Episode 324: Josh's Mum
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Shortly after Leigh’s 22-year-old son, Josh, was killed in a plane crash, her best friend looked her straight in the eyes and said some of the most beautiful words a bereaved mother can ever hear: “Your grief doesn’t scare me.” When she told me that during this week’s podcast interview, it took my breath away. As a grieving parent myself, I remember how often my grief did seem to scare people. I saw the uncomfortable glances from across the room. I heard the mumbled apologies when someone said something that “made” me cry. It was as if my tears were a burden they didn’t quite...
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Episode: 323: Quinten's Mom
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
“Now What?” This is the question Marie found herself asking after the devastating loss of her son, Quinten, to suicide. Overcome with grief, she felt lost and unsure how to move forward. But instead of succumbing to despair, Marie made a conscious decision: her life would continue. She chose to ask herself, "Now what?" and began to take small, intentional steps toward healing. Through the darkest days, she trusted that there was a way forward, even when the road ahead seemed impossible to navigate. In today’s episode, Marie opens up about her raw, unfiltered journey through grief. She...
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Episode 322: Quincy's Dad
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Today's guest, Jonathon’s book, , captured me from the first page—a work that feels both intimate and universal. Indigo, the hue between blue and violet, appears in rainbows and twilight skies, yet it rarely gets named. Likewise, grief lingers in daily life, hovering just out of sight, unspoken because its rawness makes many uneasy. Jonathon uses the color as a quiet metaphor for sorrow that colors our existence without ever dominating the palette. A decade ago, Jonathon’s world shattered when his eldest daughter, Quincy, died in a sudden car accident. As a pastor, the loss forced him to...
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Episode 321: The Many Emotions of Grief
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
During one of the first grief‑support group sessions that Eric and I attended in the weeks after Andy died, our facilitators led us in an exercise. We were given a black‑and‑white copy of an image created by H. Norman Wright titled “Grief – A Tangled Ball of Emotions.” The picture resembled a ball of yarn, but instead of yarn strands, it had strips winding around the sphere, each labeled with a different emotion. The exercise was simple. We received crayons and were asked to color in any stripe that represented an emotion we had felt during that week. I remember starting at...
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Episode 320: Jr.'s Mom
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Today's guest, Stephanie, says that her son, Jr., had a lifelong mantra that he lived by - ‘me versus me.’ He even had this phrase tattooed on himself for his 18th birthday. Rather than measuring himself against anyone else, he aimed each day to outdo the person he had been yesterday. A year ago, Jr. was a senior in high school, preparing to enlist in the Marine Corps. He was an avid athlete as a cross‑country runner, weightlifter, and participant in several team sports. That autumn, he trained for a half‑marathon, hoping to break the two‑hour barrier. The whole family was at...
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Episode 319: Libby's Mum
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Today's guest, Lisa, says she has always felt a special, spiritual link to her eldest daughter, Libby—starting when Libby was an infant and lasting throughout her life. One night, Lisa complained to her husband about a throbbing thumb. The next morning, Libby called, saying she had hurt her thumb and thought it was broken. When Libby’s father asked if the injury happened around 9 pm, Libby confirmed the time of the injury, but she was puzzled until he answered, “Your mother felt that.” Despite being over 200 miles away and unaware of any injury, Lisa sensed Libby’s broken...
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Episode 318: Jenny & Jesse's Mom
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Jerry’s passion is helping bereaved children. When I was first introduced to her, Jerry was described as a widowed mother with a heart for grieving kids. She’d written a fictional tale for late‑elementary and middle‑school readers about a ten‑year‑old girl coping with her father’s death. The story follows Joy’s grief journey, letting parents buy a companion workbook so children can record their own feelings while reading. I booked Jerry for the show because listeners frequently ask how parents can support grieving children. I didn’t realize her personal loss mirrored our own...
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Episode 317: Chloe & Lily's Dad
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
Eight minutes. That is how long it took for Michael's life to be forever changed. In late November 2016, a fire broke out in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Unbeknownst to Michael, the winds picked up while he was driving with his oldest son, and the fires swept toward the family home. Michael is haunted by nightmares of his frantic drive back through the fires, trying to get back home. By the time he arrived, the fire had taken the lives of his daughters, Chloe and Lily, as well as his wife, Constance. In the months after the fires, as Michael struggled to sleep, he would write about...
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Episode 316: Chasey's Momma
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
He should be here. Today's guest, Lindsay, says that these are the four most impactful words that have been said to her in the year since her 6-month-old son, Chase, died from bacterial meningitis. These words don't try to cheer her up or remind her of some grand plan. They simply acknowledge the wrongness of the whole situation. Lindsay's family no longer feels complete without Chase. Smiling 'Chasey' should be tagging along, trying to keep up with his big brother, Jack. Chase should be here. From the time her two boys were tiny babies, Lindsay would read to them. She loved reading board...
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Episode 315: Jacob's Mom
Losing a Child: Always Andy's Mom
I feel like God arranges for certain guests to come on the podcast just when I need them most. On the day of this interview, I was particularly weepy, missing Andy even more than I normally do. I think God knew I needed someone to cry with, and Nancy was that someone. Nancy calls her son, Jacob, her Buddha baby, weighing 11 pounds 3 ounces at birth. The bib that they brought with them to the hospital would not even fit around his neck. However, that was not the only reason Jacob was called her Buddha Baby. Even as an infant, Jacob seemed to be a calming presence to everyone around him. ...
info_outlineShortly after Leigh’s 22-year-old son, Josh, was killed in a plane crash, her best friend looked her straight in the eyes and said some of the most beautiful words a bereaved mother can ever hear:
“Your grief doesn’t scare me.”
When she told me that during this week’s podcast interview, it took my breath away.
As a grieving parent myself, I remember how often my grief did seem to scare people. I saw the uncomfortable glances from across the room. I heard the mumbled apologies when someone said something that “made” me cry. It was as if my tears were a burden they didn’t quite know how to hold.
And the truth is… my grief scared me, too.
There were days I collapsed to the floor, sobbing so hard I feared I would never stop. Moments when the pain felt so big, so consuming, that I wondered if it might swallow me whole. Grief can feel like that—wild, unpredictable, and utterly overwhelming.
Fifteen months into her own grief journey, these are the same emotions Leigh continues to navigate day by day. As she shared her story, I could feel both the depth of her love for Josh and the weight she carries in his absence. She spoke with such honesty about the moments when she still reaches for her phone, waiting for his daily phone call. And each day, she lights a candle for Josh, a simple yet sacred ritual that keeps his presence in the home.
But here’s a lesson I’ve learned—for myself and for anyone walking this path—slowly and painfully, and with more tenderness than I ever thought possible:
Grief may shake us, but it does not destroy us.
We survive what once felt unsurvivable.
Bit by bit, breath by breath, we learn to carry the weight.
And somewhere along the way, light begins to seep back in—not because the grief is gone, but because we’ve grown strong enough to hold both love and loss at the same time.
If you’re grieving today, I want you to know this:
Your grief doesn’t scare me.
And even if you can’t feel it right now, there is hope ahead.
Not a return to who you were, but a gentle becoming of who you’re learning to be.
You’re not alone.