A Reflection on Loss, Loneliness, and Showing Up
This month, I want to talk about something we rarely name out loud: abandonment after death. We speak often about grief, but not enough about the quiet unraveling that sometimes happens to families—the broken bonds, the empty holidays, the silence that settles in after the funeral flowers wilt.
When someone dies, the first few weeks are a blur, tons of phone calls, and kind gestures and people showing up to offer condolences. They promise to help and some even bring cards and promise to get together for dinner. But around day 45 the shift begins. Invitations stop coming. The phone grows quiet. And when the holidays roll around, the absence becomes unbearable.
People avoid you—not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort. They want their holidays to be joyful, filled with laughter and good memories. And you, the grieving one, become a reminder of what’s been lost. No one wants the person who might cry over the turkey at the table. So you’re left out. Again.
I’ve watched this happen to many families. Sometimes you just dont lose one person. My children and I lost a whole network of relatives who once shared family barbeques, vacations, and birthdays. People who were once constants in their lives simply disappeared. And now, in the age of social media, the non existent family gets to witness my children growing up through filtered photos and fleeting comments. “Beautiful,” someone writes under a picture. But they haven’t called. Haven’t shown up. Haven’t asked how they’re really doing.
And still everyone has an opinion. Maybe I moved on too fast. Maybe not fast enough. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. But here’s what I’ve learned: when you’re raising children alone, you can’t wait for others to show up. You have to be the hero in the story. You have to create the memories they’ll carry into adulthood. You have to be the one who saves the day—again and again.
Some people are lucky. They have extended families who wrap their arms around them, who show up in meaningful ways. But if you don’t have that, it doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you have to build something new. You can’t let yourself drown in disappointment over who didn’t call, who didn’t come, and who broke their promises.
You have to make the memories. You have to be the difference.
And if you’re a parent, my advice is this: never assume your family will do right by your children when you’re gone. Put your wishes in writing. Leave resources. Don’t depend on Uncle Peter to buy sneakers—he probably won’t. Not because he doesn’t love you, but because everyone’s priority is their own household. You have to protect your children, whether you live a long healthy life or die when you have a young family.
If you’re someone who’s pulled away from a grieving loved one—because it’s too hard, or you don’t know what to say, or they never ask for help—wake up. We remember. Through the fog, the tears, the pain, we remember who showed up and who didn’t. And that memory lingers.
Grief makes you vulnerable. And in that vulnerability, people will surprise you. Some come to witness the devastation, like it’s a soap opera unfolding in real time. Some come for details. Some come with hidden motives. I’ve heard stories in grief support groups that still make my stomach turn—like the woman whose best friend offered to buy her mother’s preserved farmland while she was still planning the funeral.
So here’s my plea: don’t make decisions in desperation. Don’t sign anything. Don’t give anything away until you’ve had time to breathe. Because in your pain, some people see opportunity.
And yes, there will be people who comfort you, who take you to dinner, who say they’re sorry. And then, out of nowhere, they show a hidden agenda. Grief brings out strange things in people.
So protect your heart. Protect your children. And if you’re the one grieving, know this: you are not alone. You are not broken. You are not too much. You are simply human, navigating the hardest thing life can hand you.
And you are doing it with grace.
To Those Who Show Up
And to the ones who do show up—who call without needing a reason, who send a card months after the funeral, who sit beside you in silence just to be near—you are the light in the dark. You may not have all the answers, but your presence is the answer to a question we didn’t know how to ask. Thank you for showing up when it’s uncomfortable. Thank you for remembering when others forget. You are the reason some of us keep going.
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