There’s a grief that doesn’t have a name — the grief of loving your child deeply and still carrying a heavy sadness inside you. It’s the grief that slowly changes you, quietly, while the rest of the world keeps moving.
When my son Matthias was born, I was introduced to a life I hadn’t prepared for. Matthias is a sweet, gentle boy. He’s nonverbal. He lives with epilepsy that surprises us with attacks, and his development is slow. Though he is ten years old, he is still measured between zero and two years old in his assessments. I love him more than anything in this world. And yet — loving him has come with a deep pain I didn’t expect.
At first, I thought the hardest part would be the therapies, the appointments, the unknowns. But the real, unexpected heartbreak came in other forms — in quiet places where friendships used to be.
You see, I didn’t lose friends because of Matthias.
I lost friends because of the sadness they saw in me.
There were moments I needed someone — anyone — to just sit with me, to listen without fixing, without judging. But I must have been too much for them. My pain was too loud, even when I wasn’t speaking it. And slowly, quietly, they disappeared.
Some left without words.
Some talked behind my back, like my sadness was something contagious.
And that kind of leaving — the slow, silent kind — can sometimes hurt more than the original grief.
I used to blame myself.
I asked: Why am I experiencing this pain like this?
Why can’t I just be happy?
Why can’t I just be stronger?
But here’s what I’m slowly learning — grief and love can live together.
It’s not one or the other.
Loving Matthias doesn’t cancel out the sadness of what could have been, the fear of what’s to come, or the loneliness that sneaks in between smiles.
Motherhood, especially special needs motherhood, is full of contradictions.
You can love your child more than life itself — and still grieve the life you imagined.
You can be proud of every tiny milestone — and still ache for more.
You can be strong for your child — and still feel broken inside.
And none of this makes you a bad mother.
If anything, it makes you more human. More real. More deeply connected to what it means to love without limits, even when it hurts.
To the friends who couldn’t stay — I wish them well.
But to the ones who do stay, or the ones I have yet to meet — I know now that they will be the kind of people who can sit in silence without trying to fix it. Who can witness grief and still see the love underneath it.
To the mother reading this who feels alone — please know this:
You are not broken.
You are not failing.
You are carrying a love that is deeper than words, and a strength that may not always feel strong, but still shows up, every single day.
And that is more than enough.
“Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.” — Unknown
Thank you for reading. If this touched your heart, feel free to share it with another mom who needs to hear it. You are never alone.
Everyday with Special Strength 