The other night, I sat in the same auditorium where I watched my oldest son’s short film play at his school talent show last year. The same stage. The same chairs. The same soft hum of parents and programs and fluorescent lighting overhead. Except this time, it wasn’t Ian I was there to see—it was Isaac, my younger son, performing in his spring orchestra concert.

Grief doesn’t always arrive like a tidal wave. Sometimes, it’s a quiet undertow. You sit there smiling, clapping politely, doing what every other parent is doing—and at the same time, your whole body is buzzing with the weight of what isn’t there. The absence speaks louder than the applause.

A year ago, Ian’s short film Exit—a piece he created about his time in the mental hospital—was shown on that stage. It was brave and personal and honest. After the film played, he walked up to the stage and gave a small bow. He was nervous, but he looked proud. Proud that something he created was being seen. Proud to be a part of something.

The photo we used for his funeral was taken that night—him standing beside his art teacher, smiling. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I’d see him share his work in front of a crowd. I didn’t know how sacred that moment would become.

So sitting there for Isaac’s concert—while beautiful, while full of love and pride—also broke me open in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

This is the tension I live with now.

To show up for the child who is still here, while honoring the one who isn’t.

To celebrate one son’s music while remembering the silence left behind by the other.

To hold joy in one hand and ache in the other—and not let either slip away.

There’s a kind of emotional balancing act that happens in grief, especially as a parent. And it brings a feeling that’s hard to describe—strange and disorienting, like standing in two worlds at once. It’s not something I’d ever experienced before losing Ian. There’s no script for how to cheer and cry in the same breath, or how to let your heart swell with pride while it quietly shatters with longing.

I want Isaac to feel seen, celebrated, and supported. I want to be fully present for him, especially as he grows into his teenage years—this stretch of time where connection is fragile but sacred. And at the same time, I carry Ian with me everywhere. The memories sneak in. The longing. The what-ifs.

I’m learning that grief isn’t something to be ashamed of. It doesn’t need to be pushed down or hidden away in moments that are supposed to be joyful. When grief rises, I can honor it. I can feel it without letting it take away from what’s right in front of me. It’s possible to make space for both—grief and gratitude, memory and presence.

I am learning that honoring grief and showing up for the living are not opposites. They’re parallel paths. They can exist in the same room. Sometimes, they even sit beside each other in the same auditorium seat.

That night, I held space for both of my sons. I let the tears rise and fall quietly. I let my heart stretch wider than it felt capable of. I applauded Isaac with everything I had. And I silently whispered, I see you too, Ian. I remember.

This is the kind of mother I am now.
One foot in the world of the living. One foot in memory.
Loving them both, fully, even when it hurts.