Friendships after Loss

My loss has changed me, and it has changed my friendships.

Before my son died, I knew that my friends cared about me. Afterward, I learned which friendships could also comfort me, make room for my grief, and continue changing with me. I became more aware of the roles my friends play in my life and the different ways they were able to support me.

More than shared experiences or perfect words, I think it comes down to having good people around me. The friends who have been most comforting have not necessarily had a similar story, said the most eloquent thing, or texted me nonstop. They have been the ones who show up steadily, create space, and stay.

Some of my friends have more familiarity with grief because of their professional backgrounds or personal experiences. One of my good friends, who is a social worker, texted me almost every day in the early days of my grief to check in, point out something that made her think of me and Nathan, or tell me that she was thinking of the three of us, not just me and Jordan. She never expected a response, but because of her consistency and care, I often wanted to respond and express my gratitude to her. Our friendship has become so much more meaningful to me.

I have another supportive, kind, and thoughtful friend who I really admire, and we had already been growing closer before Nathan died. Since then, she has become one of the friends I trust most. Through her own experience with loss, she has given me language I now use in my grief: recognizing when my shields are low, checking in on my basic needs, and navigating the crests, flows, and ebbs of grief’s waves.

Every time someone says Nathan’s name, it matters to me. Every message that says, “Nathan is so loved,” or “This reminded me of you and Nathan,” lets me know that he continues to exist beyond our family.

My friendships were special to me before, but they are sacred to me now.

My friends were there in the earliest days, have continued to create space months later, and have reassured us that they will help us remember Nathan because grief lasts as long as love lasts. They follow our lead when we want to talk about him. They let us share how we are feeling without requiring every conversation to be about grief.

Some friends have said they feel as though they know me more fully now. They have watched how I have approached grief, and some have told me that my openness has invited them to become more honest and vulnerable about their own lives, both with me and with other people.

I do not want to attribute that to me. I want to attribute it to Nathan. Through making me his Mom, Nathan has changed the relationships around me. His life has created more honesty, tenderness, and connection among people who love him and love us.

I was only able to be specific with my friends about what I needed, what I was asking for, what would be too much, and why I could not answer their messages because there was already so much trust in our friendships. I did not need to pretend that I could communicate normally.

Some days, I sent essay-length texts while processing my grief through writing. Other days, I could only send an emoji reaction. I have sent my friends emojis like the surfer girl to talk about moving through different waves, exhale faces to show big breaths, and heart hands, lotus, yoga, or dove emojis when trying to channel some peace. Supporting a friend through grief should not require a secret code, but because my friends have been so present, we have developed a shorthand in which sometimes an emoji is enough for them to understand what I mean.

I do not expect or want my friends to drop everything or immediately respond when I reach out. For me, it is more about knowing that I can reach out by text or call, that they will make me laugh, or that they will listen to me cry. I have worried that I am asking too much of my friends during this time, but the trust in our relationships has allowed me to receive their care and accept that care doesn’t always have to move evenly in every season.

For some friends, we use a particular emoji to acknowledge a message when we do not have the emotional or mental capacity to reply fully. A small sign like this helps me feel seen, knowing that whatever I shared has reached someone and been acknowledged, even when neither of us has the capacity for a full conversation.

Having friends in other time zones gave me more coverage during the nights and early mornings. My girlfriend in London would check in if she saw that I messaged when I was supposed to be sleeping; my girlfriend in Toronto did the same. In the early days, I often texted these friends in the middle of my night when grief felt sharp and kept me awake. I am particularly grateful for the hours my girlfriend in Toronto spent exchanging long messages with me about motherhood, checking in on Jordan, and validating what I was experiencing in grief.

Because Jordan and I were open about our experience, my friends told me they felt less awkward or uncertain about how to be there for us.

In the early days, I had trouble turning an open offer into a request, so well-intentioned messages like, “Let me know what I can do” were often left unanswered. I could not assign someone a task, explain my needs, or coordinate the help.

I was always grateful to leave a heart emoji reaction on an “I’m here for you” message, but I am more grateful that I had comfort people mobilizing around me so there was a balance of kindness and practical support.

Friendship after loss has meant telling people what I need and allowing them to take it from there.

I recognize that some friends are better at sharing good times, while other friendships have usually required more initiative from me. Before, I might have been more willing to lead, plan, or carry more of the effort. While grieving, even on a good grief day, I am not always willing or able to manage the logistics required to maintain those friendships.

As a planner and as somebody who enjoys bringing people together and hosting, I have had to allow my grief to change the role I usually play in friendships. There were still people I wanted to see, so I started allowing friends to lead more.

Less than a month after Nathan died, I remember thinking I wanted quiet time alone while Jordan went to play golf, but I changed my mind. I was texting a girlfriend about it, and within a few minutes, she told me that she and her husband were coming over. More than an hour later, after driving through peak rush-hour traffic, they arrived to keep me company, and I had ordered dinner for us. They stayed until Jordan came home, and the evening became so fun and easy that, for a little while, the reason for their spontaneous visit was not at the center of every moment.

One of my first outings happened a few weeks after Nathan died. My ringleader friend hosted after I had let her know that I was willing to see all the girls. I wanted to show them some signs of life and let them see that I was okay enough to be with them. She sent out the group text, and everyone brought their favourite pastries to share. We turned it into a little taste-test get-together, gathering around a table filled with bakery boxes. Everyone listened to me talk about Nathan and how I was coping. After that, we talked about how good it was to be together.

Finding ways to be together again has helped our friendships continue around the grief instead of waiting for it to disappear. Soon after that gathering, I started a new text group that is not overly active, but it helps bring the women together outside of the larger events that include the full group and our partners.

Another girlfriend, a mom who has been feeling deeply with me throughout all the waves of my grief, was celebrating a birthday after Nathan died. There was a part of me that felt like I should be there for her because she has been so there for me, but I knew that my friend would respect and encourage my boundary. I knew that I could not attend a high-energy party with people who did not know about Nathan less than two months after his death, so I didn’t.

One of my closest friends, the ringleader of the texting group that was made up of our friends to keep in touch without burdening us after Nathan died, is someone who always holds space for me and makes me feel safe. Seven weeks after Nathan’s death, she asked whether I felt up to doing something and booked us a cake-decorating activity. She thoughtfully chose something fun and creative while still acknowledging how strange it might feel to spend time somewhere nobody knew what I had been going through.

At the same time, not every friendship changed in a positive way. I recognized early on that some people would not be able to be there for me in the way that I needed. I felt that some people would not have the emotional maturity, experience, or capacity to become a “comfort person” for me. I have been okay with that; I have leaned on other people, allowed some distance, and can return to those friendships later if I want to.

The quiet is noticeable. There were some people who did not reach out consistently or at all, even after a few months, and I had to decide whether to reach out myself to ensure that our connection remained close. I have let go of some friendships.

There were also conversations where people were not aware of how their words might land. Being asked, “How’s it going now?” around three months after Nathan’s death was rough. I did not have a new or improved answer about how I was surviving such a devastating loss.

During a conversation about a living baby, someone asked me, “Is that what you would have done for Nathan?” Questions like that felt inappropriate and left little room for me to respond without feeling hurt.

As I do the work of managing my own grief, I have to make decisions about how much capacity I have to educate others after an insensitive comment. As the bereaved person, I am often left deciding whether I want to put in that work.

Friends around me have questioned whether I should have to do that. Sometimes, I have decided the friendship was worth the effort. Someone could be “not good at grief” and still be a person I wanted in my life. I could recognize what they were unable to offer without erasing the rest of our relationship. In other friendships, I have decided that distance is what I need.

Pregnancy and infant loss did not give me a simple list revealing who my “real friends” were. It showed me that different friendships could carry different parts of my life. I learned that there is emotional labour in deciding how you want to engage with other people when you are grieving. I had to decide what I was willing to accept, repair, or release.

I was also surprised by friends who were no longer part of my closest day-to-day life returning with thoughtful words, checking in consistently, or showing up in ways I had not expected. Some people I had been close to a decade ago reached out and have said some of the kindest and most comforting things.

I did not need to make immediate plans with them or restore every old friendship to what it had once been. It was just nice to know that people were still there. As long as the care felt genuine to both of us, it mattered. Those reconnections were possible because we had let people know what happened and allowed them into our grief. I was grateful that this openness allowed me to revisit relationships while deciding which ones I had the capacity to reopen.

My loss has also brought new people into my life. I now have other bereaved moms in my life who I never would have related to or fully understood before my own experience. Two of the mothers I am closest to were introduced to me through friends who heard me speaking openly about Nathan and wanted to connect us. Not every bereaved mom in my extended friend network who hears about my experience chooses to reach out, and I understand that. But the relationships I have now with bereaved moms have expanded my support system, offering a different kind of recognition, one that requires less translation.

I had always expected our village would be around to raise my baby with me, but after he died, our village has been here to hold and raise us up as bereaved parents.

My loss has made some of my friendships more meaningful and fulfilling, though I wish we had never needed to discover this closeness through tragedy. It has been profound to recognize the depth of our friendships and how much they have been able to hold with us.