The Grief Nobody Sees

This statue was created by an artist who lost a child.

August is National Grief Awareness Month, and for me, this month is about more than simply talking about grief. It is about talking about Halle. For a long time, I wasn't always sure what to say when people asked about her. Saying that my daughter died felt dark and daunting. I worried about making other people uncomfortable, and I didn't know if I was ready to face my own grief. Sometimes it just felt easier to avoid the conversation altogether.

But after 11 years, I have learned that silence doesn't make grief disappear. In fact, sometimes it can make it feel even more isolating. If you know me, I mean really know me, then you know I am a talker, and my favorite topic is my kids. But talking about grief has not always been easy, nor has it been a topic I felt I could face. This month, I decided to face that fear, sit down with my feelings, and share not only my grief, but also talk about what I lost and loved so incredibly much. I decided to talk about the memories she left behind and the impact she had on the people who knew her. I also want to talk about what happened to the rest of us after she died, because when someone dies, their story doesn't end. Neither does the story of the people who loved them.

Our 2nd Christmas without Halle, we started this tradition. The kids found it to be a way to include Halle on our Christmas Eve celebrations.

The Grief Nobody Sees

People often talk about grief as if it has a timeline. The first few weeks are hard. The first holidays are hard. The first birthday and the first anniversary are hard. In all honesty, the “firsts” were hard, but I was also numb. I was surviving. I was getting through each day without really knowing how to process what had happened. We did the first Halle Grace Toy Drive on her birthday after she died, and in many ways, that gave us something to focus on. We were honoring her by doing something she would have loved.

It was the “seconds” that I really had to face the reality of her absence. The second Christmas. The second Mother's Day. The second time those days came around and there was no longer the shock of the first one. I knew what it felt like to wake up on Christmas morning without Halle. I knew what Mother's Day would feel like. There was something about experiencing those moments for the second time that made me realize this wasn't temporary. This was our life now.

Then, somewhere along the way, there can be this expectation that you should be doing better. People don't necessarily say it out loud, but life moves on, and you are expected to move with it. And you do. You go back to work. You take care of your family. You make plans. You laugh. You have good days. But what happens when it has been 11 years? I wish I had a simple answer, but I don't. What I know is that grief changes. I have learned how to live with it, but that doesn't mean I have stopped missing Halle. There are days when I think about her constantly, and there are other days when I can go hours without consciously thinking about the fact that she is gone. Neither means I love her any less. It just means that life has continued, even though a part of my heart still knows someone is missing.

The Question I Dreaded

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I think that is one of the things I wish more people understood about grief. You don't stop grieving because you are having a good day. You don't stop loving someone because you laughed. You don't stop missing someone because you went on vacation, started a new job, celebrated a milestone, or made plans for the future. Life continues, and somehow, you learn to continue with it. There are moments when I realize I have gone most of the day without thinking about Halle, and then there are moments when something brings her right back to the front of my mind. A song, a Halloween oreo (IYKYK), a picture, a story someone tells, or sometimes her image or smell or laugh just pops into my head out of nowhere. It may be 11 years, but some days it still feels like yesterday.

If I am being honest, one of the hardest things I faced after Halle died wasn't talking about her death. It was meeting new people. Inevitably, someone would ask the question that seems so simple when you haven't experienced the death of a child: "How many children do you have?" And then, of course, comes the follow-up: "Oh, how old are they?" You don't want to say, "Oh, I have three kids. B is 12, Neeley is 15 and...well, Karen, Halle is dead." That kind of ruins the vibe with a new friend or co-worker.

I remember the first time someone asked me how many kids I had after Halle died. I said, "Two. Neeley is 13 and B is 10." I didn't mention Halle. (Insert heavy sigh here). This one hurt my heart. I felt as if I had failed her in that moment. At the time, I didn't want to make the other person feel awkward for asking. I didn't want to suddenly turn a casual conversation into an uncomfortable one, and honestly, my own grief was still so raw that I wasn't sure I could handle saying the words out loud. So I gave the easy answer. Two.

Then I went home and sobbed.

I felt like I had betrayed Halle. How could I say I had two children when I had three? Halle hadn't stopped being my daughter just because she died. But I also realized something in that moment: I couldn't spend the rest of my life trying to protect everyone else from the discomfort of my grief. I couldn't control how someone would react when I told them about Halle, and I couldn't keep making myself smaller to make other people more comfortable.

So I channeled my inner Halle. She probably would have told me to "suck it up, buttercup," and honestly, that's exactly what I needed to hear. Not because I needed to stop grieving or stop missing her, but because I needed to stop worrying so much about how my grief made other people feel and how grief made me feel.

I started rehearsing what I would say the next time someone asked how many children I had. I have three children. Neeley, B, and Halle. Halle died when she was 15. It was uncomfortable at first, and sometimes it still is. But eventually, it became my truth. I stopped worrying about whether sharing Halle's life and death would make me or someone else uncomfortable. I realized that I didn't need to protect people from Halle's story. I needed to give them the opportunity to know her.

Halle always put together the cutest outfits!

I Want You to Know Halle

When we talk about grief, we often focus on the loss. We talk about how someone died, what happened, and what the family went through. Those things matter, and they are part of the story, but they aren't the whole story. I don't want Halle's story to be defined by the fact that she died at 15. I want people to know about the life she lived.

Halle loved sparkles and fine jewelry. The girl had an eye for fashion. She was funny and had this quirky grin that would appear when she was about to crack up a room with her wit. She had dreams of being a history teacher and loved to read. She was an incredible dancer and had way better moves than her mother. She was a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, and a friend. She was a teenager figuring out who she was and what she wanted. She was so much more than her medical diagnoses, and she was so much more than the day we lost her.

That is why talking about her matters to me. I don't want the only story people hear about Halle to be the story of how she died. I want them to know how she lived. I want to be able to tell the funny stories, share the memories, talk about the things she loved, and remember the person she was. I worry that our culture doesn't embrace loss or face grief as well as we could. We shouldn't have to whisper about the people we have lost. When we are ready, we should be able to smile, laugh, and tell the "tall" tales about the lives they lived. We should be able to talk about the ridiculous things they did, the things that drove us crazy, the things that made us laugh, and the moments we wish we could experience just one more time.

I don't want that for Halle. I don't want that for any of us.

Share a memory with them. This is a photo I received recently of Halle holding Neeley when she was just 4 days old.

Making Room for These Conversations

I think we sometimes avoid talking about death because we don't know what to say. We worry that bringing up someone's loved one will make them sad or that we will somehow remind them of their loss. But the truth is, when someone you love dies, you are probably already thinking about them. You aren't necessarily reminding them of their loss. You might actually be giving them permission to talk about the person they miss. And that can be such a gift.

Ask about them. Say their name. Tell a story. Share a memory. You don't have to have the perfect words. Sometimes simply saying, "I was thinking about Halle today," or "I remember when..." can mean more than you realize. Grief can be incredibly isolating, and sometimes the most comforting thing isn't someone trying to make you feel better. It is simply having someone accept that the person you love who died is still a very real part of your life. They are still part of your stories, your memories, your family, and who you are. You don't need someone to fix that. You just need someone who is willing to acknowledge it with you.

Moving Forward Doesn't Mean Moving On

I have moved forward, but I haven't moved on from Halle. There is a difference. Moving forward means continuing to live. It means finding joy again, celebrating the people who are still here, making plans for the future, and allowing myself to laugh without feeling like I am betraying Halle. It means understanding that grief and joy can exist together.

I can miss Halle terribly and still have a wonderful day. I can laugh and still grieve. I can be grateful for my life and wish desperately that she were here to share it. Those things don't cancel each other out. In fact, I think that is one of the things I have learned most over these 11 years. Grief isn't about choosing between remembering the daughter I lost and living the life I still have. It is learning how to do both.

What Halle Left Behind

Eleven years later, Halle is still part of my life, just differently. She is part of the stories we tell, our family history, and the work I do. She is the whole purpose of the Halle Grace Foundation and its mission to support families and educate others about the realities of living with childhood chronic illness and disability. She is part of why I believe so strongly in telling our stories, and she is part of why I am sharing this one now.

National Grief Awareness Month isn't just about making people aware that grief exists. For me, it is about creating space for honest conversations about what happens after someone dies. It is about removing some of the stigma and discomfort around talking about death and loss. It is about remembering that grief doesn't look the same for everyone, and it is about remembering that the person we lost was so much more than the circumstances of their death. They lived. They mattered. And they continue to matter.

The Conversation Continues

Janine and I talked about grief in our latest Strength Happens episode, "Grief Has No Timeline: Losing Halle." This one was a deeply raw and deeply personal conversation about losing my oldest daughter, the one who made me a mom. But it is also a conversation about life...about the life Halle lived, about the life that continued after her death, and about learning how to carry someone you love while continuing to move forward.

I am sharing this story because I don't want grief to be something we only talk about in whispers. I want us to be able to say their names, tell their stories, share the memories, talk about the hard parts, and talk about the beautiful parts, too. I want us to remember that our loved ones are more than the way their stories ended. They are the lives they lived, the people they loved, the memories they created, and the impact they had on the people around them.

For me, Halle's life deserves to be remembered. And if sharing her story makes it a little easier for someone else to talk about the person they lost, then maybe that is one more way Halle's life continues to make a difference.

Listen to "Grief Has No Timeline: Losing Halle" on Strength Happens.