Finding validation in shared grief

Yesterday, we met up with friends who lost their 28-year-old son last year. Talking to them made me realize there is an odd way of finding validation in shared grief. I was so unsure about how I felt, but hearing that it’s normal to feel this way gave me a bit of assurance. These days, I can sit for hours trying to watch a show on Netflix or Hulu, only to find myself staring blankly at the screen or watching something else. It’s not that the shows aren't interesting; it’s that I can't concentrate. I feel unable to absorb or process much of anything. This was something we talked about, and it seems like the grief remains intense for a long time. The sense of loss is overwhelming. I can’t find anything that brings me joy or even a momentary sense of relief. Our decision now is to live in Chicago, close to our son. But honestly, does that make me happy? I feel nothing. I am hoping that once we have a bit of a routine, our own place, and maybe a job, I will start feeling emotions again. Will I ever? It's a question I dread to think about. There is also a deep sense of guilt that haunts me. I keep questioning if I did enough for Sana if there was something more I could have done. Watching her slip away in palliative care is an image that will forever be etched in my mind. The helplessness I felt during those moments is something I struggle with every day. It’s a heavy burden to carry, this feeling that I couldn’t save her. Reflecting on our conversation with our friends, I realize that grief is an unpredictable journey. There’s no right or wrong way to navigate it, and each day can bring new challenges. Hearing others share similar experiences somehow provides a small measure of comfort, knowing that I am not alone in this struggle. Yet, it doesn't take away the pain or the longing for things to be different. A desire for change drives our move to Chicago, a hope that being closer to our son might offer some semblance of normalcy. But deep down, I know that no location can fill the void left by our loss. It’s a step we’re taking in the hope that being surrounded by family will help us rebuild our lives, piece by piece. In this new normal, I find myself grappling with a range of emotions—or the lack thereof. The numbness is pervasive, and I wonder if it will ever lift. Will I ever laugh again without feeling a pang of guilt? Will I ever enjoy a meal or a movie without feeling a sense of emptiness? These questions haunt me, but I know I must keep moving forward. There are no easy answers, no quick fixes. It’s about finding small moments of peace and holding onto them. It’s about accepting that some days will be harder than others and that it’s okay to feel whatever I’m feeling. The path ahead is uncertain, but I hold onto the hope that, with time, I will find a way to live with the grief rather than be consumed by it. As we leave Anaheim, it’s a mixed feeling of heaviness and sadness. This place holds so many memories, both joyful and painful. Moving forward feels daunting, but it’s a step we need to take. I hold onto the hope that, eventually, the heaviness will lighten and the sadness will become more bearable. For now, we take it one day at a time, grateful for the support of those who understand and share in our journey.