Grief isn’t a checklist. It isn’t a timeline, and it’s certainly not something anyone else gets to dictate. Losing a child—my son Kingston—has shattered every piece of my existence. The question that haunts me now is “What the fck do I do now?”* It loops endlessly, not just as a passing thought, but as a scream in the silent void that now surrounds me. This isn’t just grief. It’s an all-consuming, earth-shattering silence left in the absence of the life I built around him. And somehow, I am expected to find a way to exist within it.
A Life Intertwined—And Now Unraveled
I never prepared for an “after.” There was no space in my mind to imagine a life beyond being Kingston’s caregiver, protector, and everything. Our world revolved around treatments, appointments, and stolen moments of joy. Caregiving was my purpose. And now, without that rhythm to drive my days, the silence is deafening. Who am I without him? How do I function when the very structure of my identity—fighting for his survival—is gone?
I wake up every morning expecting to hear his voice, to be needed the way I was for so long. Instead, I face a hollow existence where that need, that purpose, no longer exists. The small, mundane tasks that used to fill my day now seem meaningless. The fight for survival that once gave my life meaning is over, and with it, the definition of who I was. What’s left feels like fragments of a shattered identity, pieces that don’t seem to fit into any version of the future.
The Fear of Moving Forward—And the Anger of Expectations
There’s a terrifying fear in moving forward because every step feels like a betrayal of the life I imagined with him. Kingston promised me I’d be okay, that I’d find happiness—but how do I honor that promise when every part of me wants to run, scream, and drown in anything that will numb this unbearable pain?
The pressure from others to “move on” feels like a punch to the gut. Who are these people to decide when it’s “time”? Time for what exactly? Time to pretend everything is okay? Time to paste on a smile so they can feel more comfortable around my grief? These people weren’t in the trenches with me. They didn’t stay awake all night, holding Kingston’s hand, praying for another day. They didn’t witness the pain, the surgeries, the slow fading of his light. Yet, they have the audacity to suggest when it’s time for me to move on?
When people say, “It’s time,” what they really mean is that my grief makes them uncomfortable. They want me to wrap this up neatly with a bow and get back to normal life, as if that life even exists anymore. But this isn’t a movie with a happy ending. It’s not a phase I can just push through. Grief doesn’t come with an expiration date, and anyone expecting me to “check the box” and move on has no idea what this feels like.
Grief Isn’t a Task—It’s Part of Who I Am Now
There is no getting over this. There’s no “fixing” the void Kingston left behind. This loss is woven into every fiber of who I am now. Grief isn’t a task on a to-do list; it’s a transformation. To tell me to move on is to tell me to forget Kingston, to dismiss the love, the pain, and the fight that defined my life. And that’s not going to happen. I refuse to let anyone dictate how I grieve, how I survive, or how I honor Kingston’s memory.
So what the f*ck do I do now? The truth is, I don’t know. I just know that whatever comes next won’t be about “moving on.” That’s not possible. Moving on suggests leaving behind, and there’s no leaving Kingston behind. There’s only learning how to carry him with me, how to integrate his love, his spirit, and his magic into whatever life I create from here.
This is my journey, not theirs. And if it makes people uncomfortable? Too bad. My survival isn’t about their approval. It’s about finding a way to exist within this pain and honoring Kingston in every step I take—even if those steps are small, messy, and nothing like what anyone else expects.
Conclusion: This Is My Life Now
To everyone who thinks it’s their place to tell me when it’s time to move on: go f*ck yourself. I’ll decide when I’m ready to take a step forward. And when I do, it won’t fit neatly into anyone’s expectations of healing. This is not a journey to be judged or rushed. This is survival. It’s not about forgetting; it’s about carrying Kingston with me in a way that’s authentic, raw, and unapologetic.
So, what do I do now? I live—messily, painfully, and on my terms. Not because I’ve moved on, but because Kingston deserves to be carried forward in every breath I take. And that’s something no one else gets to decide for me.