Motherhood after the Collapse: Grief, Grace and the Love that carries us

I had always been the strong one.

The mother who could carry it all. Who didn’t fall apart. Who knew how to show up; fierce, resilient, present. My children knew this version of me. So did everyone else. I was the reliable one, the solid one, the woman who could weather anything. The one who had already been through hell and back and come out the other side.

And then the collapse came.

The day their father died, something in all of us shattered. The grief that hit was instant, paralyzing, and all-consuming. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t clean the house or make meals. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t mother.

All I could do was grieve.

My children - 16 and 19 at the time - were also in a state of numbness and shock. They were the first to the scene. They saw everything. Trauma buried itself deep inside all of us.

At first, our house was full. Friends showed up with groceries, helped clean, hugged my kids when I couldn’t. I was broken, inconsolable. And my children, who had already lost their father, suddenly lost their mother too, or at least the version of me they’d always known.

I watched them navigate a pain no one should have to carry so young. My daughter, overwhelmed by my unraveling, needed space. She admitted later that seeing me in such devastation was too much. She needed distance and left a few months later for college, a necessary move for her own sanity and survival. Her grief, in some ways, was delayed. But it was there, waiting.

My son was made to be the one who stayed. He held me as I cried, deep, snot-filled, body-shaking sobs. He cried too. He encouraged me to let it out. He told me it was okay to be broken, that my grief was a reflection of deep love. That it meant something. That it mattered.

He had grown up overnight.

Nobody asked him to. He just stepped into it. Not out of obligation, but out of instinct. His father was gone. His mother was on the floor. And he, still a boy, began to stand like a man.

Both of my children amazed me. While I was stuck in the fog of trauma and mere survival, they managed to finish school, find jobs, build lives, and stay soft in the process. My daughter paid her own rent. My son hiked mountains to find peace. Somehow, they didn’t collapse. They rose. Stronger, wiser, more attuned to the pain and beauty of life than I could have ever imagined.

And they forgave me, for not being able to hold it all together.

For breaking.

For being human.

At some point, the grief softened. I started functioning again. And with that return came the guilt. I began grieving not just the man I had lost, but the kind of mother I hadn’t been able to be in those first brutal months. I ached for what my children had lost, both their father and the mother I had once been.

But then, something happened.

They loved me through it. They held space for my grief, even while carrying their own. They saw me. They got me. In ways only those who’ve been cracked open can understand another.

I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe: I don’t have to be the perfect mother to be a good one. I don’t have to be strong all the time to be trusted, or wise all the time to be worthy. My children have witnessed me at my rawest, and it brought us even closer.

They are my heroes.

They are my reason.

They are the living legacy of a love that still exists, even in their father’s absence.

Today, we are building something new. Integrating what was, what is, and what will be. We talk about their father now with tenderness. We laugh. We remember. We honor his memory, not as something locked in the past, but as something that continues to live in all of us.

They remind me so much of him. His energy, his heart, his spark. I see it in their eyes, in their ways of being, in the love they still give so freely.

And me? I’m learning to forgive myself. Slowly. Fully. For the balls I dropped. For the moments I couldn’t mother. For the ways I unraveled. I’m learning to hold both grief and grace in the same breath.

My children taught me that.

They’ve shown me what it means to be resilient, not because you have to be strong all the time, but because you know how to love through the hardest things.

We’re closer than ever. And I no longer need to be the perfect mama. I get to be real. I get to witness the incredible humans they are becoming. I get to let them hold me sometimes. And I get to keep loving them, with a full heart, open arms, and a whole lot of gratitude.

We didn’t choose this story. But we are choosing how we live it.

Grief cracked us open, but it didn’t take us down. It revealed our strength, our softness, and our capacity to love even through devastation. It taught us to let go of perfection and hold onto presence. To speak the unspeakable. To feel the unfixable. To keep choosing life.

My children didn’t just survive the loss of their father. They rose. And in their rising, they lifted me too.

I will never stop missing him. But I will also never stop living, for myself, for my children, and for the love we all still carry. Love doesn’t disappear. It transforms. And in our family, it continues to grow.

This is not the life we planned. But it is a life full of truth, tenderness, and fierce, unbreakable love.

We are not just surviving.

We are becoming.

And that… is the legacy my Stefan, their father, would have wanted most.

Yes, it’s unfair that they were asked to grow up so soon. But the depth they carry now, their quiet wisdom, their tender strength, their hard-won grace, was born through fire. And I, with a heart full of awe, get to call them mine.

They are not just mine.

They are ours.

Children shaped by two hearts that loved deeply, lived fully, and built a home rooted in connection, adventure, and appreciation for life. Their father was a force to be reckoned with, bold, brilliant, full of energy and conviction. That same fire lives within them.

I see it in their courage. In their kindness. In their clarity.

They carry his spark, his laughter, his fierce love, and they carry mine.

And though he is no longer here in body, he is with us in spirit, in memory, and in the legacy of love we see reflected in who they’re becoming.

They are his greatest tribute.

They are my greatest gift.

A gift he gave me and left me with, living reminders of our love, our life, and all we built together.

Together, they are the future we once dreamed of; still unfolding, still so full of life.

And I will cherish them always, as the most beautiful legacy of us, and of a love that lives on… forever.

We are still here. Still standing. Still unfolding into our next chapter.

Together.

---

If this touched something in you, thank you for reading.

Grief, love, parenthood, and healing are never linear. If you’re walking through your own loss or simply navigating life after life has changed, I see you.

You’re not alone. You were never meant to carry it all by yourself.

If you’re longing for a space to be real, to be held, to rebuild from the heart, I’m here.

Let’s talk.

Contact me to book a free discovery call and let’s explore how I can support you.

And if you’re not ready to talk yet, that’s okay too.

You can stay close by subscribing to the blog or exploring more reflections on grief, heart-led leadership, resilience, and becoming.

You’re still becoming.

We all are.