You’re Not Alone

There are some weeks that carry more weight than others.
This one does, for many reasons.

This week marks eight years since Jack’s Uncle Andrew died unexpectedly and tragically. While time has passed, grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It settles, softens in some places, sharpens in others. It shows up quietly, in memories, in moments, and often resurfaces when we least expect it.

What I’ve learned over these eight years is this:
Grief doesn’t leave us. But it can teach us how to see one another more clearly.

Grief has a way of sharpening your awareness of what’s happening around you and within you. When life takes an unexpected turn, whether through loss, trauma, disappointment, or a diagnosis you never saw coming, everything changes. Suddenly, the world feels heavier. Louder. More fragile. And you realize how often fear and uncertainty live just beneath the surface.

What grief has taught me is this: there is always a human story underneath what we see, pain we may not understand, loss we may never fully know, and people longing to be seen and met with compassion.

In the early days after Andrew’s death, everything felt overwhelming: the shock, the disbelief, the questions, the pain. Over time, grief became quieter, but no less real. Every day without him. Every milestone he hasn’t been here for. And while our loss came through death by suicide, I’ve come to understand how many forms grief can take.

Sometimes grief comes with loss.
Sometimes it comes with a diagnosis.
Sometimes it comes with trauma, disappointment, or the realization that life will not look the way you thought it would.

At Jack’s Basket, we meet families at the very beginning of one of those moments, when the unexpected arrives and the ground shifts beneath their feet. And while the circumstances are different, the emotions often sound the same: fear, confusion, sadness, uncertainty, and the quiet question, Am I alone in this?

Grief has taught us that strength doesn’t always look like pushing through. Sometimes it looks like stopping. Naming what hurts. Asking for help. Reaching out. Showing up for others because we know what it feels like to need someone to show up for us.

We did not grieve alone. Our family and friends surrounded us in ways we will never forget… folding our clothes, caring for our small children so we could plan a funeral, bringing meals, sitting with us in silence. Their presence didn’t fix the pain, but it reminded us we were not alone.

And that matters.

Because we don’t always get answers.
We don’t always understand the why.
But we do get to choose how we respond, to one another, to pain, to life.

What we grieve most are all the moments and people who didn’t get to experience Andrew over these past eight years, especially my children. Andrew’s life was marked by the way he showed up for people. He saw them. He made time. He made others feel known and loved.

That is the legacy that continues, not in explanation, but in presence. In choosing to slow down. In choosing to listen. In remembering that there is always more beneath the surface than what we can see at first glance. In refusing to let silence, fear, or shame keep us isolated.

What grief has given us, unexpectedly, is a deeper compassion for others. A reminder that we never really know what someone is carrying and that choosing kindness, honesty, and connection matters more than being right, polished, or strong.

So this week, we remember.
We grieve.
And we choose hope, not because it’s easy, but because life matters.

If you are hurting, you are not alone.
If you are tired, you are not alone.
If you are carrying grief, old or new, visible or hidden, you don’t have to carry it by yourself.

Bring your brokenness.
We’ll bring ours.

We choose life.
Together.