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I was 23 years old when I lost my dad suddenly to an aortic aneurysm. He was 56.

It was quick. It was a shock. I was frozen in time. My life changed forever. And now 18 years later, I can remember feeling like I was living an out of body experience – I was doing, but I wasn’t really there…

My dad died on a Monday and by that Friday evening, all of the visitation and funeral pieces were done and that feeling of ‘now what?’ was heavy. But there wasn’t a pause – I had a wedding to stand up in the very next day. And I had a wedding to stand up in the following weekend. And another wedding to go to the weekend after that. The days in between those weddings were blurry – my eyes were tired from crying, my heart was broken, I was lost and going through the motions. Somehow I was able to make my face smile for pictures, but my heart certainly didn’t feel those smiles – I look back now and wish I could have found the joy amongst my sorrow. But I couldn’t.

After those 3 weeks of weddings and pushing through, I realized I was about to spiral. And I did. What followed was a few more weeks off of work (what a blessing that was), an unnecessary amount of retail therapy, a series of bad choices and a numbness that just wouldn’t go away. At this point in my life I wasn’t very mature in my faith and when I should have leaned on Jesus, I leaned on the world. And the world let me down. I eventually worked myself out of the grief pit and slowly settled into the new normal. I had learned to carve out space for myself and accepted that grief was a journey so forcing myself to be OK wasn’t the right pursuit.

I learned to embrace joy amongst the sorrow and ache of my heart as the only path forward… and life went on.

Fast forward 8 years and I’m just about to embark on marriage, (step)motherhood and start the life of my dreams only to get a phone call that jolted me off of my axis again – my stepdad had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s – he was 59.

The grief that strapped itself to my back in that moment was so heavy. I’ll never forget sitting on the steps in my house, gasping and crying on the phone with him. Another moment where you stop, but the world keeps spinning.

If you’ve ever experienced dementia or Alzheimer’s with someone, you know that it truly is the longest goodbye. There is a constant cloud of wondering if each moment will be the last that he remembers. You grieve the joyous occasions because you know with certainty they will soon be gone. This disease is a waiting game like nothing else I’ve experienced. You know what’s coming, but you don’t know when. But you know it’s soon. Ugh!

Within the 10 years that he had Alzheimer’s, I was blessed to have lots of time with him – through being a stay at home mom, followed by COVID, followed by returning to work in a part time capacity, there was extra space to visit. But as the disease progressed, the grief became palpable and finding joy amongst the sorrow became a very intentional exercise – because if I didn’t discipline myself to find the joy in the littlest things, this journey would have destroyed me…. and then the reality of motherhood stops you, shifts your focus and requires a whole new level of intention.

You see, when I lost my dad at 23 I was single, no kids, had my own house and was responsible only to myself. I need only worry about others if I wanted to. I didn’t have to get out of bed if I didn’t want to. I didn’t have to answer to anyone. I felt like I only needed to worry about my feelings and my reality. Everyone else who was grieving my dad could handle it on their own as well…

This time around is a much different story.

In some ways I am grateful for the motherhood component because it has forced me to slow down and focus on compassion and joy. I believe that because I was a mother witnessing this journey, I was so much more intentional about creating moments for my kids to still enjoy their grandpa- I found ways to focus on the positive. And that is a blessing that came along with this otherwise devastating and unfair disease.

While the above is absolutely true, so is the reality that motherhood brings many new layers to the grieving process – because I can’t really explain the amount of grief I have felt for my kids along this journey. Feeling so sad for them that they won’t get the best of their grandpa. That they too will be sad and grieve. That they won’t understand when he forgets who they are and what that will feel like for their hearts. The pressure to present myself as ‘OK’ so they won’t hurt because I hurt. The tug of war in my head about whether or not to take them to visit at the nursing home – to let them say goodbye. To plop them into a bucket of tears. To see their mom crumble in sadness.

Motherhood doesn’t allow me the space to grieve how I want to… or how I did at 23.

Just over a month ago, my stepdad passed away and I was quicky reminded how hard this grieving process was going to be… how very different than it was 18 years ago.

The 5 days before he passed, my youngest (6) had the stomach flu and only wanted her mommy. But I desperately needed to be at the nursing home, by his side. The tension was tight. I couldn’t be in two places at once. So I juggled. And for 2 days I lied to my daughter about where I was going – because how do I tell my littlest who is already feeling miserable with the flu that I have to go see Grandpa because he’s going to die soon?

Ugh! There was no pleasant path to take here.

2 days before he passed, my husband had to get on a plane to London for work, the next day was my birthday and I knew I’d have to navigate this death on my own for a few days until my husband got back.

I spent my birthday at the nursing home in what was a very long and emotional day. I went straight there after school drop-off and stayed until I had to pick up the youngest from school. And I had to pretend I was OK – because there wasn’t any space for me to curl up in bed and cry. I had to be a mom.

Early the next morning I was woken up by a text message that he passed. With my daughter sleeping in bed next to me, I wept and wept. I had from 3:45am – 6:30am to cry, call my husband in London and get myself together. Why? because I needed the kids to go to school and I wasn’t going to send them off with this news.

So we woke as if nothing had happened, got off to school and I had the rest of the day to myself to cry and think about how I was going to tell my kids.

Telling my kids this news was awful. I felt like I had to pause my grief to help them get through theirs in the moment. Where I found the strength for that only Jesus knows. But then you hurt all over again because you see pain on the face of your children. You hear their cries and see their tears and it rips your heart right out. And you think to yourself “this is crazy and I cannot do this”.

But guess what? The world kept spinning – and the calendar still had lots of tasks, events, and reminders on it. School parties, Valentines to fill out and pass out, school spirit days, family in town to visit, mid-winter break, cheerleading competitions, school dance, our oldest daughter’s birthday, my uncle’s funeral, my father-in-law’s birthday, my younger brother’s birthday, back to work… there were so many things that I as the mom/wife had to show up for. There was no pause button. Nothing stopped.

Here is the hardest part of all of that – at no point in the last 6 weeks have I been anywhere near the best version of myself. I have not been able to find the space and grace to grieve how I think I want to. I have been tired, irritated, impatient, sad and most of all overwhelmed. And I’ve had to accept that I have fallen short. I hate that.

You’re probably wondering if I have anyone around to help and the answer is yes, I do. My husband is here. Family is around. Friends have leaned in. But I have yet to meet anyone who can give me a break from the mental load of motherhood. While I might be able to escape the tasks for a bit, no one else can bare the emotional weight of motherhood – and I don’t think anyone should.

It’s just the beautiful mess of it. I want to feel for my kids. I want my heart to break when theirs does. I want to show up for them. I want them to do all the things on the calendar so they can be reminded that joy exists among the sorrows of life. That’s important.

And it hurts.

And it feels like too much.

And I want some space.

And I want to run away (for a few hours).

And I want to be in the stands.

And I want to be the library volunteer at school.

And I want to stay in bed all day.

And I want to help pick out the outfit for the winter dance at school.

And I want to answer the hard questions about death.

And I want to have someone else take the emotional load (for just a minute).

Grief and motherhood is agonizing and beautiful.

It’s a deeply human experience – it’s humbling.

Many times over the last 13 years I have said- “You won’t survive motherhood (parenthood) without Jesus and a little bit of humor.”

And it turns out you can’t survive grief without those things either.

I’m learning right now that grieving my parents while being a mother and grieving alongside my kids is a beautifully vulnerable process that can bring Jesus into focus in ways that other life events cannot.

We feel because we love.

We grieve because we love.

We surrender to Jesus because we cannot do these hard things on our own.

We meet each other (and Jesus) where we are at.

We love because he first loved us.

Motherhood has changed grief for me.

Motherhood has changed who Jesus is in my life.

And Jesus changes everything.

I’ll get through this just like I have before – and joy will overcome the sorrow eventually – but right now I’m in it. Fully submerged in the deep waters of grief.

Except this time, I know to reach up for the hand that can pull me out of it.

**If you’re looking for resources on Alzheimer’s and dealing with diagnosis or caregiving, check these out**

1. Alzheimer’s Association | Alzheimer’s Disease & Dementia Help
2. Hope for Caregivers
3. Learning to Speak Alzheimers
4. Barto’s Favorite Bible

Some of the above resources are affiliate links and may earn Barto a small commission on your purchase.