In the first few months after the accident, I was still in shock. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that she was really gone. Denial acted like a buffer, keeping me from having to feel the full weight of it. It was too much, so I just kept moving, trying not to think too hard.

Honestly, it was a little easier at first because I didn’t see her every day. But when I came home for Christmas break, it hit differently. The guest room was quiet—too quiet. I kept remembering her laughter in that space. And when I looked at the summer work schedule still pinned to my bulletin board, her name was right there like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Then, in January, someone asked about her. It was the first time anyone had since the funeral, and it completely caught me off guard. I broke down hard. I cried more in that moment than I had in months. Everything I had been holding off came rushing in. It was gut-wrenching. But looking back, that was a turning point for me. It wasn’t just a breakdown—it was the start of me finally facing my grief.

Jesus knew that kind of pain. When Lazarus died, Jesus wept—even though He knew resurrection was just moments away. He didn’t rush past the sorrow. He entered into it. That’s meant a lot to me over the years. It reminds me that we don’t serve a God who’s distant from our grief. He’s right there in it with us.

As the years go by, I still think about her often. She should’ve stood next to me as a bridesmaid on my wedding day. I would’ve been there for hers. Now I have a baby girl—a bright, precious little one who would have adored my sweet friend. I imagine them together. I picture her, probably a mom of two by now, laughing at the chaos and joy of it all.

Grief doesn’t go away. It shifts. It sneaks up on you in waves, sometimes when you least expect it. I once heard that your heart grows to make room for grief—it doesn’t shrink. The grief doesn’t get smaller, but your heart gets bigger. And sometimes, that grief still bumps into the walls of your heart, reminding you it’s still there.

There’s no way to make sense of losing someone you love. It’s not fair, and it doesn’t get tied up with a neat little bow. But when you’ve walked through the pain of loss, something changes. You begin to understand other people’s grief in a way you couldn’t before.

You don’t try to fix it. You don’t throw clichés at it. You just show up. And that changes everything.

Before, maybe I would’ve prayed for someone who was grieving. But now? I sit with them in it. I listen differently. I feel differently. There’s a quiet kind of strength that comes from having been there yourself.

That’s why I believe, even in the ache, there’s a small gift inside grief.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.”
2 Corinthians 1:3–5

That passage has anchored me more than once. It reminds me that the comfort God gives isn’t just for me—it’s meant to flow through me. Our pain isn’t wasted. When we’ve walked through suffering, we’re able to walk with others in a way that reflects Christ’s love and presence.

As I continue my journey, I’ve experienced more loss. And each time, something new breaks open in me—a deeper ability to understand, to weep with those who weep, to offer grace in hard places.

While I miss her deeply, I find hope in how God meets me in my grief and allows me to walk with others through theirs. It doesn’t take away the pain, but it gives it purpose, making space in my heart to carry both sorrow and comfort.

And I think again of Jesus at Lazarus’s tomb. He knew resurrection was coming, but He still stopped to weep. He didn’t skip the grief—He joined it. And now, as we walk with others in their pain, we get to do the same. We show up. We sit with them. We cry with them. We offer comfort, not because we have all the answers, but because we’ve been comforted too.

Grief may last, but through it, God grows our hearts to hold both the ache of loss and the compassion of Christ. And in that, there’s a gift worth sharing.