A Decade Without Bo

We’re here again. Another September. Another year.

And yet this one carries a weight unlike the rest.

September 4, 2025, marks ten years since my son, Bo, made his Heavenly departure.

Ten years. A decade. It feels impossible to hold both the vastness of that time and the nearness of his absence.

My body knows this grief like muscle memory. It creeps in with the turning of seasons, the start of school, the crispness in the air. My arms ache for him. My soul feels weary. Our brains never forget. Our physical bodies remember.

I’ve tried to be intentional—staying in my Bible, making space for rest, and honoring the way grief shows up in this season. Right now, that looks like “turtling up.” Curling into quiet. Letting myself fade into the background for a little while. Sometimes, silence feels like relief.

While driving the other night, a memory came to me from long before Bo died—back when my daughter was only a toddler. An old high school friend—we’ll call her Sharon—complained about having uh

to cover at work because her coworker’s child had died and she was honoring his birthday. She rolled her eyes and said, “It’s been ___ years. Get over it!”

I remember feeling stunned. My daughter was so little then, and my heart ached for the mother she was dismissing. I thought Sharon’s words were harsh, but I didn’t yet know the full truth of grief. I do now.

Ten years later, I can say with certainty: you don’t “get over” your child’s death.

The pain doesn’t disappear. It shifts, it changes, it weaves itself into your life—but it never vanishes.

I am grieving. I am mourning. And I miss Bo with every fiber of who I am.

And no, that doesn’t make me a “bad Christian.”

It doesn’t mean I lack faith.

It doesn’t mean I doubt where he is.

It means I am human.

It means I’m a mother.

And it means my son is worth missing.

Grief often feels like carrying around a weary soul. I can be in the middle of doing something normal—laundry, errands, conversations—and the moment I finish, grief is waiting for me. Like a restless toddler, tugging at my arm, demanding my attention.

So I tend to it. Quietly. Patiently. While the world spins on, while tasks pile up, while still life continues.

Because even after a decade, I still love my son. And love, real love, never fades. Ever.

If you find yourself walking this road too, please know—you are not broken for grieving. You are not faithless for missing your child.

You are simply a parent whose love is deeper than words, and whose heart still aches for someone who you want to be here.

Grief may shift and even soften over time, but it is not something to “get over.” It is something we learn to live alongside, with courage, tenderness, and grace.

So today, I give myself permission to feel. To rest. To miss.

And I pray you give yourself that same permission, too.