The last time I saw a full rainbow was on April 19, 2018—just minutes before my world was shattered. It was the rainbow before the storm, a fleeting, beautiful promise of color before the darkness descended.
I stood outside my ex-husband’s house, struggling to comprehend the unthinkable: my 19-year-old son, Jordan, was in there—but at the same time, he wasn’t. He was gone. All that remained was the fragile shell of a beautiful, perfect body, a body he no longer wanted to live in. He chose his angelversary. He chose to leave us and graduate to Heaven.
Jordan’s cousin went inside and found him. I couldn’t go in—I simply could not see him that way. All I remember saying aloud, over and over, was, “This is not real. This cannot be real.” I was in shock. My beautiful boy was gone.
How does a parent ever come to terms with that? How can a mother, a father, a sibling—or anyone—accept such a loss? How do you go on when your child is no longer in your life?
The first few days were surreal. The devastation was all-consuming. I felt like I was floating outside my own body, trapped in a nightmare I could not wake from. My child was gone. I would never see him, hear him, or touch him again. The physical reality of it felt like a punch to the chest, leaving me gasping for breath, with pain so deep it spread through every fiber of my being. Who knew a heart could ache this much? I was engulfed in sorrow to the point of nausea, my mind and body wracked by grief.
But life didn’t pause. Decisions had to be made—decisions that would define the way I navigated this unimaginable loss.
I chose no fighting, no blaming. Arguing over the why’s and what if’s would solve nothing. Jordan had made his choice, and nothing would bring him back. My ex-husband and I had both done our best as parents. Now, we had to learn how to be grieving parents, without unnecessary conflict complicating an already devastating time.
I also chose not to take prescription drugs. I wanted to feel the grief, to experience the pain fully, to survive it—not numb it. I allowed myself to cry, to ache, and yes, even to develop headaches and anxiety. For relief, I used herbal remedies instead of medications. I allowed myself to sleep when my body needed it, even in interrupted fragments, knowing rest was essential for my mind, body, and heart.
I chose to get up each day, even when it felt impossible. It may sound simple, but some days, the act of rising from bed was a monumental decision. I chose to live, despite the shadow of loss.
I chose to not let his choice rob me of my own life. I have another son, a husband, step-children, a grandson, a career, family, friends, and dreams still worth living for. In the early hours and days, all of that felt irrelevant—grief numbed me. But I knew that eventually, today and tomorrow would matter, and I had to choose to live for them.
I chose not to wear black. In Greek culture, black is worn for mourning, but I wanted to honor Jordan as his mother, not as a perpetual mourner. At his funeral, I wore color, celebrating his life as I knew he would have wanted.
I chose to return to work, to regain some routine and a sense of normalcy. Yes, financial reasons mattered, but more than that, I needed to occupy my mind and find my new normal. Some days, I couldn’t leave my car; on those days, I gave myself grace.
I chose to honor commitments, even traveling to Kenya for work just two and a half weeks after losing Jordan. It was terrifying to leave the security of home and support, but I knew he would have wanted me to keep moving forward.
I chose to talk about him and to him, to keep his presence alive in our lives. I sought counseling early, acknowledging that my emotional and mental health mattered. I allowed myself to cry, scream, and be vulnerable, letting grief wash over me and release through tears.
I chose to laugh and find joy. Even during the early days of grief, I allowed myself to celebrate birthdays, special occasions, and the moments that remained, knowing happiness didn’t diminish my love or my grief.
I chose to exercise, to run, box, and train, using physical activity to release the anger, hurt, and intense emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. I remember punching a bag until tears streamed down my face—crying and punching, crying and punching—a cathartic release I will never forget.
I chose to communicate with Jordan through a gifted medium, stepping beyond religious and cultural norms to know he was okay. This connection brought me profound peace and healing, confirming that even in death, our bond remained.
I chose to read everything I could about the afterlife and communication with those who have passed, finding comfort in the knowledge that while Jordan wasn’t physically here, he remained present in spirit.
I chose to pay attention to signs, to recognize and celebrate the small, miraculous ways he continued to show his presence. I chose to connect with other grieving parents, finding support, understanding, and guidance in those who had walked this path before me.
I chose not to let grief define me, to allow it to be a part of me without wearing it as a constant shroud. I allowed tears, yes, but I also recognized that I was not weak—I was strong. I chose to remember that I was a good mother, that I loved Jordan unconditionally, and that I had given him the best life I could.
I did not choose to lose my child, but I chose how to live after the loss. Each decision, each small choice, became a lifeline—a way to honor Jordan, to care for my family, and to reclaim my own life.
Today, I hope you can see the rainbow after the storm. After darkness, the sun rises. Even with pain and loss that cannot be fully expressed in words, life can still be beautiful, still worth living. We can honor our angel children through the lives we continue to live, until the day we meet again.
Let us allow them to witness the beauty of life they no longer have on earth, through us—and in doing so, keep their spirit alive in ours.
