Holding Both
Sunday morning, I woke up in upstate New York to the sound of birds singing.
The weather had finally started to break after days and days of cold and gray, and the moment I heard them, I started sobbing.
Not delicate tears.
The kind that come from somewhere so deep inside of you that they almost surprise you when they arrive.
I haven’t cried like that in a long time.
And the truth is, I don’t think I was crying for just one reason.
I’ve actually been crying a lot lately, but strangely enough, much of it has come from happiness. Gratitude. Relief. Love. Watching my family grow. Holding my newest granddaughter. Watching my children become beautiful adults.
Lately, I’ve also loved walking with my three-year-old granddaughter outside.
The way she stops at mud puddles, fully knowing she probably shouldn’t step in them, then slowly looks up at me with that expression on her face — half innocence, half negotiation — like she’s asking permission without using words.
It’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
And maybe that’s part of holding both too.
Because while one part of my heart aches for the son I cannot physically reach anymore, another part of my heart is actively witnessing life continue forward in the smallest and most beautiful ways.
But this morning, my heart split wide open with both happiness - and grief - at the exact same time, and for a little while, I honestly couldn’t tell where one feeling ended and the other began.
Maybe that’s what people mean when they say you can hold both.
Years ago, before my son Cameron passed, I remember talking to a friend of mine who had suddenly lost her own son when he was only 19 years old.
By the time we had that conversation, it had already been a couple years for her, and Cameron was becoming very sick.
I remember asking her, I don’t know which is worse… the knowing or the not knowing?
And without hesitation she said, Both suck.
Not eloquent.
Not polished.
Just true.
I have never forgotten those words.
Lately, I’ve been staying at my son Brandon’s former home in Syracuse while he and his wife moved into the beautiful new home they built together just days before welcoming their second baby girl into the world.
And being in that now quiet house has brought Cameron to my mind constantly.
I see him everywhere here.
I see him laughing in the kitchen.
Walking through the rooms.
Sitting around talking.
I see moments that once felt ordinary but now feel sacred in hindsight.
And then this morning, as the birds sang outside and I cried into my coffee, I found myself thinking about something I still cannot fully comprehend:
I watched my son enter this world.
And I was there when he left it.
There is something both brutal and sacred about that reality.
Cameron could have left us so many times throughout his life.
During open-heart surgeries.
Pacemaker placements.
Cardiac catheterizations.
Blood clots.
Infections.
Hernia surgeries.
Hospital stays.
In fact, when he was a little boy, he actually did pass briefly during one procedure before they brought him back.
But despite all of it, he kept coming back to us.
Again and again and again.
And then one day, after surviving more than most people survive in a lifetime, he left while I was holding his hand, kissing his face, rubbing his hair, and listening to his heartbeat.
There are moments in life so profound that language almost refuses to touch them properly.
That is one of them.
And yet somehow, strangely, there is also gratitude woven into my grief.
Because he was not alone.
I was there.
I think about the night I reluctantly arrived home from the hospital, a week after he was born.
The medical staff had finally made me leave so I could get proper rest, and I remember standing in my bedroom holding a small white Bible against my still swollen stomach while looking out the window into the night sky.
I prayed with everything inside of me.
I asked God over and over to protect my son.
And I remember specifically praying to the Virgin Mary, telling her that surely she understood what it meant to love a son so deeply.
You know what it’s like to lose a son.
I begged her not to let me experience that kind of loss.
Cameron was 11 days shy of 32 years old when he passed.
And even now, I still don’t fully understand any of it.
My brain still argues with my soul about it.
But this morning, while tears fell and birds sang and spring slowly arrived outside the windows, I also found myself thinking about my other children.
Brandon.
Rhiannon.
Aleah.
And the tremendous hope I feel when I look at them.
The hope that they will continue living beautiful lives.
That they will laugh often.
Love deeply.
Keep going.
Keep building.
Keep dreaming.
Keep becoming.
If I did anything right in this world, it was loving them.
All of them.
There is comfort in the natural order of knowing they will likely outlive me.
Hope for more birthdays.
More ordinary moments.
More muddy shoes at the edge of puddles.
More life still unfolding ahead of them.
But with Cameron, that earthly timeline stopped.
As a mother, there is something devastating about realizing one of your children’s loops closed before yours did.
I don’t know how else to describe it.
Did I do enough for him? Did he enjoy a good life?
There’s nothing more I can do or give.
Or hope for.
And yet, even in grief, I have learned something important:
We have to keep talking about them.
We have to say their names.
Tell their stories.
Cook their favorite foods.
Laugh about the things they did.
Keep them present in the everyday moments.
Sometimes I think we speak about death as though the people we love have somehow fallen beneath us.
But that’s never how it feels to me.
If anything, I feel called to lift Cameron upward.
To keep him at shoulder height.
Beside me.
Above me.
Around me.
Not hidden away in silence.
Because love like that does not disappear.
And we’ll be with them again in a minute.
So make the transition easier and let them live on with you.
And maybe grief is not really about learning how to let go at all.
Maybe grief is simply love learning how to exist in a different form.
Visible one moment.
Invisible the next.
But still love.
Still here.
Still held.
And I promise that one day, when our own earthly loops close too, we will understand that they were never very far away at all.
Maybe that’s what grief eventually teaches us.
Not how to move on.
But how to hold both.
To hold devastation and gratitude.
Memory and hope.
The ones we lost and the ones still standing beside us.
To hear birds singing on a spring morning while your heart quietly breaks open again.
And maybe that breaking open is not weakness at all.
Maybe it is love refusing to close.
In prayer,
Mary Rose
Writing about Cameron this week reminded me how many stories live underneath grief — stories I’ve only touched in fragments until now. #TheLittleBookofBigGrief
Over the next few weeks, I want to share some of these stories with you.
We’ll begin with the story of long prayer walks, a storm, a locked church door, and a place that became shelter when I needed it most.
#CameronStrong has become something deeply personal to our family and to many others walking through grief and resilience alongside us.
I began the movement last year and will continue doing so each year in Cameron’s honor.
If you would like to learn more about my son, see photos, share in his story, or simply join us in keeping love present and visible, you can visit my website at https://www.maryrosemedium.com/cameronstrong
Thank you for continuing to hold space for him with me.
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