As John Lennon might say, joy is “what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” Especially in a grief-shaped life. After losing a child—after losing what you thought your life would be—you struggle and flail against a kind of perpetual undertow. Grief never disappears. It just morphs and changes you. But, over time, if you’re paying attention, you may notice small glimmers of joy floating to the surface, here and there. Unexpected. Fragile. Glistening. Yesterday, I was reaching out to former clients about their writing plans for the year to help build my business pipeline. One of them, Bethany at Precocity, an AI data consulting firm, wrote back warmly. We’d worked together years ago on crafting some case studies and web content. I’d admired her clarity and kindness. Gathering brand intelligence, I clicked on her website. And froze. Her company had moved into the same building as Global Payments, my son Elliot’s employer at the time of his sudden death. I knew that building well. Last year, one of the Global Payments executives contacted me about a tree they had planted in Elliot’s memory—a Weeping Ficus. They had tended it for seven years in his honor. Their office was moving fully remote, so they asked if I wanted to take the commemorative tree. It now lives with my younger son, Ian, and his girlfriend, Taylor, in Austin. Seeing the building’s address again felt like a gentle hug from the past. A living tribute. Elliot was right there. With me. The “Elliot Tree.” I hesitated before replying to Bethany. We hadn’t spoken in years. Our relationship had been essentially transactional and professional. She didn’t know my personal story. But a small voice said: Share it. So, I did. I told her about the building. Global Payments. The tree. The tragic loss of my son. She replied almost immediately: “Thank you for sharing. What a beautiful tree of remembrance. I’m so sorry about your son. Thanks for telling me and reminding me how precious each day is.” That was it. My heart overflowed. Perfect words. No fixing. Just presence. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I typed. In that precious moment, I felt seen, witnessed—not as a “strong woman,” not as a survivor—but as a mother who loves her child and will carry him forever. That was joy. Not happiness. Pure joy. The kind that wafts quietly between the cracks of my broken heart. My life still feels like a contradiction. I am restless most days. I’m lonely, yet crave solitude. Grief has stripped away the layers I once thought protected me. That’s what grief does. Cuts you to the bone. I am raw and vulnerable but more honest—with myself and the world. Less willing to perform. To finesse. To cajole. And, after decades of crisis and caretaking, I am learning to breathe again.
Like Odysseus passing between Scylla and Charybdis, I know that sometimes there are no good options. Only careful steering. And yet, even so, joy peeks through—if I remain attentive to what matters. It appears quietly in emails. In tears. In trees. I know. Elliot mattered. He matters now. And, if I’m willing to notice, joy will find me. You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Friday, 13 February 2026
The Randomness of Joy
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