Grief is permanent. But it doesn't have to be all-consuming.

That is the quiet, hard-won truth at the heart of this conversation with Wesley, Graham's mom. And it is the kind of truth that only comes from ten years of living with loss.

Graham was adopted at five months old, a boy who struggled from early on with questions of identity and belonging. He wrestled with being adopted, with his sexuality, with depression, and eventually with addiction. Wesley spent years in that particular kind of anticipatory grief that parents of children with addiction know all too well, always bracing, always wondering, always hoping. And then one night, the call came anyway.

Graham died in July of 2016 at the age of 33.

In this conversation, Wesley speaks with remarkable honesty about what the years since have looked like. The shame she felt in the beginning, the instinct to hide, the relentless second-guessing of every decision she had ever made as a mother. She talks about the unique and unexpected gift of seeing Graham's therapist after his death, someone who actually knew him, who could fill in pieces of the picture Wesley never had, and who has helped her understand that she did the best she could with what she knew.

She also talks about how she has channeled her grief into purpose. Her blog, When Your Child is Addicted, her Facebook group Kids on Drugs, and the book she is currently writing are all born from a desire to help other parents before they find themselves where she is now.

And she talks about what ten years of grief actually looks like from the inside. Not linear. Not resolved. Still present on holidays, on birthdays, in unexpected moments. But incorporated now, woven into the fabric of daily life rather than overwhelming it.

I share my rock metaphor in this conversation, and Wesley captures it perfectly when she says that grief will always be with you. It is just that it doesn't have to become the whole point of your life.

The loss never goes away. But slowly, gently, life grows around it.

Some dates just carry weight.

April 23rd. The anniversary of Taylor's death. Two days after what would have been Andy's 22nd birthday.

When Jam reached out and asked to come back on, I looked at the calendar and knew immediately. There was no one else I wanted in this space this week.

If you haven't yet listened to Episode 157, I'd encourage you to start there. Jam first came on just four months after losing Taylor, her 13-year-old daughter, a girl who rode the special needs bus by choice every single day so she could sit beside her twin sister Morgan, who saved her lunch seat without fail, who never met a stranger and never stopped looking for someone to love. In that first episode, the word that kept coming to me as I listened was compassion. It still does.

Now, nearly four years later, Jam is back.

And what strikes me most about this conversation is simply that she is here. That she is still standing. That she is still showing up - for Morgan, for her husband, for the families her foundation has served, for the women in her Starlight support group who have become some of her closest friends in the world.

She didn't think she would survive this.

She is surviving it.

We talk about what these four years have looked like from the fog of the first year, the harder truths of years two and three, and now, the slow, uneven work of figuring out who you are on the other side of the worst thing you have ever lived through. We talk about the May Flowers Taylor George Foundation, which has helped ten families navigate burial expenses, sibling travel, and the crushing practical weight of sudden loss. We talk about Morgan and the particular heartbreak of watching a child grieve in a language she cannot fully speak. We talk about finding your people, even when they live a thousand miles away.

And we talk about what it means to still be figuring it out at year four. To not yet know exactly what God is asking of you next. To be healing without yet being whole.

Jam says it simply and beautifully near the end of our conversation: I honestly thought I would not survive it. And I am. It may not be pretty every day. But I'm surviving.

I want to say to every single one of you what my friend Michele used to say to me, again and again, when I told her I couldn't do this:

You are doing it.

It may not be pretty. It may not look the way you thought surviving was supposed to look. But every single day that you get up and live your life without your child, that is the work. That is surviving. And you are doing it.

Abnormalities.

That is the word that changed Matthew and his wife Hannah's lives forever. They went in for a routine ultrasound, their almost two-year-old son Walker playing happily beside them in the waiting room, and left knowing that their lives would never be the same, and that their son Noah was unlikely to live.

What followed was six months of hurrying up and waiting. Six months of grieving a diagnosis before they ever had to grieve a death. Six months of doctor's appointments and phone calls and learning, in real time, what it means to carry an impossible weight while the rest of the world keeps moving.

Noah was born with Trisomy 13, a genetic condition that is almost always fatal. He lived for 57 and a half hours. And Matthew will tell you, that was 57 and a half hours more than they ever expected to get.

In this conversation, Matthew shares what those hours looked like, what those six months looked like, and what the six years since have looked like. He talks honestly about the fog of grief, about learning to let people in, about the two questions he and Hannah developed that he believes saved their marriage. He talks about the moment a mentor told him it was okay to have a good day, and how he wept on the phone, because he couldn't imagine it. And he talks about how, five years after Noah's death, he sat down to journal on Noah's birthday and realized something that took his breath away.

Noah is the only son he never let down.

He was fully present for every moment of his son's entire life.

Out of that realization, and out of six years of quietly sending care packages to families navigating terminal diagnoses, came the Even Though We Will Foundation, and a book by the same name, released this week. The title is their family's mantra, rooted in Psalm 23. Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil. Not because Andy died, this happened. Not because Noah died, this came to be. But even though — and in that even though, something beautiful still can.

Matthew also writes about something rarely heard from a grieving father, what it looks like to watch your favorite person in the world suffer, and feel utterly powerless to fix it. What it means to be a doer, a leader, a fixer, and suddenly not be able to do any of those things. And what it means to fall back on a faith that, in the end, held them both.

Even Though We Will is available now at EvenThoughWeWill.com and on Amazon.

We are not meant to do this alone.

That is the thread that runs through every moment of this conversation, and these are the words Gwen chose to close with, because they are simply true.

This episode is a replay of our recent live Q&A, a chance to follow up on the four-week educational series Gwen so graciously offered in February while I took a much-needed step back. We talk openly about what that break was like for me, why I needed it, and what I learned from it, including the hard-won lesson that even sacred work can wear you down if you never put it down, even for a little while.

From there the conversation opens up into something larger. We talk about the value of support groups, of finding someone a few miles ahead of you on this road and letting them show you that it is possible to keep going. We talk about the difference between the raw, gut-wrenching suffering of early grief and the longing that comes later — the stone in your pocket that never goes away but changes shape over time. And we talk about why hearing someone else's story, knowing someone else feels exactly what you feel, can be the one small thing that makes a grieving parent feel just a little less alone.

Gwen also shares a story from her recent vacation that stopped me in my tracks, the story of a ten-year-old girl on a beach, a grieving mama watching from a distance, and a moment that could only have been arranged by God.

If you missed the educational series from February, those episodes are available in the feed — Episodes 334 through 337. And if you would like a discount code for private sessions with Gwen, simply reach out to either of us at marcy@andysmom.com or gwen@grief-guide.com and we will get that to you.

Because we are not meant to do this alone.

And we never have to.

Before Angie lost her son Jake, she used to say something that I think many of us have said — or at least thought.

If something ever happened to Jake, you would just have to bury me with him. Period. End of discussion. There was no way.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Jake was Angie's only child, her greatest surprise and her greatest blessing. Born in August of 1995, he grew up to be a man of quiet, steady faith — the kind that didn't ask for recognition, that just lived itself out in the way he treated people, the way he loved his wife Hannah, the way he'd get genuinely excited talking about heaven. He loved the outdoors, he loved to hunt and fish, and Angie always called him her simple man. In fact, when he got married in 2020, their mother-son dance was to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man."

On March 8th, 2023, Jake was on his way to work when he was killed in a car accident. He was twenty-seven years old, just two years into his marriage, and days away from closing on the house he and Hannah had planned and saved for together.

Now, three years later, Angie is still here.

Not because it has been easy. Not because the grief has softened into something manageable. But because one foot in front of the other, one whispered Jesus at a time, God has held her up when she was sure she could not stand.

In this conversation, Angie speaks honestly about what these three years have looked like. The shock that she now understands as a mercy from God. The struggle to pray when the words just wouldn't come. The Bible study group of bereaved moms that has become her lifeline. The therapist who told her that one of the ways she could honor Jake was to lean into Jesus, because that was Jake. And how after he said it, she started hearing it everywhere.

Lean in. Lean in. Lean in.

This is an episode about surviving what you were sure would kill you. About faith that isn't tidy or triumphant, but shows up anyway, kicking and screaming sometimes, and keeps going.

If you have ever said there is no way I could survive this, this episode is for you.

Here is Angie, three years in, still standing.

When Samantha first came on this podcast in Episode 282, she was only a few months out from losing Raiden.

She was raw and fresh in her grief — and yet even then, just four months into her loss, she reached out to ask me about Andy. She stepped outside her own pain to offer comfort to someone further down the road. I knew then that she was someone special.

Fourteen months later, she is back. And the question that quietly runs through everything she shares is one that every grieving parent eventually faces:

How do I keep being my child's mama when my child is gone?

For Samantha, the answer has taken the shape of bubbles.

Raiden loved bubbles the way only a little boy can — rain or shine, indoors or out, in the bathtub, in the yard, anywhere and everywhere. That love became the name and the heart of the Raiden Bubble Project, a space Samantha built out of the sudden quiet of life after losing her only child. What started as something to focus on grew into water safety advocacy, autism awareness, and a community where other lost moms feel safe enough to reach out. Her own therapist tells her she has learned things from following along. Mothers she has never met write to thank her. Lost mamas find their way to her, and she holds space for them.

She also created the Little Love Lost Mamas, a small close circle of moms who have become like family. And she has been working to bring a memorial arch to her community, a place where anyone can come, padlock the name of someone they love, and know they are not alone.

Every single thing she has built is her still parenting Raiden.

We also talk about the new baby boy arriving soon, Ryatt. Samantha is clear about something that I think many people need to hear: Ryatt is not a replacement for Raiden. He is someone she gets to share Raiden with.

That is the kind of love that doesn't end when a life does.

It just finds new ways to live on — in bubbles, in community, and in the quiet, faithful work of a mama who never stopped.

In this episode of Always Andy's Mom, I sit down with Leanne, Mikael's mom, for an honest and heartfelt conversation about grief, faith, and life after losing a child to addiction.

At the center of this episode is a powerful shift in perspective. After her son's death, Leanne struggled with the words "give thanks in all circumstances." But when reading the words more carefully, she noticed a subtle difference that shifted her understanding. She began to see the difference between being thankful for her circumstances and being thankful in them.

Leanne shares her experience loving her son through addiction, the heartbreak of loss, and the reality of grieving a child. She speaks about the tension between faith and pain, and how grief becomes something that stays, rather than something to overcome.

In this episode, we talk about:

• Child loss and grief after addiction and overdose

• The meaning of "thankful in, not for"

• Grief as an ongoing presence in daily life

• Faith, anger, and healing after loss

• Writing and poetry as tools for processing grief

Leanne also shares about her new book, Tattered Hearts and Hopeful Souls, a collection of devotional reflections and poetry that explores grief, faith, and healing. Her writing offers comfort and language for bereaved parents navigating life after loss.

This episode is a reminder that grief does not disappear. But over time, we can learn how to carry it. And even in the hardest circumstances, there can still be moments of meaning, connection, and quiet gratitude.