Shortly after Leigh's 22-year-old son, Josh, was killed in a plane crash, her best friend looked her straight in the eyes and said some of the most beautiful words a bereaved mother can ever hear:

"Your grief doesn't scare me."

When she told me that during this week's podcast interview, it took my breath away.

As a grieving parent myself, I remember how often my grief did seem to scare people. I saw the uncomfortable glances from across the room. I heard the mumbled apologies when someone said something that "made" me cry. It was as if my tears were a burden they didn't quite know how to hold.

And the truth is… my grief scared me, too.

There were days I collapsed to the floor, sobbing so hard I feared I would never stop. Moments when the pain felt so big, so consuming, that I wondered if it might swallow me whole. Grief can feel like that—wild, unpredictable, and utterly overwhelming.

Fifteen months into her own grief journey, these are the same emotions Leigh continues to navigate day by day. As she shared her story, I could feel both the depth of her love for Josh and the weight she carries in his absence. She spoke with such honesty about the moments when she still reaches for her phone, waiting for his daily phone call. And each day, she lights a candle for Josh, a simple yet sacred ritual that keeps his presence in the home.

But here's a lesson I've learned—for myself and for anyone walking this path—slowly and painfully, and with more tenderness than I ever thought possible:

Grief may shake us, but it does not destroy us.

We survive what once felt unsurvivable.
Bit by bit, breath by breath, we learn to carry the weight.
And somewhere along the way, light begins to seep back in—not because the grief is gone, but because we've grown strong enough to hold both love and loss at the same time.

If you're grieving today, I want you to know this:

Your grief doesn't scare me.
And even if you can't feel it right now, there is hope ahead.
Not a return to who you were, but a gentle becoming of who you're learning to be.

You're not alone.

"Now What?"

This is the question Marie found herself asking after the devastating loss of her son, Quinten, to suicide. Overcome with grief, she felt lost and unsure how to move forward. But instead of succumbing to despair, Marie made a conscious decision: her life would continue. She chose to ask herself, "Now what?" and began to take small, intentional steps toward healing. Through the darkest days, she trusted that there was a way forward, even when the road ahead seemed impossible to navigate.

In today's episode, Marie opens up about her raw, unfiltered journey through grief. She shares how she found the strength to rebuild her life, one step at a time, and how perseverance, self-reflection, and compassion helped her move through the pain. She also discusses the work she's currently doing—helping other bereaved mothers find healing through writing. Through her coaching and retreats, Marie empowers others to turn their pain into purpose, fostering deep connection, healing, and self-discovery. Writing became a tool not just for her, but one that she now shares to help others begin their own healing journeys.

As I listened to Marie's story, I couldn't help but think back to my own experience after losing Andy. I, too, felt lost and alone and wondered how life could continue without him. Marie's words reminded me that healing doesn't come all at once—it begins with small, tender moments of courage.

Hope and healing can feel distant and elusive after loss, but writing can become a lifeline to help process grief and rediscover a sense of purpose. For anyone struggling with the question "Now what?", writing can be a powerful tool. By sharing our stories and embracing the process of healing, we find the strength to move forward—one word at a time. Marie's journey and her work with bereaved moms show us that even in our darkest hours, healing is possible when we allow ourselves to be open to the process of renewal.

* Visit Marie at mariecrews.com to learn more about her coaching, retreats, and how writing can support your healing journey.

Today's guest, Jonathon's book, indigo: the color of grief, captured me from the first page—a work that feels both intimate and universal. Indigo, the hue between blue and violet, appears in rainbows and twilight skies, yet it rarely gets named. Likewise, grief lingers in daily life, hovering just out of sight, unspoken because its rawness makes many uneasy. Jonathon uses the color as a quiet metaphor for sorrow that colors our existence without ever dominating the palette.

A decade ago, Jonathon's world shattered when his eldest daughter, Quincy, died in a sudden car accident. As a pastor, the loss forced him to confront a theology he'd long trusted. The image of a distant, strategic deity did not fit his pain. Instead, he came to see God as a presence of steadfast love, a hand that holds us tightly within the storm of our hurt.

The manuscript began as a sprawling outpouring of hundreds of thousands of words. Jonathon distilled it to a lean 12,000‑word narrative, deliberately leaving white space on each page. Those empty margins are invitations: they give readers room to breathe, linger on a line, and even inscribe their own thoughts beside his. The result is less a monologue and more a quiet dialogue—a shared place where grief can be named, held, and examined without pressure to resolve it.

Jonathon aims to reshape how we speak about loss. He urges us to move beyond the instinct to "fix" one another's pain with quick solutions. Instead, he calls for us to sit together in the shadow of sorrow, bearing witness to each other's wounds. In doing so, grief becomes a bridge rather than a barrier, allowing compassion to flow freely among those who have known its ache.

Indigo reminds us that, just as the color sits between the comforts of blue and the mystery of violet, grief occupies a space—neither wholly darkness nor pure light—but a profound shade that deepens our capacity for empathy and connection. The next time twilight drapes the sky in that deep, resonant hue, let it serve as a gentle reminder that indigo is not merely a color, but a quiet testament to the enduring presence of love within our deepest hurts.