came.
Instead, it was subtle. The light crept in where darkness had taken up residence.
Not all at once. Just little glimmers, enough to remind me I was still here. Still breathing.
The clouds still come back.
But not as often. Or maybe I’m just better at spotting them as they roll in.
Grief Isn’t a Line. It Loops. It Lingers. It Softens.
The hardest thing to accept was this: that life, the life I had before Maddie died, is over.
For years, I tried to claw myself back to who I used to be. I missed her, and I missed me.
And yeah, I still do.
There are parts of the old me I grieve:
My decisiveness
My confidence
My drive, competitiveness,
My sharpness… I used to be so mentally clear, fast
My athleticism. My energy.
Grief aged me. Not just on the outside, but in my wiring.
Some days I feel like a different species entirely.
But Not All of Me Was Worth Keeping
I don’t miss all of who I was.
I don’t miss how quick I was to anger at times.
I don’t miss my cockiness (let’s call it what it was).
I don’t miss my impatience or how hard I used to push.
That version of me, he got things done, sure. But he also bulldozed things he didn’t understand. Including people.
And what’s emerged in his place?
He’s quieter. Kinder. Softer with pain. Thoughtful.
I have boundaries now. I’m more empathetic. I pay attention to what doesn’t get said.
I didn’t choose this version of me.
But I’m learning to make peace with him.
If You’re in the Thick of It
If you’re new to this journey, if you’ve lost a child and are waking up in a world that feels unrecognizable, I want to say this gently:
It might not ever get “easy.”
But it will get less consuming.
Less like drowning, more like treading water. Then maybe walking. Then sometimes, stillness.
You’ll get glimpses. Micro-moments where you look forward instead of back.
Where you don’t feel fine, but you feel alive.
That’s the shift. That’s when something is loosening, even if you don’t see it yet.
Grief Didn’t End My Life. But It Ended One Version of It.
And eventually, I stopped trying to get me, the old me, back.
He’s gone.
But someone else showed up.
Someone I can live with.
That’s what healing looks like, for me.
Not closure. Not clarity.
Just permission to keep becoming.
Why I Built MentorWell
I didn’t start MentorWell because of Maddie’s death.
I started it because of her life.
Because she was vibrant. Kind. Emotional. Brave. Confused.
She was a teenager trying to hold things she didn’t have the words for.
And we didn’t have the tools to help her hold them either.
She needed someone who could sit in the quiet with her.
Someone who didn’t need to fix, explain, or solve.
Just someone who could say:
“I see you. I’ve been there. And I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s what MentorWell is.
A bridge between teens and the emotional understanding they’re not getting in most places.
A space where grief doesn’t have to be explained to be respected.
A space where the light comes quietly. One conversation at a time.
