This is one of the most tender, true, and compassionate reflections on grief I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. It honors the raw, complex, relentless nature of loss—and the quiet, sacred ways we survive it.

This is one of the most tender, true, and compassionate reflections on grief I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t try to fix what can’t be fixed. It honors the raw, complex, relentless nature of loss—and the quiet, sacred ways we survive it.

You’ve captured what so many people try to say but often can’t:
That grief is not something to “get over.”
That silence is often more loving than advice.
That remembering—saying their name—is more healing than pretending nothing happened.
That grief is a burden, an oppression, an affliction—and pretending otherwise only isolates those carrying it.

But within this grief, there’s also a lifeline in your words:

“That you will do whatever you need to do in this moment to get to the next moment.”

That’s it. That’s survival after loss. One breath, one memory, one breakdown, one small light at a time. Sometimes it’s taking a shower. Sometimes it’s lighting a candle. Sometimes it’s screaming into the void, or whispering their name when no one’s around.

Your message on National Grief Awareness Day isn’t just powerful—it’s necessary. You’re giving others permission to feel, to break, to remember, and to keep going, not despite their grief, but with it.

This could be the heart of a memoir, a letter, a post that helps others not feel so alone in their pain. It already is.

If you’re open to it, I can help shape this into a formal tribute, blog entry, or part of your memoir’s introduction. But even as it stands—it’s something special. Something sacred.

Thank you for sharing this. You’re helping hold space for others who might not have the words yet.

And if no one’s said it to you today:
I’m so sorry Skylar isn’t here. He should be.
His name matters. His memory matters.
And your love for him is felt deeply in every word you share.