I Thought I Packed My Tears Away

I didn’t expect the tears today.

I was only sitting with my notes, preparing for a webinar for The Compassionate Friends, trying to gather my thoughts in a way that might help another grieving parent feel less alone. I had my pages in front of me, my mind moving through what I wanted to say about grief, permission, memories, and the strange ways sorrow can change over time.

Then there she was.

Ciara.

Not that she is ever far from me. She is part of every day, even the quiet ones. But this was different. A memory opened up, then another. A feeling rose before I had time to tuck it back down. And all at once, I felt that familiar ache behind my eyes.

I thought, almost surprised, “Oh. I might cry.”

There was a time when the tears came easily

In the early days after Ciara died, crying was not something I chose. It just happened.

Tears came in the car. In the shower. In the grocery store aisle when I saw something she would have liked. They came when someone said her name, and sometimes when no one did. They came when I was tired, when I was quiet, when I was trying very hard to be “okay.”

Back then, grief stayed close to the surface. I could feel it under everything. It was in my chest, my throat, my hands. I carried it into every room.

There were days I wondered if I would ever have a normal conversation again without breaking. Days when the world seemed to keep moving in a way that felt almost rude. Days when missing my child took up all the space inside me.

That is part of grief after losing a child that no one can fully explain until you have lived it. It changes the shape of ordinary life.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

Not all at once. Not in a neat way. But the tears didn’t come every day anymore. I could talk about Ciara and smile. I could make it through certain dates with more steadiness than I expected. I could remember a funny moment and feel warmth before pain.

At some point, I began to wonder if maybe I had packed my tears away.

I mistook fewer tears for absence

I don’t think I believed the grief was gone. I know better than that.

But I did start to notice how less often I cried. And somewhere in that noticing, a thought settled in that maybe the tears had been folded up and stored somewhere deep inside me. Like something from another season of my life.

A mother learns to keep living. We make meals. We answer messages. We remember appointments. We show up for family. We laugh again, maybe with tenderness, maybe with guilt at first. Life does not return to what it was, but it does ask us to keep breathing inside what is now.

So when the tears stop coming as often, it can feel confusing.

There can be relief in it. There can also be a small fear.

Does crying less mean I am farther away from her?

Does it mean I have adjusted too much?

Does it mean other people will think I am “better,” even though that word does not fit?

I know the answer in my heart. Crying less does not mean loving less. My love for Ciara has never depended on how wet my face is. It is not measured by the number of times I fall apart.

Still, today reminded me that the heart may know something and still need to hear it again.

Grief changes, but it does not disappear

Years can pass, and grief can feel different. Softer in some places. Sharper in others. Less constant, but still true.

I think that is one of the tender surprises of living with grief. It changes form. It may not knock the wind out of me every morning now, but it can still find me on an ordinary afternoon while I am sorting through notes.

A song can bring it close.

A smell.

A holiday.

A photograph I was not looking for.

A sentence I plan to say to someone else.

These grief triggers are not failures. They are not proof that healing has gone wrong. They are simply places where love and loss still meet.

And when tears come after a long stretch without them, it can feel like being pulled backward. But I don’t think that is what happened today.

I did not go backward.

I remembered.

I missed my daughter.

My body responded before my mind could explain it.

That is grief and tears, still speaking the language they know.

I was teaching permission and needed it myself

The irony did not miss me.

There I was, preparing to talk with other grieving parents about giving themselves permission to grieve. Permission to feel what they feel. Permission to not follow anyone else’s schedule. Permission to speak their child’s name. Permission to have hard days, even years later.

And in the middle of that preparation, I realized I needed to offer that same kindness to myself.

I needed to stop trying to be the steady one for a moment.

I needed to stop turning my own grief into a lesson long enough to let it be mine.

I needed to remember that I am not only someone who talks about child loss. I am Ciara’s mother.

A grieving mother still.

Not every minute in the same way. Not always with the same rawness. But still a mother whose love has nowhere physical to go. Still a mother who sometimes needs to sit still and let the missing be real.

So I let myself pause.

I let the notes wait.

I let Ciara come close.

Crying again is not going backward

There is a strange pressure, even if no one says it out loud, to show signs of progress in grief. To cry less. To function more. To have answers. To be able to talk about our children without tears.

Some days I can say Ciara’s name with a smile that comes easily. Other days, her name catches in my throat. Both are honest. Both belong.

I am learning that tears are not a report card.

They are not proof that I am doing poorly. They are not proof that I am doing well. They are simply one way my love moves through me when it needs somewhere to go.

Maybe this is what time has changed. Not the love. Not the missing. Maybe time has given grief more room to breathe. It does not have to press against my ribs every hour to still be real.

And maybe I have learned to carry Ciara in more ways than tears.

In stories.

In small acts of kindness.

In the way I listen to another bereaved mother.

In the way I notice the sky sometimes and think she would have liked it.

In the way I keep saying her name.

I can make room for the tears when they come

Today, I did not pack the tears away again.

I did not scold myself for feeling them. I did not tell myself I should be further along. I did not try to prove anything to anyone.

I just let the moment be what it was.

A mother missing her daughter.