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.

During one of the first grief‑support group sessions that Eric and I attended in the weeks after Andy died, our Starlight Ministries facilitators led us in an exercise. We were given a black‑and‑white copy of an image created by H. Norman Wright titled "Grief – A Tangled Ball of Emotions." The picture resembled a ball of yarn, but instead of yarn strands, it had strips winding around the sphere, each labeled with a different emotion.

The exercise was simple. We received crayons and were asked to color in any stripe that represented an emotion we had felt during that week. I remember starting at the top: Loss – yes, I colored it in. Sadness – that one too. Anxiety – I'd been feeling pretty anxious, so I shaded it. Then came Confusion, Panic, and Dismay. I found myself actually feeling dismayed that I was coloring all of these emotions! I wondered whether I would ever reach a stripe I didn't feel. When I finally arrived at Vindictiveness, I was relieved to leave that one white. In total, I was shocked to discover that I had colored about 90 % of the more than thirty emotions on the ball.

Looking around the room, I was comforted to see that the vast majority of parents had papers that were almost completely filled in as well. While reading the recent podcast guest Michael's book The Million Stages of Grief, I saw how many emotions had surprised him in his own grieving process. That reminded me of the exercise from years ago and convinced me that it deserved a livestream discussion. Today, we explored several emotions that have surprised listeners of the show.

It is normal to experience twenty to thirty different emotions in a single day. Grief isn't a linear path but a swirling knot of feelings—each one valid, each one a sign of life moving forward. By naming, acknowledging, and gently sitting with even the most unexpected emotions, we give ourselves the space to heal. I encourage everyone to keep their own "tangled ball" nearby as a reminder that, no matter how full it looks, every colored strand is evidence of resilience and progress.

Today's guest, Stephanie, says that her son, Jr., had a lifelong mantra that he lived by - 'me versus me.' He even had this phrase tattooed on himself for his 18th birthday. Rather than measuring himself against anyone else, he aimed each day to outdo the person he had been yesterday.

A year ago, Jr. was a senior in high school, preparing to enlist in the Marine Corps. He was an avid athlete as a cross‑country runner, weightlifter, and participant in several team sports. That autumn, he trained for a half‑marathon, hoping to break the two‑hour barrier.

The whole family was at the race, cheering Jr. on. He made his goal and finished the race in 1 hour, 57 minutes. Moments after crossing the line, however, Jr. collapsed. Stephanie rushed to his side, fearing dehydration, but quickly realized something was terribly wrong. She dialed 911. Paramedics arrived and began CPR within 72 seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Stephanie. An autopsy later showed that Jr. died of a brain bleed from a venous malformation that had likely been present since birth.

The last year has been a trying one for Stephanie and her family. The past twelve months have been a cascade of missed milestones — his high school graduation, the start of Marine basic training, his 19th birthday — each one a painful reminder of Jr.'s absence. As these days come and go, the family tries to remember Jr. and his motto: 'Me versus me.' Friends have even made T-shirts and bumper stickers with the phrase. Each time Stephanie sees one of these items, she is reminded of Jr. and his amazing spirit.

When Stephanie was invited to share a final thought, she spoke the words she believes Jr. would have lived by: 'Show up and do your very best. Tomorrow, show up again and do even better.' If we each embraced that simple challenge, the world would indeed be a kinder place.

Today's guest, Lisa, says she has always felt a special, spiritual link to her eldest daughter, Libby—starting when Libby was an infant and lasting throughout her life. One night, Lisa complained to her husband about a throbbing thumb. The next morning, Libby called, saying she had hurt her thumb and thought it was broken. When Libby's father asked if the injury happened around 9 pm, Libby confirmed the time of the injury, but she was puzzled until he answered, "Your mother felt that."

Despite being over 200 miles away and unaware of any injury, Lisa sensed Libby's broken thumb that night. Six months later, at 1 am, Libby's friends called, reporting that she had vanished after being dropped off in a taxi. Lisa instantly feared the worst, though she tried to reassure them that Libby might simply be delayed. Deep down, she knew Libby was dead. She could not feel her as she normally could.

The following day, Lisa and her husband braved a harsh English winter storm to drive to Hull. As they passed the Humber Estuary—a vast inlet leading to the North Sea—Lisa whispered, "Libby is in that water." Her husband dismissed it as being 'silly,' but Lisa insisted she wasn't imagining it. Forty‑eight agonizing days later, police recovered Libby's body from those waters; she had been raped and murdered.

In the nearly seven years since that tragedy, Lisa and her family have endured relentless trauma. At first, she felt isolated despite the story dominating UK headlines, and for two years she seemed to lose herself entirely. Over the past five years, however, she has begun to heal by connecting with other bereaved parents, listening to podcasts, and sharing Libby's story with young people and police officers. She hopes that exposing the warning signs that preceded the murder will help protect other women.

And although Libby is no longer physically here with her, through her work, Lisa still feels connected to Libby. Lisa feels her as she does her "Libby work" in Libby's old bedroom, now her office. Our love for our children keeps that spiritual connection alive long after they are gone.

Jerry's passion is helping bereaved children. When I was first introduced to her, Jerry was described as a widowed mother with a heart for grieving kids. She'd written Joy Overcame Sorrow, a fictional tale for late‑elementary and middle‑school readers about a ten‑year‑old girl coping with her father's death. The story follows Joy's grief journey, letting parents buy a companion workbook so children can record their own feelings while reading.

I booked Jerry for the show because listeners frequently ask how parents can support grieving children. I didn't realize her personal loss mirrored our own so closely. Jerry lost her husband her best friend — and raised their young family alone. Before that, she endured four pregnancy losses, including delivering and burying two infants, Jenny and Jesse. Those early tragedies marked her first encounter with deep grief and forced her to help her surviving kids navigate sorrow. Little did she know the next forty years would bring more loss, both as a widow and as a K‑9 teacher working with grieving students.

In the classroom, Jerry advised fellow teachers on supporting grieving children. Many educators feel helpless; asking parents is tough because they, too, are immersed in grief. Colleagues urged her to write a book to help grieving children. Jerry had already published a non-fiction book, helping widows rediscover joy after loss, but writing for children would prove to be very different indeed.

Instead of a non‑fiction how‑to guide, Jerry chose fiction — a powerful decision. Stories teach while comforting, allowing children to see themselves reflected without overt instruction. Kids gravitate to narrative—they don't want to feel singled out. By experiencing grief through Joy's eyes, they learn, empathize, and feel less alone. Her novel and its workbook now serve as a gentle bridge for families and teachers navigating the delicate path of loss together.

To learn more about Jerry and her writing, visit drjerrylwoodbridge.com.

Eight minutes.

That is how long it took for Michael's life to be forever changed. In late November 2016, a fire broke out in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Unbeknownst to Michael, the winds picked up while he was driving with his oldest son, and the fires swept toward the family home. Michael is haunted by nightmares of his frantic drive back through the fires, trying to get back home.

By the time he arrived, the fire had taken the lives of his daughters, Chloe and Lily, as well as his wife, Constance. In the months after the fires, as Michael struggled to sleep, he would write about his pain. One day, he posted a writing on Facebook. It "went nuts," causing Michael to start a blog.

Michael continued in his dark world until November 2023, when he stood at the memorial for the fires. He whispered to the empty air, opening his heart to the girls he had lost. In the silence, he heard Chloe's voice, bright and urgent: "Daddy, it's time to do the work." The words struck a chord deep inside him. That night, he enrolled in college, determined to learn how to translate his pain into something to help others.

Thus, The Million Stages of Grief was born. Each chapter opens with an italicized fragment from his old blog — a snapshot of confusion, terror, or numbness. The remainder of the chapter presents the lessons he gathered in classrooms, therapy rooms, and through life's experiences, reshaping those dark moments into pathways forward. Before pressing "publish," Michael whispered a brief prayer, handing the manuscript over to his girls, asking, "I am completely giving this to you. However big you want this to go, however many people you want to read it, I give it all to you."

Years ago, while working as a zipline instructor, a woman kicked Michael, knocking him over. Inexplicably, five years later and one month after that prayer, she posted the video to TikTok, garnering 1.5 million views. Curious, Michael created his own TikTok account, stitching the video to a narration of his story and book. The new post surged to 2.5 million views. I guess his girls decided that their story needed to go very big indeed.