The Second Year

I used to think the first year after losing someone was the hardest.

Now, I’m not so sure.

When my son Cameron passed away on July 3, 2024, I spent that entire first year simply trying to find my footing. Every holiday was a first. His birthday was a first. Summer was different. Fall felt different. Christmas…

Even the ordinary days seemed unfamiliar.

Looking back, I think that first year was all about navigation.

It’s like starting a new job, moving to a new city, or walking into a new school where you don’t know anyone. You spend so much energy just trying to figure out where you’re supposed to be and how you’re supposed to move through this new world.

Grief, at least for me, felt the same way.

I wasn’t living it as much as I was learning how to survive it.

Every season brought another first I had never imagined having to face.

And then the second year arrived.

I expected it to be easier.

Instead, it caught me completely off guard.

The anniversary of my son’s passing this year hit me harder than I ever expected. Harder than the first anniversary.

For a while, I couldn’t understand why.

Then it occurred to me.

The first year, I was navigating.

The second year…I was awake.

There were no more firsts to distract me.

The calendar had come full circle.

Life had quietly settled into a rhythm I never wanted to learn.

It’s almost like learning to ride a bicycle. At first, you’re gripping the handlebars with everything you’ve got, trying not to fall. Every bit of your attention is focused on staying upright.

Then one day, without realizing it, you’re riding without thinking about it anymore.

You’re balanced.

You’re moving forward.

And because you’re no longer concentrating on simply surviving, you begin noticing everything around you.

That’s what this second year has felt like.

I’m no longer learning how to live without my son.

I’m realizing…

This is how I live now.

That realization carries a different kind of weight.

It isn’t louder.

It’s deeper.

As I’ve been thinking about this, another thought kept finding its way into my heart.

I started comparing the death of a relationship to the death of someone we love.

They seem to move in opposite directions.

When a relationship ends, time often gives us distance. We begin to see things more clearly. We grow. Sometimes we even laugh and think, Well…that certainly wasn’t meant to be.

With enough time, we move farther away.

But when someone dies…

Time grows us closer to them.

At least in my experience…

I’ve grown closer to my son.

That surprised me.

I think part of it is because he isn’t here to tell his own stories anymore.

So I ask other people to tell them.

I hear memories I’ve never heard before.

Someone remembers something funny he did.

Someone else remembers a kindness I never knew about.

A favorite song suddenly means something different.

The lyrics I never paid attention to become treasures.

A recipe becomes sacred.

A birthday tradition becomes something worth protecting.

Even while drinking a Boba; I find myself collecting little pieces of him wherever I can find them.

Almost as though I’m still getting to know him.

Maybe that’s one of love’s quiet miracles.

Death ends a physical life.

It doesn’t end the discovering.

Then there’s something even harder to put into words.

When someone is physically here, we know them by their voice, their laugh, their footsteps down the hallway, the way they walk into a room.

Their presence is visible.

After they’re gone, all of that disappears.

And yet…

We begin recognizing something else.

Call it memory.

Call it love.

Call it faith.

Call it whatever feels true to you.

I simply know that over time, I have become aware of my son’s presence in a different way.

Not with my eyes.

Not with my ears.

But with my heart.

Perhaps that awareness was always there.

Perhaps I was simply too busy with everyday life to notice it.

The first year, grief was asking me to survive.

The second year, grief has asked me to pay attention.

To notice.

To remember.

To keep discovering.

Maybe that’s why this year has felt so much heavier.

But strangely…

It’s also felt fuller.

I miss my son more deeply than I ever thought possible…

I also love him more deeply than I knew I could.

So here I am.

Still learning my son.

Still collecting pieces of him.

Still discovering who he is through the people who loved him, the music he cherished, the life he lived, and the imprint he left on this world.

Bravo, Cam!

Bravo!

Love,

Momma xo

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