Life After Loss: Embracing Joy Alongside Grief

*Warning: This piece contains mentions of death and suicide and may be triggering to some readers. Please proceed with caution if this topic is personal to you.

In the midst of the chaos that defined March 2020, life seemed to be on the upswing. 

I’d just left a soul-sucking job, returned to a firm I adored, stepped into a management role, and received a raise. The pandemic and accompanying restrictions didn’t do much to dull my shine. 

Then, in May, the phone rang with an unfamiliar number. It was a funeral home, unable to reach my father and trying to confirm what to do with my mother’s body. 

That’s how I learned of my mother’s death. 

Grieving in a pandemic is different. There was no funeral, no luncheon, no gathering with family and friends. My son, who was in the Army, could not come home. A week after that phone call, ten of us stood six feet apart, joined by my son on a FaceTime call, and buried my mom. There was no closure, no healing. My boss told me to take all the time I needed. I took one day before throwing myself back into work. 

In July, our son left the army and returned home. 

We were thrilled to have him back with us, but he wasn’t the same. Afghanistan had changed our sweet boy. He struggled with sleep and turned to alcohol. He showed some signs of aggression, but then smiled and laughed. We hoped that with time, he’d recover, but he did not get that chance

On October 11, 2020, Corporal Kyle Frank Mauk succumbed to the mental injuries inflicted upon him in Afghanistan and completed suicide. 

This time, there was no holding back the grief. 

For days, I sat on the floor, surrounded by loved ones. A friend held my hand, forced me to stay hydrated, and coaxed me to eat. Others supported my husband and our daughter as they faced their own inner battles. Somehow, we planned a funeral.

It took quite a while for me to realize how alone I truly felt. 

Despite being surrounded by friends, I felt isolated. I no longer fit in with people who were whole. 

We were not considered a Gold Star Family—one who had a loved one die in service. My son was dead because of unseen injuries sustained in Afghanistan, but it felt the same as if a bullet had hit him there. I felt set apart, like his death didn’t count. 

That’s when I began to reach out. 

I sought support from others in similar situations. I got into counseling. I met others who lost children, who had loved ones die by suicide. Even in these circles, each person’s grief was different, but I found so much comfort in knowing that they could see me. They knew that while I appeared to be sitting peacefully, I was screaming inside. I saw others, just as gutted as I was, living, laughing, experiencing joy. They let grief live with all the other emotions. 

This grief does not go away, but that doesn’t mean there’s no space for joy.

It hurts as much as it did that October day in 2020. A light is missing in our lives, and it has left a a huge hole in our hearts. However, there is happiness alongside this grief, and we have learned to let them coexist. 

We celebrated our daughter’s high school graduation, though it was impossible to ignore the empty seat where her brother should be.

A friend of Frank’s named his beautiful little boy after our son. He will never know his namesake, but his big sister will tell him the stories of “Uncle Frankie.”

We will soon attend the wedding of another of Frank’s friends, and again there will be someone missing. Tears of happiness and longing will fall as I watch the mother and son dance. The joy of this day will live beside the grief of what will never be.  

No one should do this alone. 

To anyone in a similar situation, reach out. Know that while everyone’s grief is different, there are others who can toss out a liferaft and keep you afloat while you navigate these dark waters. 

We can remember. We can tell stories. And we can experience immense joy and love while still grieving.