On the anniversary of losing my daughter, Meghann, I wanted to sit down and write something meaningful for my blog—some words of wisdom or a lesson I've learned since losing her. I wanted to offer hope or insight to anyone walking this painful road.
But when I stared at the blank page, the words simply wouldn't come.
May 24th marked eight years since Meghann was taken from us so suddenly. Eight years. Some people say, "Time heals all wounds." I've heard those words more times than I can count, but I still find myself asking... does it?
Is grief really something that time heals? Or do we simply learn how to carry it?
Because if I'm being honest, I don't believe time has healed the wound of losing my daughter. The ache is still there. I still miss her laugh, her smile, her voice, and the time we were cheated out of. The pain hasn't disappeared. It has simply become a part of who I am.
Maybe time doesn't heal all wounds. Maybe it teaches us how to survive them. Maybe it gives us the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even on the days when our hearts still feel broken. And maybe it gives us the superpower to recognize someone else who needs a little grace.
Eight years later, I still love Meghann just as deeply as I did the day she was born. I still miss her every single day. And I always will.
An unexpected experience or was it meant to be...maybe fate?
What do you think?
Recently, I found myself sitting in an airport. My flight had been canceled the day before, so I was once again waiting to travel home.
As I looked around, I noticed a young blonde woman sitting across from me. She wore sunglasses even though we were inside the airport. She sat with her legs crossed, her head lowered, barely looking up as tears streamed down her face.
I watched the people around her. Some may not have noticed her. Others may have noticed but chose to look away. Everyone seemed consumed by their own schedules, their own phones, and their own lives.
But I couldn't do that.
I couldn't sit there pretending not to see someone who was clearly hurting.
So I picked up my bag, walked over to her, and quietly asked, "I don't mean to intrude on your privacy, but are you okay?"
She slowly looked up at me through her tears and simply said, "No. I lost my best friend. I'm on my way to her funeral."
My heart broke for her.
I sat down beside her, and we talked for a while. Some conversations are meant to stay between the two people who share them, so I won't tell you everything we discussed. But I did share my own story—the story of losing my only child, Meghann.
Grief has a way of recognizing grief.
You don't need to know someone's life story to understand the pain in their eyes.
After we had talked for a while, I asked her what her friend's name was.
"Gillian," she answered.
I smiled gently and introduced myself.
"My name is Jill."
Different spellings. But the same name.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Or maybe it was fate.
I like to believe fate placed us in that airport, in those chairs across from one another, at exactly the right moment. Two strangers whose hearts had both been broken by loss. Two people who understood that grief can make you feel invisible in a room full of people.
For a little while, we shared our tears, our stories, and our hearts.
As I walked away, I realized something.
Sometimes we aren't called to fix someone's pain because we can't.
Sometimes we're simply called to notice it.
To sit beside someone.
To listen.
To cry with them.
I hope this young woman remembers that, on one of the hardest days of her life, a stranger named Jill saw her, sat with her, and reminded her that she didn't have to carry her grief alone.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person isn't advice or answers.
It's simply letting them know they are seen.
Rest in peace, Gill.
