08/23/2026
Loss of a child, the. deepest loss and the deepest pain
I remember the drive home from Cheyenne's burial like an unchosen language. It's a language I never wanted to learn. And no one in the entire world could pause to translate for me.
As I drove home, cars passed, ordinary and unbothered, carrying people toward their errands, toward dinner, toward families still fully intact. Someone was singing. Someone was laughing. Someone was deep in conversation. Someone was scolding their little child in the backseat.
All while I sat inside my own devastation, like it was a language only I could hear and speak. I looked out at all of them and thought: how does the world keep going after such a loss? I explicitly remember wanting to just --scream--! (Did you ever experience this?)
And the next morning, because days never ask permission, the sun still rose in the east, indifferent and exact. Birds, who owed me nothing, sang just because they could. People I would never meet started coffee makers and answered calls and lived entire ordinary days inside the same 24 hours that held the longest, heaviest moments of my life. I hated them a little, and I understood them completely. The world was not being cruel. It simply didn't know. It couldn't know. Grief is a language without an ambassador.
I understood, while driving in that car on that very heavy day, that I would carry this forever, not as something to 'heal' from (whatever that means), but as something within which I would (reluctantly) grow, not shrink.
Yes, love and the grief were the same size, and neither would shrink.
And I could see underneath the wreckage, some stubborn, quietly wise part of me understood that a kind of 'meaningful joy' (as I call it) would find its way back, not instead of this sorrow, but alongside it. It would become my friend, a companion, rather than a replacement.
More than three decades later, I still feel this way: If I woke up tomorrow and felt nothing, not a twinge of missing her or wishing she had lived beyond her short life... if I felt nothing at all, I would cease to exist.
I don't know how that young woman of 32 years ago intuitively knew what her path would need to be, but I'm grateful to her for never turning away, and I'm proud of all the work she did to become...
For support:
MISS Foundation
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www.JoanneCacciatore.com