Grief has taught me more than I ever could have imagined

In your twenties and thirties, you're busy building a life. You're having babies, building a career, saving for a house, planning vacations. Our days were filled with carpools, clubs, after-school activities, sports, and all the responsibilities that come with raising a family. There was little time to slow down and think about what truly mattered. Grief forced me to.

As my children got older, our focus shifted to college admissions, SAT and ACT scores, and building the perfect resume. We were always striving for the next achievement, the next milestone, believing that success meant getting into the right college, landing the right job, or living in the right neighborhood. We spent so much energy swimming upstream toward goals that, in the end, weren't nearly as important as we thought they were. When Ross died, I was 45, and my children were 12, 14, and 16. I didn't immediately gain this perspective. It took time, and it took living through the long, painful work of grief. People often say hindsight is 20/20, but I think grief offers a kind of clarity that time alone cannot. It strips away everything that is superficial and leaves behind only what is essential.

College didn't teach my children the lessons that grief has. Of course, I wish they could have learned about life on the same timeline as most of their peers. Grief will find all of us eventually. We simply encountered it much earlier than we should have. A meaningful life isn't measured by academic achievements, career success, the size of your home, your zip code, or the balance in your bank account. It's measured by the kind of person you are, how deeply you love, and how consistently you show up for the people around you. The younger version of me was too busy to understand that fully. Grief gave me the clarity to see what truly matters, and I believe it gave my children that gift as well. They may still be young to recognize it, but I see it in the quiet moments; in the way they care for people and animals, in their compassion, their gentleness, and their willingness to be present for others.

My greatest hope is that they won't spend time measuring themselves against someone else's timeline or definition of success. I hope they discover what they truly love, trust their own path, and have the courage to follow it. If grief has given us anything, it is the wisdom to know that a life well lived is not defined by what we achieve, but by love; how we love, who we love, and the joy that only love can give us.