There are so many misconceptions about grief, particularly when it comes to losing a child. These misunderstandings don’t just perpetuate unhelpful narratives—they can also make healing so much more complicated for bereaved parents.
I’ll never forget the first time my husband, Jeff, and I sought out therapy after Colten’s accident. It had been just four weeks since we lost him, and we were ready to explore outside support. As counselors ourselves, we understood the importance of finding someone to simply hold space for us—someone who could guide us gently through the raw, uncharted territory of grief. What we encountered instead was a series of catastrophic failures from a well-meaning mental health professional who, unfortunately, didn’t truly understand the nature of what we were experiencing.
One of the most painful moments came when we were told, with alarming bluntness, that at some point we would need to “stop wallowing.” Wallowing? That word felt like a slap in the face. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Jeff and I weren’t wallowing. We were grieving the most profound loss imaginable, and we had made deliberate choices to focus on our healing.
We had both taken intentional time off from work—not only because our profession as counselors demanded a level of presence and care we simply couldn’t provide at the time, but also because we needed space to process and begin navigating our loss. We chose to spend those first two months in our home, surrounded by our adult children, creating a safe space to grieve, remember, and adjust before we reentered the outside world. It wasn’t about shutting ourselves away from reality; it was about deciding how we would adjust to our new reality on our own terms, before allowing the world to impose its expectations on us.
During that time, we surrounded ourselves with everything that reminded us of Colten. His belongings became precious artifacts of his life—symbols of the memories we were desperate to preserve. It was bittersweet, of course. There were moments of uncontrollable sadness, moments when the pain felt so physical it nearly brought me to my knees. I wore my Fitbit during those early weeks, and I noticed that my resting heart rate was elevated by an average of 10 points, even when I wasn’t moving. Grief wasn’t just emotional—it was an all-consuming physical experience and force.
And yet, amidst the devastation, there were also moments of joy and laughter. They were fleeting and muted, like echoes of something we used to know, but they were there. They were glimmers of hope—small reminders that, someday, life might be more than just surviving. We shared stories about Colten, laughed at memories that made us smile, and found comfort in being together as a family. We talked about how to honor his memory and carry him forward with us in a way that felt meaningful and intentional.
Those months were anything but wallowing. They were a time to begin carving out a new normal—to grieve deeply, yes, but also to start envisioning a life where we could carry Colten with us in our hearts. Grief isn’t something you “get over.” It’s something you learn to carry. And taking that time together as a family was one of the best things we could have done for our healing.
The truth is, grief is exhausting. It’s physical, emotional, and relentless. People who haven’t experienced grief to that level often don’t understand just how much energy it takes simply to exist in the wake of such a loss. But it’s not wallowing. It’s survival. It’s love. It’s the necessary process of finding a way forward while holding onto the person you’ve lost.
As a Licensed Professional Counselor, I now recognize how common it is for well-meaning people, even professionals, to mislabel grief as wallowing. But grief is a full-body experience. It impacts our thoughts, our nervous system, our relationships, and our sense of self. It deserves compassion, patience, and gentleness—not judgment.
This experience taught me something profound: that grief is a deeply personal journey, and no one has the right to judge how someone else walks it. Taking time to grieve, to feel, to remember—it’s not just important; it’s essential. And for our family, it was the first step toward healing, no matter how exhausting or painful it was.
If you’ve ever been told that your grief looks like wallowing, please hear this: your grief is valid. Your love is valid. The time you take to feel it is not weakness—it’s courage. And giving yourself that space may be one of the most loving choices you can make for yourself, your family, and for the child you will always carry in your heart.
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