Turning Unbearable Grief into Living Influence
From Grief to Grace: How Loss Became the Foundation for Healing Others
The Box
The box is oblong, deep, and brown,
A wooden weight that holds me down.
Beside it sits a crystal frame,
A picture with a beloved name.
He stares at me beyond the glass—
Why did the lovely moments pass?
The top and sides are smooth to touch,
The grain I've traced and love so much.
My fingers feel the wood is cool,
In grief's hard, heavy school.
The rim is rough against my skin,
Holding the beauty locked within.
The days go by, the box is still,
Set in its place upon the sill.
It says no words, it makes no sound,
Yet speaks with silence so profound.
It holds a secret, dark and deep,
While I am left to watch and weep:
The secret of my darling boy,
My only vibrant heart and joy.
My mind struggles nightly to understand
How he fits within this small carved stand—
Just ashes now within the wood.
I'd bring him back if I only could.
I talk to him so I'm not alone,
Into the silence and the stone.
I light a candle for his sake,
To heal the heart that's bound to break.
The golden light begins to glow,
Carrying prayers he has to know;
The candle kindles hope for me,
As far as tired eyes can see.
I do it every night the same—
Whispered love by flickering flame:
"I love you, son," I softly say
To the brown box where his ashes stay.
I stare at the shelf where he has been,
And the box just quietly stares back.
The Article
I know that there is heavy silence because I lived inside of it for years.
In 2003, my world shattered when a hit-and-run driver took my fifteen-year-old son, Michael. For a long time afterward, my entire existence shrank to that small, oblong wooden urn sitting on a shelf, flanked by a porcelain angel. I spent years whispering "I love you" into the stillness, lighting a single candle each night to spark a flicker of hope in the suffocating dark. I carried a physical brick of grief into every room I entered.
Yet through the deepest valleys, I held onto God. I discovered that even at the bottom of the deepest well, a thread of faith still anchors the soul. One evening, I dared to ask God for what felt impossible: I asked to see the man Michael would have become—to glimpse the earthly years stolen from us.
In the quiet mystery of a dream, He answered. I saw Michael—not frozen as the teenager I lost, but standing whole, vivid, tall, and complete. That dream was my permission to breathe again. It was the sacred turning point where I realized that while his earthly ashes rested in a box, his spirit was boundless and safe in eternity.
With that weight lifted, a new life began to take root.
My surviving son, Jacob, believed in what I still had to give to the world—so much so that he acted and enrolled me in college when I was in my late fifties. Society often treats influence as something reserved for the young, the viral, and the digital. But there is a richer, quieter influence that cannot be rushed—it is forged only when you have lived through a waterfall of time, hardship, and survival.
In 2017, at nearly sixty years old, I stepped across the commencement stage, graduated with honors, and entered a new career as a social worker.
To an outside observer, it might have looked like a late start. What they didn't see was the crucible that brought me there: following Michael's passing, I endured the loss of my sister, both of my parents, an aunt, and two of my closest friends. But I also brought a hard-won triumph to my work: this coming January marks fifteen years clean and sober.
My path in social work led me from residential programs for pregnant teenagers to frontline street outreach for substance use, and ultimately to Adoption Solutions of Arizona. Every valley, every loss, and every hard-earned victory became the exact foundation I needed for the women I serve today.
When expectant mothers and women facing crisis walk through our doors—many carrying active battles with addiction or the weight of homelessness—they notice my degrees, my professional title, and the silver hair that I proudly dye purple. But degrees alone don't build trust, and professionalism alone doesn't heal trauma.
Women instinctively feel at ease in my presence, sensing a deep-seated honesty that resonates with their own vulnerabilities. They recognize that they are facing someone who offers a non-judgmental ear—someone capable of staying fully present, allowing them to express their pain without inhibition. When I take the step to open up about my own journey, they begin to see that I do not occupy a distant, elevated position behind a desk; instead, I stand alongside them, having navigated the very struggles they endure. I have waded through the murky waters of hardship they are currently battling, and I intend to help them find a genuine path forward. As this connection forms, the atmosphere in the room shifts from cautious defensiveness to a deep sense of relief, as if the burden of their worries is momentarily lifted and replaced with a sacred space of understanding and hope.
"I see you. I have sat where you are sitting, and I know there is hope on the other side."
True influence is never about exerting authority over someone. It is about being an honest, compassionate mirror that reflects their worth, resilience, and future.
Seeing Possibility in Every Woman
To the families who open their hearts and homes, to the colleagues who share in this vital work, and to the courageous birth mothers I have the honor to support every day, I want to express my deeply held belief: God still performs miracles in our midst. These miracles are not just stories from ancient texts to be read and forgotten; they are living, breathing realities that intertwine with our lives every single day.
Each week at Adoption Solutions, I have the privilege of witnessing profound transformations—where God gently mends shattered spirits, strengthens resilient families being built, and answers urgent prayers in ways only He knows how to arrange. There are moments filled with hope when a child finds a forever home, or a birth mother feels the weight of her decision lift, knowing she has made a choice born of profound love.
Birth mothers navigate a challenging journey, often feeling isolated and fearful after the adoption process. They need support and guidance during this pivotal time. By connecting with compassionate individuals who understand their experiences, they can find empowerment and reassurance, reinforcing that they are not alone in their journey and can forge a positive path forward. When I sit across from a woman who feels overwhelmed by her circumstances, my own past—the hard-fought battles, the grief, and the road to recovery—shapes how I see her. I don't see someone defined by her darkest season; I see a mirror of what is possible when grace takes hold.
That belief inspired these lines:
Time Sees
Your past is a whisper; It doesn't decide The boundless horizon Where your dreams reside.
Influence is the power to be a mirror Of someone else's possibilities.
When I look at a woman lost In the ocean's currents of addiction, I don't see a lost cause, Nor just a girl hiding pain behind a smile.
I see a woman of wisdom, Of strength, and of grace. Her journey carries the battles she has won, The grief she has held, and the work she has done—
Waiting to be found again, Believing in what she can become. Like me, rough and jagged edges Softened into a smooth, steady line of grace.
As I step into the office each morning, I carry with me a deep sense of purpose and victory. It reassures me that nothing is ever wasted in God's plan, and nothing is irretrievably lost when we entrust our journeys into His care. If you are at a pivotal point in your life—perhaps starting over at sixty after significant loss, or fighting valiantly against the odds for your very first day free from addiction—I want you to hear this truth: time is not merely a thief that takes away; rather, it is a purposeful force that refines and shapes us into who we are meant to become.
Behind this vibrant purple hair is a woman who has faced the complexities of grief, the challenges of aging, and the struggles of addiction, yet has chosen not to let those experiences dictate her identity or her future.
When we choose to persevere and extend a loving, nonjudgmental hand to help another woman find her way, we take one of the most impactful actions we can. Every encouraging word, every moment of patience, and every act of understanding can become a lifeline.
Refusing to quit—to carry on with grace, win a battle once again, and have the courage to look in the mirror and face the world.
