Category: Shared Grief (Page 1 of 27)

The Purpose of Grief Triggers

May 31, 2026 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

Triggers are a funny thing. Or maybe not so funny. They are hidden; you have no idea when they will appear or how they will appear. But when they do, they throw you back to ground zero and the pain feels like it did in the first moments. It is gut wrenching and something all grievers know, triggers are a lifetime thing. My latest trigger happened on a walk, on a beautiful evening, just as the sun was setting.

I was coming home from my son-in-law’s birthday dinner. The evening had contained some aha moments with how things were changed, and how more change was about to happen. Not so much the coming of years, but more the passing of what used to be our life. As I walked along the path home, I was reflecting on the evening, the conversations held, the delicious meal, the care of putting it together. My thoughts were melancholy, not painful, perhaps a touch remorse, but nothing upsetting. Then I came to the field.

The sun setting in the distance cast a pastel shadow over the field. It was empty. The families, the soccer teams, all gone. It was so quiet. I started thinking about how many times we walked the ‘loop’ of this field. My daughter and I would meet after work to share the woes of our day, counting the steps to reach our goal before going home for dinner. It was the same field that my son-in-law and I would meet to share our collective grief. In those dark days, the field became the joining place when I had no where else to go.

I have walked through this field dozens of times, in every season. That night, the trigger came in the camouflage of a sunset. And it came loud. It emphasized, through its closing of the day, my feelings that this period of my life, the one I just left, was not to be forever. There will be a time where I won’t be in that house as much, if at all. We will move on as life insists we do. And the sunset seemed to cover me in so many thoughts of what I have lost, what I am losing now and what will be lost in the future. And with that, in the middle of the field, I collapsed to ground zero.

When triggers bring ground zero to the forefront, time seems to pause. You can feel the heart crack wider, thoughts speed up with assumptions, what-if’s and if-only. The breath quickens, the tears pour out and somewhere from deep within a sob exits. I stood, alone in the field, wishing for what I know will never be. And as the sun set, I snapped a picture of it, pulled myself up and sent it to my son-in-law with a text that read, “It occurred to me, how I would come to this field upset and you would run from your place to here to be with me. I am now realizing, having got here from your place, the distance it took you to get to the same place that was right beside my home. And when I started remembering how many times you did that for me, I realized how grateful I am for you to have been there.” Whatever is to be, I became aware of the reasons, I feel as I do. Another sunset is coming.

That’s the silver lining with triggers. If we lean into them, if we believe that they come, not to rip us apart, but rather to help us see clearer, triggers can become a learning tool. Or at the very least, we can begin to understand that triggers are not the enemy. They are who best understands and shares our grief.

Receiving Messages from The Universe

May 17, 2026 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

Recently a group of us shared a conversation of the messages we receive from our loved ones, how we know it is them and how we want to increase and strengthen this relation.

We know that we connect better to the Universe if we cultivate mindfulness and pay close attention to our surroundings. We know we should practise meditation to uncover subtle energies and signs. Keeping a journal of experiences can also help recognize patterns and validate perceptions.

The more abstract idea is setting clear intentions, asking for signs or guidance, to receive messages from loved ones, and then trusting your intuition, whether the messages come through dreams, objects, or repeating numbers.

Although all these practices contribute to a higher vibration, I believe the biggest hurdle in receiving messages is distraction. When I am on a quiet walk in the park, I find all sorts of ways Zane is letting me know he is with me. When I am overextended or too busy, signs are missed. That is what happened to me recently.

We had gone out with friends for dinner. At the next table, a gentleman joined his friends. The tables were very close together, so my husband politely said hello, and we introduced each other. His name was Jay and I did not notice he had a camera until he asked to take a picture of our friend.

When he took the picture, I asked, “are you a photographer?” He said, “Yes, I don’t go anywhere without it. I really enjoy street photography”. I told him so did my son. Zane would spend hours asking random people on the street if he could take their picture. Jay said he that he was a rock climber with a passion for mountain shots. I told him of how Zane loved nature shots too. Then he asked what social account my son posted his pictures on.

I took a breath and shared my readers digest version of our fate. He said, “I’m so sorry. I lost my wife two years ago.” We talked about the awkwardness of having to share stories with strangers and how we appreciated the ease of those who ‘get it’. We continued chatting about how photography can be a positive security blanket. It was as if the spirits of his wife and my son connected our tables to share our grief through a conversation about snapping pictures. And suddenly I understood why.

He was sitting next to me, a message from Zane, in human form. A reminder of how photography can help heal. It can connect one to life, speaking through pictures of what the heart cannot describe. Jay was sharing the power of mindful photography, the lessons Zane had learned, the legacy he left. Through my work, the projects we are building to share what Zane and Jay know is all about the power of healing through the lens of a camera. We are close to creating a project that will benefit the masses, but the work has not been easy, and I often feel like I am failing. Listening to Jay, it was a conversation I needed after a hard day at work to remind me I am on the right path. “You got this mama.”

I had almost missed receiving this message being distracted in the company of my good friends. Jay got up to leave. I stood up to give him a hug. “I think my son knows your spirit”, I said, “I’ll be watching for your photos.” He smiled and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Ditto.”

The Strength of Motherhood

May 10, 2026 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

I have a favorite toast I share with my friends who are mothers, “Here’s to strong women, may we know them, may we be them, may we raise them.” I try to live by this empowering quote. This year, the sentiment was loud.

In my clan, I have shared the last year with women who have presented unspeakable strength. Friends who are personally battling poor health and yet still showing up for their family. Still showing up to gather their loved ones around the table, showing up at school concerts and soccer practices. Some of them on crutches and some of them coming from chemo treatment. They show up.

I have some friends who are battling the agony of absent family members. The strength it takes to continue when you can not hold your loved one because death has taken them away. Or addiction has. Or the children who have chosen to disassociate in a desire to heal their own pain. These friends continue to be there, waiting, exploring how they could connect with a child living across the veil or reunite with a distanced child. This path takes the strength of a mother.

I have watched the women we raised, including my own daughter, face adversity and heartbreak with a strength that comes from within. The ability to work, to be present for others, to face another day when the anguish of their heart and mind beg for a reprieve. This is a strength that is part innate and part taught. A strength learned through the lessons of a mother.

I know and bond with the strong women whose support in new challenges and in continuing challenges bring us closer. Challenges of all depths, including terminal illness, divorce, death and the uncertainty of upcoming changes. Together is where strength lies. A place where judgement is not allowed and tears are encouraged. A place where hearts are shared and souls gather to offer hope, peace and when one of us is empty, we are there to share strength.

Strong women are what we are. Strong. Each new day, each new situation that arrives, we meet it with a strength only found in the spirit of a mother. Whether motherhood is taking care of her own children, or her sibling’s children or her child’s children or the children of others…motherhood is a role taken on by those whose passion for care, justice and the welfare of any other living being. In a way, we are all mothers.

If not for the strength of mothers, those who raised us, those who sustain us and those we are raising, where would we be. Motherhood is a gift of grace. A responsibility to God that we are the caretakers of this life and those in it. It is a gift to which strength is essential. And to which we are lucky to have been given.

Mother’s Day is a moment each year to recognize and to celebrate all of this. From my heart to yours, thank you for sharing motherhood with me.

The Friends I Wish I Never Met

May 3, 2026 / Mama Fish

We had met a father in our early grief days who had a quote he would say to the (new) friends he met through group counselling, “you are the friend I wish I had never met.” It is a true statement that I have adopted. I have many girlfriends now who I have met and share a deep bond with because we have one major thing in common. We are grieving mothers.

In 2010, Carlie Dudley, started Grieving Mother’s Day to honor those mothers who have had a child pass. Her own son, Christian, was the motivation behind this, choosing the Sunday before Mother’s Day to honor our role as mothers of angels. Each year, I now celebrate both Sundays. One with my family and earthly children and the other with my grief gals.

This year, six or seven of us will gather at Reader’s Rock Café in Union Cemetery. This peaceful site is scattered with tombstones of loved ones passed and in the centre of it is a heritage house that is filled with the smells of a good coffee and brunch. We will share updates on living with grief, tell stories of Mother’s Days past and after brunch, we will stroll along the paths lined with spring flowers and everything green. We will stop to take turns calling our children from the wind phone.

The wind phone, I have talked about before, is a beautiful tribute to the idea of connecting to your loved ones in Heaven via a rotary phone that you pick up, dial their number, and speak to them. If you are quiet, you will hear their reply. I have called Zane a few times on this phone and each time it hits me harder than anticipated when I dial his old number. I can hear him say, “hey mama, what’s up?” And the conversation begins.

Is it strange I look forward to this morning with my girlfriends? I don’t think so. I see these events as part of my healing. There is a comfort found amongst us that we are not alone. A strength found in the sharing of the pain we all carry and yet continue to move forward. There is joy found in the recognition of our children through the stories of their unique and impactful time on earth.

These are the friends I wish I had never met. And yet, without them, I would be adrift. They are the ones that understand only what can be understood through great loss. They are the ones that say “I know” because they know. They are the ones that truly understand how hard it is to face every day with a heart that is broken. To smile when you are angry. To laugh when you want to cry. They are the ones who feel the same pain. The pain of a grieving mother.

We are all hoping for good weather to enjoy the cemetery grounds. It is a beautiful, serene time shared with the spirits of so many amongst us. There is a strange vibe there, an encompassing energy of the reality that eternity is ours. That our loved ones are not gone. Each time I visit, I leave with a peace inside that we will always be connected. A beautiful feeling, especially on Mother’s Day.

The Blanchard Sisters

April 26, 2026 / Mama Fish

If anyone needs a reprieve from the grief and struggles of everyday life, I suggest you head to the mountains. Pack up your favorite things and leave your phone on airplane mode. The magic of the Rockies, whether an Alberta blue-sky day or a spring snow fall, every moment looks like a Hallmark greeting card. It is magical. I am filled with gratitude that I can enjoy this gift from God so often. This last trip was no exception.

I went with my sister. We spent our days shopping, eating at our favorite spots and talking way past bedtime. She shared with me an e-mail she came across that I had sent her in 2021. I had taken a course about ‘finding your authentic self’. One assignment was to write about family relationships. I had written:

We have a close, immediate family. Although I have a half brother, my sister is my go-to for everything. I am lucky to have her and not sure how I would get through life without her.

Darlene was the younger, prettier, more outgoing sister when we were growing up. I was saddled with housework, chores, school, and my mother’s idea that I was helping her raise Darlene. While I worried, fussed and planned, my sister lived life. She was daring, outgoing and popular. She was confident… She was skinny although we called her the human garburator because of the size of her appetite. She was smart in school and the boys flocked around her. She was asked to be a model in a local talent agency and worked in retail clothing as her school job. She was the package. And I admired her full life.

She was the one who wanted to get married, have a family and live out her days in urban splendor. My father always said he saw me on a farm, packing water to the house and tending to others while my sister would jet-set to New York and other fancy cities because of her work. And yet when my sister was offered a modeling gig in the States, my parents would not let her go. At the end of the day, my sister fell in love with a salesman she met through work and did settle down into a bungalow with two kids and a dog…

My sister’s recollection of her own past was so different from mine. She never saw herself in that light. It was therapeutic rehashing our childhood, the antics and expectations of our parents, our community and ourselves, to be reminded of how and why we were quite different and yet remained so close.

Siblings are a complex relationship; raised under the same roof, there would be similarities, yet the individual differences, the separate dreams and hopes and life experiences shape each of us into something unique. Siblings can share a comfort that is unexplainable. A bond like no other. We become a being of all the events shared during childhood, the good, the bad and the ugly.

When sis left to drive back to her own home, I went for a walk along the mountain path. I thought about our adventures, and I began to cry. Not sad tears, but rather thankful tears that through our soul plan, we chose each other to be siblings. I cried about the challenges we faced together and the laughter we share. And I cried in hope that I will have many, many more years with her. I truly can’t imagine life without her.

…I hold her hand. And she holds mine. And together we walk this life with all it’s hopes and sorrows.

Another Year Around the Sun

April 21, 2026 / Mama Fish

As my sweet niece states each birthday, “I’ve enjoyed another year around the sun.” I packed my bags this morning, in anticipation for my annual birthday trip to the magical mountains. I will be going there with my sister to enjoy not one but several nights where laughter and peace will reign. I am bringing a collection of personal projects that will finally receive my attention. I feel like a kid at Christmas. This will be the start of my 63^rd year. And, as is done each year before the ‘big day’ arrives, I reflect on the past year before I say goodbye to it.

This birthday arrived quietly, steadily-like a bookmark slipped into a well-loved book. I’m still reading the same story, yet somehow everything has changed since the last time I paused on this page.

Birthdays no longer feel like milestones marked in bold, new beginnings, big plans, loud celebrations. Now, they feel more like commas than exclamation points-gentle pauses inviting reflection rather than fanfare. I notice the small things more, the people who consistently show up, the lessons that repeat as they have yet to be learned, the gratitude that grows deeper instead of wider.

This past year did not unfold the way I imagined. Some dreams needed adjusting, others blew up. But new ones appeared-unexpected, resilient, and better suited to who I am wanting to become. I’ve learned that growth isn’t always visible in accomplishments. Sometimes it shows up in awareness, patience, or knowing when to let go.

I’m especially aware of time now. Yes, how fleeting it is but also its inspiration to shape me. Each year leaving its imprint in laughter lines, wisdom through the experience it brought and a greater appreciation for the ordinary. Time seems to be louder now, carrying with it a voice to focus better, to work harder, to adjust my sails as the other side of the shore is closer than before.

Birthdays are about hope; another chance has been given. Another blank slate with the opportunities to listen more closely. To be braver and firmer with boundaries. To celebrate progress without dismissing how far there still is to go.

So today, I’m not wishing for more. I’m wishing for enough. Enough strength to carry me forward, enough courage to face uncertainty, and enough grace, for myself and for others, as I begin yet another trip around the sun.

And that feels like a pretty good way to grow older.

The Season of Renewal

April 5, 2026 / Mama Fish

I like the idea of a re-do. The possibilities of starting over, making it better, stronger than before. I am always encouraged by the Easter holiday to hold tight to a faith that things are not as they appear. That there is new life after a death. That there is a continuation of relations we thought were gone, broken or dismissed. Spring brings with it the seeds of renewal, the sunshine to warm the earth and our hearts. It is filled with promise.

Over the last three months our family has taken a step back to lean into our individual grief. Led by our daughter whose grief exploded with the breakup of her marriage, she chose to walk away from the blatant reminders of the many factors that have caused her angst for years. At first, I was shocked. Then I was angry. As time went on, I came to an acceptance that I want her happy and healthy and thus whatever path she needs to travel to get there, I must be ok with that.

While she nurtured her brokenness and sought serenity, I decided to do the same. For different reasons. Mine centered around needing our family to heal better than we have been with the multiple losses and the trauma within our lives. And in that journey, I have discovered dynamics of our clan that I had not noticed before. I have unveiled my own feelings of the role I play within our family and the gaps between caring too much and not caring enough. What started as therapy to ‘fix the broken’ has become an analysis of my own struggles. But that’s a story for another time.

Recently, she reached out to share with us what is currently going on, the challenges she has been facing and how she is dealing with them. I tried to put the ‘mama bear’ in me aside and just listen. It was hard. No mother wants to hear that their child is hurting and not try to fix it or the very least, give some motherly advice.

As I left the conversation, my heart was filled with gratitude that she felt comfortable enough to share. I was relieved to hear that her strength is upholding. I admired how she was handling adversity. I have always wanted her to find her own path, to move away from past habits of making decisions based on the pressure of should or the need to please. I saw a woman who was becoming her own, whose eyes were open to negativity she would no longer tolerate. And she had this aura about her that was independent. I am sure this transformation is scary. And difficult. Re-dos usually are.

Grief insists that renewal happens. We are not the same. Loss has taken away our expectations of what our present and our future was to be. Thus, searching for ways to live with grief, will change you. Who we become through this process is uncertain. But the symbolism of this season gives merit to how we can transform. With grace, hope and faith that renewal will bring us light and love.

Assuming There Are Blue Skies

March 22, 2026 / Mama Fish

The topic this week, in the care of my counselor, was about assumptions and perceptions and the role they play in our grief. I was sharing with her that friends and family members have told me I am too busy, that I am rushing from one thing to the next. I am frustrated by this because my assumption is that they believe I am not there for them. These thoughts increase my grief as I feel guilty that I am letting others down.

Perceptions are how we see the world. They are molded by one’s own experiences and beliefs. The philosophical example is that the sky is blue. It is on a sunny day. It is black when it is night. It is grey on a cloudy day. The sky is not always blue. The assumption that the sky is blue, is changed by experience.

We have no control over another’s perception. And yet we often make assumptions based on the view of another. I am told I am too busy. That is a perception created by my actions. The suggestion is I should slow down. I hear this but through my own perspective, it changes from slow down, to I’m letting you down. The notion that I am unavailable did not come from them but from my own insecurities of what I want to do, am doing and what I think others want or expect of me.

Grief messes with our perception, the sky is not as blue as before. Our assumptions follow. We assume that people should know what to say to us. We assume our pain is visible. We replace trying to understand and to clarify with internal theories of our needs and wants are not being met. It becomes a dark cyclical way of thinking. Communication breaks down by holding on to a view of what we assume to be true. Assumptions are deceptive.

We can eliminate or change assumptions by adjusting our outlook. If my attitude was to revel in the luck that I can take on so much with a ‘hell yea, I am crazy busy’, then the narrative changes. I am recognizing their perception and squashing any assumptions that this is a negative for me.

Life is a kaleidoscope of never-ending perceptions. Assumptions are based on a combination of the perception, our attitude and the energy we have in that moment. We can alter our assumptions. We can ask for clarification. We can lean in with curiosity of where that came from. We can try to understand another point of view. We can choose to search beyond the clouds for blue skies. We can choose to let go of the assumptions that cause us unnecessary grief.

A Snapshot in Time

March 15, 2026 / Mama Fish

I have had this theory in my work with youth that tattoos are a way of dealing with emotional pain. When Zane passed, I had a tattoo of his writing inked onto my inner forearm. I have had a new tattoo every year since. I have friends who had never considered a tattoo until their child passed. My daughter told me that your body is your canvas, it should tell your story. My canvas speaks of motherhood, life and happy times.

The tattoo of my third year living with grief was a line drawing of Zane, Payton and myself, from a photo of the three of us sitting in Mameo watching the sunset. I wanted this tattoo because it reminded me of the beautiful, peaceful summers my mother introduced us to. Quiet times of sunny days playing in the water or digging holes in the sand. Conversations of dreams and possibilities, where art, writing and photography filled the day. After mom passed, my sister and I continued going, taking the kids until they became old enough that interest was scattered and we stopped. My tattoo was my honoring those times. But something was amiss.

Since the original tattoo, I have asked for modifications and have never been satisfied with it. Then a friend suggested asking AI what I should do. I laughed but thought I had nothing to lose. AI suggested adding flowers. I then went on a search to find a tattoo artist whose expertise was of such and found Sabrina.

Sabrina suggested adding flowers and adding other components of the original photo and redoing the figures in black. Redoing??? It would take about two hours. Two hours??? She saw the look on my face. “We could do it in two sessions.” I booked with that idea, paid my deposit and prayed that night that this was the answer to my woes of this unfinished tattoo.

When I arrived on the day of my appointment, I had yet to see her vision of what she wanted to do. I was very nervous. Her sketch had the cloud lines added, more depth to the characters, a tiny sun and flowers, roses for Zane, sunflowers for Payton, and a peony for mom.

The tattoo did take two hours, and we finished it in one sitting. My arm is red, sore, puffy and bruised. It will take a couple weeks to heal. I am comfortable with all of that because it is the tattoo I wanted. I will now have a snapshot of one of my most favorite summers as a mother inked to forever remind me of that very special era.

I am living proof of my theory related to ‘inking’ when in pain, it’s not just for youth. I think that is why when we are grieving, the pain of the needle is bearable. It does not compare to the pain our heart feels. It is a distracting numbness that when completed shows a picture or a quote of love, of remembrance or a message of hope. It is a way of sharing our stories. My daughter was right; my body is becoming a canvas of my life history that reveals moments of my journey that I choose to hold tight to.

This Is It

March 8, 2026 / Mama Fish

I quietly honored my brother-in-law this week. It has been four years since he left for the other realm. I sent my sister a text letting her know I was thinking of her and how very fast the time goes. And yet it doesn’t. It feels like I have missed him forever and yet the conversations at his bedside seem like yesterday.

It was a quiet afternoon, my sister was on her way to the hospital, I was there with Dan. All of us were aware that his passing was soon to be. I was holding his hand as he drifted in and out of sleep. At one point, he opened his eyes and turned to me. I squeezed his hand and he said, “well I guess this is it.” I replied, “yes, it is. Any final thoughts?” He paused, closed his eyes and then opened them, “I wish I had travelled more.”

Interesting what our last desires may be. He had travelled to sunny holiday destinations, to small northern Alberta towns, to beautiful forest campgrounds. He had travelled more than most. And yet travel seemed lacking in his life review. I wish I had pursued that with him, but the energy and the timing wasn’t available.

I did reassure him that his travels would continue. That soon, he would be body-free to go anywhere in the Universe of his choosing. That we would honor him on earth, taking his ashes with us as we travel to new places. He smiled at that idea, the concept that he would continue to be with us.

Thus, he has gone on short trips to favorite spots. He has gone to Mexico, Vegas and as far as Iceland and Ireland last year. There are plans for him to visit Scotland soon. It is our way of honoring his last wishes. All these adventures have happened in the short span of four years.

When the date of his death came around this year, I had to recount to ensure it was four. Because of how much has happened, because of the vast changes since, how is it possible all that happened in such a short span. It felt heavy on me. Special occasions are like time nudging you. A teasing reminder of what was, a snide ‘what you going to do about it’ poke.

His comment, “…I guess this is it”, has never left my mind.

The anniversaries time carries within it gives permission to rewrite how we live each day. These dates are the catalyst to self-reviews, of where we are at, what we want to do more of with the unknown time we have left. It is also an opportunity to review how we remember our loved ones, what could we do new or more of or what might we stop.

Time does fly. But it also lingers. In quiet moments, it slows down just enough that we can hear the desires of our heart. In thought, or in conversation, time gives us pauses to understand. And that understanding can bring action or acceptance or forgiveness. At the very least, it brings us ideas for how we can flourish before the inevitable arrival of our own “this is it.”