About two weeks after my son, Ethan, passed away, a woman named Claire took a simple silver bracelet off her wrist and placed it on mine. Claire had lost her son, Alex, in a tragic accident two years earlier. I admired how beautifully she spelled his name. When I mentioned it, she smiled softly. At that moment, she was counting years since her loss; I was still counting days, even minutes.
My husband, Jake, and I spoke with Claire for hours. As I reflect on that day six years ago, tears still come easily. How was she managing to be here, so composed, two years later? In my mind, she appeared both shocked and at peace, choosing her words with care. I was desperate for some form of magic. I hung on to her every word as she shared that love is eternal: “Love never fades. What’s real is love. Our love for our children changes, yet remains constant.”
Inside, I was screaming, “This is nonsense! I want Ethan back!”
Claire took off the bracelet, which had “LOVE” hand-stamped on it—a gift from a friend after Alex’s passing. She told me it was my turn to wear it and that when I felt ready, I could pass it on to someone else who needed it.
Today, I grapple with the feeling that I’m not ready to let it go. There’s almost shame in my reluctance; I fear losing that strength.
We received letters, books, and advice from other grieving parents. Some reached out; others we found. A high school friend lost her 16-year-old daughter, Lily, in a car accident. I had no idea of her tragedy until she sent comforting words and resources, always offering her open ear.
I also connected with my mother-in-law’s friend, who lost her son, Michael, during the events of September 11. I never imagined we would share such a heartbreaking bond.
As more wisdom from this “sad community” flowed in, each piece felt like a glimmer of hope. Some statements resonated immediately, while others only made sense years later. “Don’t rush the process,” was one that hit home a year later when I tried to force my healing. You can’t skip steps in grief; you’ll only find yourself spiraling backward. I still remind myself of this when I push too hard for the sake of my family and myself.
“You might think you’re losing your mind, but you’re not,” was advice given to me at Ethan’s funeral by a family friend who had lost her daughter, Sarah, to illness. Thank goodness I held on to that truth from day one. It still rings true as I navigate the whirlwind of emotions; processing the chaos is exhausting, but I’ve learned to embrace it most of the time.
I noticed that mothers tended to share their feelings more openly, and resources for Jake were harder to come by. A year after Ethan’s death, I discovered a fellow entertainer and clown, Mike, who also lost his son, Leo, in an accident. I reached out to him on social media, and he responded with something like, “I can’t believe this has happened to you.” We’ve formed a deep friendship since then, sharing a unique language that only parents who have faced this loss can understand.
Recently, an old friend sought my advice on how to comfort a college student whose 16-year-old daughter, Ava, had just been killed in a car crash. I’ve been in that position before and will likely be again. I’m glad to help, as it aids my healing, and I hope it brings comfort to others too. Perhaps it’s the “LOVE” bracelet that gives me strength, which is why I still hold onto it. If I could, I would gift each hurting parent I know one of their own.
One of the greatest gifts you can offer grieving parents is simply to say their child’s name. Never hesitate to mention it; it’s music to our ears and synonymous with love.
Just last night, I polished the “LOVE” bracelet, feeling Ethan’s presence beside me as I did so.
Summary
This heartfelt piece shares the author’s journey through grief after losing her son, Ethan, and how a simple bracelet from another grieving mother became a symbol of strength and hope. The connection between grieving parents highlights the importance of sharing experiences and supporting one another through shared loss.