I want to talk about grief today. Not the Instagram-friendly kind with inspiring quotes about silver linings, but the real kind. The kind that rewrites your entire story without asking permission.

Today would have been my son Connor’s 35th birthday. He was 22 when a distracted driver ran a red light and killed him in a crosswalk. I still see him as forever young, not because I’m stuck in the past, but because I’ve come to understand his timeline was meant to be exactly as long as it was. Part of some greater design of beginnings and endings and all things in between.

But you know what people don’t tell you about massive loss? That it changes your language. You start speaking in befores and afters. And some days, like birthdays, those two languages collide in ways that make no sense yet perfect sense.

I’ve been thinking about how many of us are carrying grief right now. Different kinds, different depths, but grief nonetheless. Maybe you’ve lost someone precious. Maybe you’ve lost a version of yourself. Maybe you’ve lost a future you thought was certain.

So, I want to say that grief isn’t a “growth opportunity” waiting to be reframed into something positive. It’s not a spiritual assignment. It’s not even a journey, really. 

Grief’s more like being dropped into a world where the rules no longer make sense, and you’re trying to recognize yourself in a story that’s been completely rewritten.

And what I really want to say is that you don’t “move on.” You carry. You carry the weight, the love, the loss, the memories, the anger, the unfairness of all of it. 

It changes how you see everything. Relationships, time, even yourself. The future isn’t this open road anymore. It sure isn’t for me. It’s more like a landscape that’s marked by an absence that echoes in every direction.

But there’s also a paradox. 

As much as grief strips you raw, it can deepen your capacity for seeing – and I mean really seeing – the unseen struggles in others. Not through a lens of pity, but with an awareness that everyone is carrying something, even if it’s not as visible as your own loss.

So today, while I’m remembering Connor’s deep laugh and enormous bear hugs and wondering about the man he might have become, I’m also holding space for all of us who are carrying grief in its many forms. Because grief isn’t a group project, but maybe understanding it better is.

I’ll be walking with you in the paradox,

Jonni

P.S. If you’re figuring out your own loss right now, and you’re tired of being told to “find the lesson” or “it was meant to be,” I see you. And I believe that sometimes what we really need aren’t always answers but witnessing. Someone to help us make sense of how our story continues after the unthinkable happens. I’m here for those conversations.