The Weight of Support

Enduring Loss, Surviving Grief and the Weight of Support

The moment we announced that Kingston would not beat his cancer, the floodgates opened. It was May, and the doctors said he had maybe two weeks—two impossible, heart-wrenching weeks. But Kingston, in true Kingston fashion, defied every medical prediction and gave us two and a half months. Each day, we walked the razor-thin line between hope and despair, knowing time was slipping through our fingers while also dragging unbearably. Every phone call, every text, every knock on the door carried the weight of what was to come—a heavy, unspoken reminder that Kingston’s time with us was running out.

In those days, our home became a gathering place, filled with family, friends, and acquaintances who were trying, in their own ways, to offer love and support. Their presence was everything we needed, but it was also everything that felt overwhelming. I found myself playing hostess, making coffee, passing out snacks, and smiling through exhaustion—appearing grateful even though every breath felt like a battle beneath the crushing weight of grief. I juggled conversations and small talk, all while trying to hold together the pieces of our broken world for Zuma’s sake.

Kingston knew. He always did. He and Zuma carried an understanding that went beyond their years, but many parents weren’t ready to tell their children the truth. That created an unspoken rule within our home: we couldn’t say aloud what was happening. Kingston wanted to say goodbye in his own way—he had carefully chosen gifts for his friends, ready to pass them along. But we held back, forced to navigate the delicate dance of protecting others from a truth they weren’t ready to face. It was as if we lived in two worlds—one where Kingston was still ours, and one where we knew we had to let him go.

During those weeks, I turned to social media, posting raw, unfiltered emotions that probably stung those who had stood by us. But how do you filter grief? How do you explain that, even though their presence meant the world, it also suffocated me? I felt like I was drowning in love—grateful, but gasping for air, wanting to sit in silence with my children or scream into the void.

And yet, even in those unbearable moments, joy found a way in. Friends brought laughter to our home, turning ordinary days into celebrations. They brought balloons, games, and joy into a space that felt like it could never hold happiness again. I didn’t want it, but I needed it. Those fleeting moments of light now feel like lifelines, small beacons of warmth that I cling to in the cold reality of his absence.

Then July 18th arrived. Kingston held on longer than anyone expected, but that afternoon, he slipped away. I held him close, matching my breath to his until all that remained was silence. After that, everything became a blur—vigils, memorials, announcements that moved faster than I could process. I barely remember any of it. I was there, but not really. There were so many things I wanted to do, words I wanted to say, but they slipped away in the whirlwind of grief.

In the days that followed, the love kept pouring in. People surrounded us, keeping us busy, and I leaned into their presence for Zuma’s sake. But now, just three months later, that support has faded. Friends who used to check in have grown silent. The kids who played with Kingston don’t visit anymore. Zuma is lost in her grief, and I can’t let myself fall apart. I work two jobs, volunteer at her school, and act as team mom for her cheer squad—doing everything I couldn’t do before, because what other choice do I have?

It’s unbearably hard. People don’t talk about Kingston unless I bring him up, and I know they’re tired of hearing the same stories over and over. I wish they’d approach me on the street and share their memories of him, even just one small moment. I wish they wouldn’t look at me with pity when they see me dressed and smiling, as if makeup and clothes mean I’m okay. I’m not. A part of me is gone, and even if I searched forever, I know I’ll never get it back.

Returning to work so soon feels impossible. Why do we expect parents who have lost everything to pick up the pieces and carry on as if life can just resume? There’s no system to support grieving parents or siblings. We needed help before Kingston passed, but we need it even more now—and yet, the world has already moved on. Fundraisers for cheer keep happening, but the ones for Kingston have faded. It’s as if his memory is being quietly erased, and I can’t stop it.

I don’t understand why we abandon families once the funeral ends. We expect parents to walk their children to the edge of life and hold them as they take their last breath, but when that moment passes, we ask them to carry on, as if everything hasn’t changed. But everything has changed. How do we not see that?

One day, I want to change this. I want to create something that helps families survive the aftermath—because this part, the part after goodbye, is when we need each other most. Ninety days after holding Kingston as he left this world, I’m still standing, but just barely. I smile, I work, I show up for Zuma. But inside, I am shattered. And I want to scream: I am not okay.

There’s no manual for this. No way to properly thank everyone who stood by us or to express the frustration I feel for how quickly the world moves on. But I hope that, one day, people will understand that the hardest work begins after the loss.

Because Kingston’s story doesn’t end with his death—and neither does ours. We’re still here. And we still need you.