The Hidden Weight

After our daughter Alana passed away 12 years ago, there were simply some places I couldn't go.

One of those places was the nail salon.

It was one of the last places I visited while pregnant with her. After she died, walking back through those doors felt impossible. What had once been a routine appointment now carried memories that were too painful to revisit.

So I simply stopped going.

Years later, my husband gave me a gift card to a local nail salon for Christmas. I remember him commenting that it had been a long time since I had gotten my nails done and that he wanted me to do something for myself.

What he may not have fully realized at the time was why it had been so long.

Somewhere along the way, grief had taken more than I realized. Not just the big things, but the small things too. The routines that once brought joy. The simple acts of self-care. The intentional moments set aside just for me.

That gift card became more than a gift.

It was a gentle reminder that it was okay to take care of myself again.

I made an appointment at the nail salon near our house. Over time that place became much more than somewhere to get my nails done. It became a place to pause. A place to breathe. A place to recharge. A place where, for an hour or so, I could simply take care of myself.

The owners and staff became like family, and for the last five or six years I've faithfully returned every few weeks.

A few weeks ago, the owners reached out to me with some unexpected news.

Due to operational issues with their building, they were being forced to leave their location. At the time, they had not yet secured a new space and weren't sure exactly when they would be able to reopen their doors.

There was a lot of uncertainty about what came next.

What struck me, though, was that in the middle of navigating all of that themselves, they were thinking about their customers.

Knowing I was due to have my nails done, they reached out and offered me a last-minute appointment before they closed.

When I arrived, boxes were being packed, decorations were coming down, and the reality of the situation was beginning to set in. As I sat in the chair, I couldn't help but think about everything they were carrying. The stress. The uncertainty. The unanswered questions.

Yet they still made time for me.

My appointment ran later than most, and by the time I finished, everyone else was gone.

As I gathered my things and prepared to leave, they were packing boxes, unplugging equipment, and beginning the process of removing the pedicure chairs.

That's when it hit me.

Without anyone ever saying it, I realized I was likely the last customer to walk through those doors before they closed that chapter of their business.

I stood there for a moment taking it all in.

The end of a chapter for them.

And unexpectedly, the end of a chapter for me, too.

As I drove home, I found myself emotional.

The more I reflected on it, the more I realized it wasn't really about the salon.

It was about what the salon represented.

This was the place that helped me reclaim something grief had taken from me.

It represented healing.

It represented self-care.

It represented a season of learning how to care for myself again after one of the hardest experiences of my life.

And suddenly, a chapter was ending.

That experience has stayed with me because lately, grief seems to be everywhere.

Over the past several weeks, a close family member received a terminal diagnosis.

A dear friend is experiencing so many of the firsts without her mom—Mother's Day, birthdays, family gatherings, and all of the moments in between.

Another close friend is learning how to navigate life without his wife, who was also a dear friend of mine. The holidays, special occasions, and even ordinary days look different now.

Grief has a way of showing up in all of it.

We've experienced a death in our extended family.

And if I'm honest, I've felt it myself lately too.

There have been so many exciting things happening in my life recently. Moments I wish I could share with my Granny.

She wasn't just my grandmother. She was one of my best friends.

I wish she could see the boys and how much they've grown. I wish she could hear the stories, celebrate the milestones, and be part of the conversations we've had over the last several months.

There are moments when I find myself wanting to pick up the phone and tell her about something exciting that happened or something one of the boys said.

Recently, I even found myself calling her phone because I wanted to hear her voice.

Only to discover that her voicemail was full.

I couldn't even listen to her voicemail greeting.

And for some reason, that hit me harder than I expected.

Because grief has a way of showing up in moments like that.

Not always in the big moments.

Sometimes in the quiet moments.

The moments when you wish someone was here to celebrate with you.

The moments when you want to hear their voice one more time.

The moments when you're reminded how much space they still occupy in your heart.

And even after all these years, I still miss her.

Different stories.

Different circumstances.

Different losses.

Yet grief is present in all of them.

In recent months, we've been connected with several families through our non-profit organization, The Alana Marie Project, who were navigating the heartbreaking reality of planning a burial or funeral for their baby.

As a parent, it's hard to even comprehend.

Maybe those conversations have stayed with me because I remember facing those decisions myself after Alana died.

For our family, we chose not to have a funeral.

At the time, we were still very much in shock. The loss was so fresh, and the thought of planning a funeral felt overwhelming. We weren't ready for a designated day of visitation, services, and saying goodbye. We simply wanted the space to grieve on our own terms and in our own time.

We chose cremation instead.

Looking back, I'm sure the financial aspect played a role as well.

Even with that decision, there were unexpected expenses. We still had to pay for the cremation and an urn—costs we had never planned for and certainly never expected to face.

Thankfully, friends and family came alongside us and helped carry some of that financial burden.

But I still remember the stress.

I remember the feeling of being heartbroken while also trying to figure out how to pay for something that wasn't optional.

Even though cremation was the right choice for our family, I can't imagine being in a position where I felt forced to choose one option over another because of finances.

No family should have to make decisions about how they honor, remember, or say goodbye to their baby based solely on what they can afford.

Not in the middle of their grief.

Not in the middle of their heartbreak.

Not while trying to navigate one of the most difficult experiences of their lives.

That reality came back into focus recently.

Over the span of about four weeks, three different families from various states across the country reached out to The Alana Marie Project seeking help with funeral and burial expenses for their babies.

Each call carried its own story.

Each family carried its own heartbreak.

And each request came from a place of deep need and desperation.

I am incredibly grateful that because of the generosity of our supporters, we were able to say yes and provide financial assistance to each of those families during one of the most difficult seasons of their lives.

That's why this past weekend's annual golf outing & dinner fundraiser for The Alana Marie Project was so important to us.

Beyond the golf, the silent auction donations, and the fundraising, it was about ensuring we can continue showing up for families when those calls come.

Because unfortunately, the need is real.

And behind every request is a family carrying a burden most people around them may never fully understand.

When most people hear the word grief, they think about death. And certainly, grief can come from losing someone we love. But I've come to realize grief is often much broader than that.

Sometimes we grieve a baby we never got to bring home.

Sometimes we grieve a future we thought was certain.

Sometimes we grieve a diagnosis that changes everything.

Sometimes we grieve a relationship, a dream, or a season of life that came to an end.

Sometimes we grieve the life we thought we were going to have.

Sometimes we grieve a chapter that closes before we're ready.

Sometimes we grieve not because something ended, but because it mattered.

And the deeper the love, the deeper the loss. The deeper the meaning, the deeper the grief.

The truth is that grief is often the painful recognition that something meaningful has changed.

Maybe that's why this experience has lingered with me.

As I watched that salon pack up boxes, I couldn't help but think about how little we truly know about what people are carrying.

Years ago, the staff had no idea they were creating a safe space for a grieving mom who was learning how to take care of herself again.

And as I sat in that chair on their final day, I had no idea of all the emotions, worries, and uncertainty they were carrying as they prepared for what came next.

We pass people every day without knowing their stories.

The cashier at the grocery store.

The coworker sitting across the table.

The family sitting a few rows away at church.

The person smiling in the hallway.

The business owner navigating uncertainty.

The caregiver.

The grieving parent.

The friend quietly carrying heartbreak.

We see a moment.

God sees the whole story.

So maybe the lesson for all of us is simple.

Be kinder than necessary.

Be slower to judge.

Be quicker to listen.

Offer grace freely.

Check on your people.

Pray for those who come to mind.

And remember that the person standing in front of you may be fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Because grief doesn't always announce itself.

Sometimes it hides behind a smile, a conversation, a milestone, or even a simple manicure.

And some of the heaviest burdens are the ones we cannot see.

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P.S. The Alana Marie Project was born from our own experience of loss and a desire to help other families facing the unimaginable. If you'd like to learn more visit HERE.