Grieving While Mothering: How My Kids Helped Me Survive The Hardest Days.
When my husband died, I didn’t just lose him.
I lost my partner in parenting.
I lost the person who helped carry the load.
I lost the person who could scoop up our kids when I had nothing left to give.
Suddenly, it was just me.
Just me… and three sets of eyes looking up at me.
Three hearts watching me closely.
Three little souls who didn’t just lose their dad — they were also watching to see if they’d lose me too.
I didn’t get to grieve in silence.
I didn’t get to fall apart without an audience.
Every tear I cried was seen by them.
Every time I sat on the bathroom floor, trying to catch my breath, I had little hands knocking on the door asking, “Mommy, are you okay?”
And honestly? Some days, the answer was no., but I couldn’t tell them that…so I thought.
But every time I thought I couldn’t keep going…
Every time I wanted to hide under the covers…
Every time the grief felt too heavy…
I’d remember:
They still needed me.
How My Kids Helped Me Survive
It’s funny how the same thing that felt like pressure — having to show up for my kids — also became the thing that saved me. And still, they don’t even know it.
Here’s how they unknowingly carried me through:
1. Their routine kept me moving.
I had to wake up. I had to make breakfast. I had to drop them off, pick them up, sign papers, check homework.
Even when I wanted the world to stop, their needs kept me anchored in the present.
2. Their joy reminded me there was still light.
I’d hear their laughter in the other room. I’d see them playing, living, being kids. Their ability to still find joy, even in their loss, softened some of the hardest edges of my pain.
3. Their questions gave me purpose.
“Is Daddy still watching us?”
“Do you think Daddy is watching us perform?”
Their questions reminded me that love doesn’t disappear — it transforms. And it pushed me to find words of comfort, even when I was still looking for comfort myself.
4. Their milestones gave me hope.
Every birthday, every school award, every moment of growth reminded me:
Life didn’t end.
Yes, it changed. But it didn’t end.
And that gave me permission to keep building a life — for them and for me.
It wasn’t always like this though…
At First, I Wanted to Hide My Grief
In the beginning, I wanted to protect them from my pain.
I wanted to hide the tears in my eyes.
I wanted to close the door when the grief overwhelmed me, so they wouldn’t see the broken pieces of me.
I thought if they saw me hurting, it would scare them.
I thought if they saw me crying, it would make them feel unsafe.
But what I’ve learned is this:
It’s okay for them to see the broken parts of me.
Because when they see my brokenness, they also get to see me putting the pieces back together.
When they see me cry, they also get to see me wipe my tears and stand back up.
When they see my pain, they also get to see my healing.
And in that, they’re learning something powerful:
That grief doesn’t destroy us — it shapes us.
That healing isn’t about pretending nothing hurts — it’s about moving forward even though it hurts.
The Hardest Part of Mothering Through Grief
There were moments I felt guilty for not being the “fun” mom anymore.
There were moments I felt guilty for crying in front of them.
There were moments I felt guilty for laughing, for smiling, for having even a second that didn’t feel sad.
Grief and guilt love to dance together…so let it.
But I learned that it’s okay for our kids to see our humanity.
It’s okay for them to see us sad, as long as they also see us keep going.
It’s okay for them to see us cry, as long as they also see us stand back up.
Because through it all, I was teaching them something powerful:
We can survive heartbreak.
We can carry sadness and joy at the same time.
We can keep loving, even after loss.
A Message to Other Widowed Moms
If you’re reading this as a grieving mother, please hear me:
You don’t have to be perfect.
You don’t have to have all the answers.
You don’t have to smile every day.
You just have to show up.
And even on the days when showing up looks like frozen pizza for dinner and one more episode of cartoons…
You’re still showing up.
You’re still loving them.
You’re still surviving.
And little by little, they’re helping you heal — even if they don’t realize it.
We’re walking this road together, mama.
One small step at a time.
If you’re supporting grieving children or navigating grief as a family, I’ve found resources like The Dougy Center to be incredibly helpful. They offer free tools, guides, and support for kids, teens, and families dealing with loss.
With Love,
La 💙
What We Didn’t Know: My Husband’s Symptom That Was Really Rectal Cancer.
When my husband first started having diarrhea, we didn’t think much of it. He had always eaten clean—lots of fruits and vegetables, especially before going to the field for an Army exercise.
It was part of his routine: clean out his system, eat healthy, hydrate, get mission-ready. We thought it was normal. We thought it was just his body doing what it always did.
So we weren’t worried at first. Maybe it was a stomach bug. Maybe it was just his usual pre-field diet working a little overtime.
But then the diarrhea didn’t stop.
A family trip to Disney, turned into multiple restroom breaks a day. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And no matter what he ate, what he took—no matter what he cut out or added—it kept happening.
We went to the VA hospital. They ran blood tests. Everything came back “normal”.
“It’s probably irritable bowel syndrome.”
“Maybe it’s stress.”
“Maybe it’s your diet.”
They told us to monitor it. Adjust his meals. Come back if things got worse.
We trusted them. We waited. We watched.
But by the third month, something deep inside me knew we couldn’t wait any longer. He was losing weight, like clothes falling off of him. He was tired all of the time. His skin looked pale. His energy was gone. The man I knew was disappearing right before my eyes.
I told him we needed to figure this out. I told him to go to Ochsner ER and let’s see if they can figure this out. And for the first time, someone really listened. The ER doctor told us that this has been going on for way too long, and he referred him for a colonoscopy.
We had to wait another month to be seen for that appointment. Then, a week later on November 12, 2021, he called me and told me he received the results and it’s a tumor. I asked if it was benign and him trying to be so strong for me, said, “no babe, its cancer, rectal cancer”.
But the diagnosis wasn’t the end of the waiting. After the colonoscopy confirmed it’s cancer, we waited another month for a PET scan to determine how far it had spread.
That’s when we found out the cancer had already spread to his lymph nodes and lungs.
Stage 4.
I’ll never forget that moment. I was holding our newborn and falling apart from the inside out at the same time.
We thought we were dealing with something early, something fixable, something that had a fighting chance, I mean it’s only been six months since the first symptom. But by the time we got the full picture, we were already in the late stages of a fight we didn’t even know we were in.
After conducting the genetics testing, we later learned that his cancer was most likely caused by burn pit exposure during his military deployments.
Those massive burn pits—filled with trash, chemicals, plastics, and toxic waste—created clouds of poison that soldiers breathed in every day. And like so many other Veterans, my husband came home with an invisible time bomb ticking inside of him.
He wasn’t the only one.
Studies now show a growing link between burn pit exposure and cancers like his. Organizations like the VA’s Airborne Hazards and Open Burn Pit Registry and Burn Pits 360 are working to bring awareness to these hidden risks.
But for us, that knowledge came too late.
What I Wish We Had Known
Looking back, there are so many things I wish we’d known.
I wish we’d known that diarrhea lasting more than four weeks isn’t “normal”.
I wish we’d known that colorectal cancer doesn’t only happen to people over 50.
I wish we’d pushed harder when the VA told us “everything’s fine”.
I wish someone had told us: “Don’t wait. Get a colonoscopy now.”
But we didn’t know…
And so I’m sharing this now—for every spouse, every parent, every loved one who’s watching someone go through “weird stomach issues” and doesn’t know what to make of it.
Listen To Your Body. Push For Answers.
If something doesn’t feel right, speak up.
Advocate.
Don’t stop until you get real answers.
Early detection is key.
And if you or someone you love served near burn pits, please take a moment to register with the VA’s Burn Pit Registry and learn more from organizations like Burn Pits 360 and the Colorectal Cancer Alliance.
I wish we had known.
I wish we had found it sooner.
But now I hope that our story helps someone else find answers—before it’s too late.
If this story resonates with you, share it with someone you love. You never know who might need it today.
And if you’re walking a similar journey, know that you are not alone. Subscribe to my newsletter for more stories, encouragement, and resources as we navigate this road together.
With Love,
—La 💙
Learning To Live In The Both/And: Grief, Growth, And Grace
Whew! May was heavy y’all and if you took this journey with me this far, thank you.
May wasn’t just heavy, May was healing, too. May was full of reminders that I’ve lost…and that I’ve lived. And as I close this month, I’m learning to stop trying to choose between grief or joy, strength or softness, the past or the future. I’m learning to live in the both/and.
I am both broken and whole.
I am both grieving and growing.
I miss him deeply and love who I’m becoming.
I am tired and hopeful.
Still hurting and still here.
This month held so much.
The tears on May 15th.
The ache on Mother’s Day.
The joy that snuck in anyway.
The warmth of someone new.
The resilience in my kids’ eyes.
The bravery it took to write it all out and not shrink away from my truth.
And now, here I am—not at the end of a healing journey, but deep within it.
Still learning how to pace myself.
Still reminding myself that I don’t have to have it all figured out.
Still honoring my grief without letting it write every chapter.
I used to think healing would mean moving on.
Now I know healing just means learning to carry it differently.
Today I’m Choosing To:
Breathe deeper
Be proud of how far I’ve come
Allow space for peace, even in pieces
Keep showing up—gently, honestly, imperfectly
To the woman who’s lived a thousand lives in one month—I’m you too. I am so proud of you baby. We’re not here to get it perfect. We’re here to keep going, to keep becoming, to keep breathing through the both/and of it all. And that…is more than enough.
—La 💙
Remembering with Love: A Memorial Day Reflection from a Widow, Mom, and Veteran
Today, the flags wave high, the grills light up, and the country pauses to honor our fallen heroes.
But for many of us, Memorial Day is not just a national moment—it’s personal.
I’m a veteran.
I’ve served alongside brave souls who never made it home.
I’m a widow.
My husband served our country with everything he had—and he paid a price that showed up long after his deployments ended.
I’m a mother.
And today, I hold space for my children who carry the weight of a hero they’ll always miss.
This isn’t just a day for barbecue. It’s a day for memory, for legacy, for the quiet strength of families who live with an empty seat at the table—not just today, but every day.
Memorial Day reminds me of the cost of service—but it also reminds me of the power of resilience.
The kind of resilience that shows up when you keep going.
When you raise babies in the shadow of grief.
When you turn pain into purpose and create new life from loss.
Today, I’m remembering my husband.
I’m remembering the friends we’ve lost.
I’m remembering every spouse, every parent, every child who knows this ache all too well.
And I’m also remembering this:
Grief and gratitude can coexist.
Heartache and healing can walk hand in hand.
And honoring the past doesn’t mean you stop building a future.
So if today feels heavy for you, you’re not alone.
Pause. Breathe. Remember.
And know that your strength is a living legacy, too.
With love and remembrance,
La 💙
When Joy Creeps Back In: Learning To Receive Love Without Guilt
Grief taught me how to survive. But healing? Healing is teaching me how to live again. Not just exist. Not just function. Live. And lately, I’ve noticed joy creeping back in—softly, unexpectedly, sometimes even through the arms of someone new. At first, that joy made me feel guilty. Like I was doing something wrong by smiling again, by feeling again, by loving again. But now? I’m learning to let it stay—and to let him in.
The first time I laughed without catching myself—I felt guilty…the first time I felt butterflies with anyone who wasn’t my late husband, I immediately felt bad and sad.
The first time someone else made me feel safe again—I pulled away, and sometimes I still do.
The first time I realized I was starting to feel seen—it scared the hell out me. Because again, why me? Why would anyone want this widow that comes with so much baggage?
And how could I hold space for someone new…when I still hold so much love for the one I lost?
But Here’s What I Learned:
Love is not betrayal—it’s a continuation.
It doesn’t replace what I had. It honors it.
It says: “Because I’ve known deep, unconditional love, I know how to receive it again.”
I’m still the woman who cries in quiet moments, who thinks of him when certain songs play, who lights candles and whispers, “I miss you and thank you for showing me what true love is.”
But I am also the woman who is learning to say yes again.
Yes to being loved, held, and seen—in a new way.
Yes to someone who knows I come with history, with heartache, and strength.
Yes to a future that isn’t built on forgetting, but on expanding.
Here Is What I’m Giving Myself Permission To Do:
Feel joy without guilt
Receive love without shame
Know I’m worthy of being cherished again
Hold both grief and gratitude in the same breath
Because I can honor my past and embrace the possibility of love now.
I can still carry him in my heart…while allowing someone else to hold my hand.
If you’ve ever felt torn between honoring your loss and opening your heart again—know that you’re not alone.
You are allowed to feel joy.
You are allowed to be loved.
You are allowed to begin again, beautifully and bravely.
If joy finds you—or someone does—let it in, let them in. You deserve it baby.
If you’re learning how to let joy back into your life after loss, I’m walking that road too.
Subscribe to my newsletter for gentle reminders, healing stories, and permission to feel it all — the sorrow and the sunshine.
And if you’re looking for deeper support, community, and reflection, join The Brave Space — a private place to heal, grow, and be fully seen.
—La 💙
Re-Entry After Grief: Who Am I Now That The Storm Has Passed?
It’s been a week since my widowhood anniversary and a few days since I poured my heart into that letter to my past self. And now, I find myself standing in the quiet space that follows the storm. Not shattered, not fully healed—just….different. Re-entry is strange. It’s like trying to return to a life that no longer fits the version of me who survived it all.
Grief anniversaries come in waves—
First the build-up. Then the emotional crash. And then comes this moment…the in between before the next normal begins.
This is the part no one really prepares you for:
The days where you try to “get back” to routine, to work, to socializing—but you feel like you’ve been rewired.
I don’t want to go back to who I was before May 15th. I want to move forward as who I am now—softer, stronger, and more self aware. But that takes time. It takes grace. It takes learning to be gentle with myself.
In this re-entry, I’ve realized:
I need more quiet than I used to
My boundaries are sacred now
Not everyone will understand my journey—and that’s okay
I don’t have to rush back into productivity to prove I’m healing