This episode of Always Andy's Mom is a replay of a Christmas Memories Livestream—created as a place of reflection, remembrance, and gentle presence during the holiday season.

In this episode, Gwen and I read Christmas memories shared by parents from around the world within the Always Andy's Mom community. These stories speak to the deep love that remains after loss and the complicated emotions that often surface during Christmas—joy intertwined with longing, tradition mingled with grief.

Together, we paused often. We spoke children's names. We honored moments both ordinary and sacred: gifts unwrapped, traditions remembered, laughter recalled, and absences deeply felt. This is not an episode about fixing grief or finding silver linings, but about allowing memory and love to coexist with sorrow.

Christmas after loss is rarely simple. This episode offers a place to slow down, to breathe, and to remember that grief is not something to overcome, but love continuing to move through our lives.

As always, the episode closes with Andy's voice—a steady reminder that love endures.

In this episode of the Always Andy's Mom Podcast, host Marie Crews speaks with Lisa Oris, founder of Grief Guide, about why grief is not linear and why loss cannot be reduced to stages, stories, or a tidy "journey."

Lisa shares a powerful metaphor for grief — how loss "blows up the dresser," leaving emotions scattered and overlapping rather than neatly contained. Together, they explore the harm caused by cultural expectations to be strong, move on, or turn grief into a success story.

This episode is for bereaved parents and grieving mothers who feel overwhelmed, unfinished, or exhausted by the pressure to heal correctly. It offers permission to grieve honestly, without apology or timelines.

Today's conversation with Drew's Momma, Melissa, is one that lingers long after the episode ends. She lost her vibrant, adventurous son Drew twenty-five years ago, and in the decades since, she has come to understand her relationship with grief in a way that feels both gentle and profoundly true.

She says grief has not been a journey for her.
Not something linear.
Not something with a clear beginning or an end.

Instead, grief has become a dance.

A dance that ebbs and flows.
A dance with rhythms she didn't recognize at first.
A dance that asks us to draw close, then step back, then learn to move in ways we never imagined we could.

In the early years, Melissa's dance was filled with the familiar weight of guilt and blame that so many grieving parents carry. But slowly—through connection with other bereaved moms, through grace, through honesty, and through allowing herself to sit with the pain—she found a new rhythm. Not a rhythm of "moving on," but a rhythm of moving with. Bringing Drew with her. Letting his love rise up and shape her life in unexpected, meaningful ways.

Twenty-five years later, she says she still feels Drew's presence as vibrantly as ever. The love never faded. The bond never broke. The dance simply changed.

Her new book, Dear Drew: Creating a Life Bigger Than Grief, captures this transformation beautifully. It honors Drew, honors grief, and honors the possibility of a life expanded—not in spite of our losses, but alongside them.

For anyone in the early days of breath-stealing grief, she gently reminds you: you won't always feel the way you feel today. You learn the steps slowly. You borrow strength from others who are a bit ahead of you. And over time—one breath, one moment, one tiny step at a time—your body remembers that love still lives here, too.

Grief is not something to conquer.
It is something to move with.
And you are allowed to find your own rhythm.

When Mika's 13-year-old son, Pike, was diagnosed with leukemia, she was devastated — but not in the way most people might imagine. Only a year earlier, Mika herself had been diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of lymphoma. After rounds of chemotherapy and a stem cell transplant, she fought her way back to being cancer-free. She thought their family's battle with cancer was finally over.

And then her youngest son received his diagnosis, and they had to start fighting all over again.

Despite the setback, Mika carried a fierce belief that if she could beat cancer, then Pike would too. He was younger, stronger, and full of energy. He had his whole life waiting for him. She was convinced that God would make sure Pike survived — that His plan surely included a long, full life for her son.

And in so many ways, Pike himself embodied that hope. He took pride in the strength he showed during his cancer journey. He had conversations with his pastor about sharing his story to bring others to Christ. And when the family held a stem-cell drive through Earl Young's Team, the part that thrilled Pike wasn't finding a match for himself. What excited him most was the idea that his drive might save hundreds of other people who desperately needed stem cells to survive their own battles.

But just as they thought his hardest days were behind him, Pike was re-hospitalized with graft-versus-host disease. He was sent to the OR for what was meant to be a quick biopsy of lesions in his lungs. Instead, he experienced sudden bleeding and left the operating room on life support. Pike never regained consciousness.

Mika and her family were shattered. Pike wasn't supposed to die. Even in the midst of cancer, Mika said she never once believed her son's story would end this way.

Yet even in the heartbreak of losing Pike 18 months ago, Mika continues to honor her son's heart for helping others. She organizes ongoing stem cell drives in Pike's memory — carrying forward the mission he cared about so deeply. Each drive is a way to give another family the miracle Pike hoped to offer, and a way to ensure that Pike's compassion, courage, and faith continue to touch lives long after his own battle ended.

Shortly after Leigh's 22-year-old son, Josh, was killed in a plane crash, her best friend looked her straight in the eyes and said some of the most beautiful words a bereaved mother can ever hear:

"Your grief doesn't scare me."

When she told me that during this week's podcast interview, it took my breath away.

As a grieving parent myself, I remember how often my grief did seem to scare people. I saw the uncomfortable glances from across the room. I heard the mumbled apologies when someone said something that "made" me cry. It was as if my tears were a burden they didn't quite know how to hold.

And the truth is… my grief scared me, too.

There were days I collapsed to the floor, sobbing so hard I feared I would never stop. Moments when the pain felt so big, so consuming, that I wondered if it might swallow me whole. Grief can feel like that—wild, unpredictable, and utterly overwhelming.

Fifteen months into her own grief journey, these are the same emotions Leigh continues to navigate day by day. As she shared her story, I could feel both the depth of her love for Josh and the weight she carries in his absence. She spoke with such honesty about the moments when she still reaches for her phone, waiting for his daily phone call. And each day, she lights a candle for Josh, a simple yet sacred ritual that keeps his presence in the home.

But here's a lesson I've learned—for myself and for anyone walking this path—slowly and painfully, and with more tenderness than I ever thought possible:

Grief may shake us, but it does not destroy us.

We survive what once felt unsurvivable.
Bit by bit, breath by breath, we learn to carry the weight.
And somewhere along the way, light begins to seep back in—not because the grief is gone, but because we've grown strong enough to hold both love and loss at the same time.

If you're grieving today, I want you to know this:

Your grief doesn't scare me.
And even if you can't feel it right now, there is hope ahead.
Not a return to who you were, but a gentle becoming of who you're learning to be.

You're not alone.

"Now What?"

This is the question Marie found herself asking after the devastating loss of her son, Quinten, to suicide. Overcome with grief, she felt lost and unsure how to move forward. But instead of succumbing to despair, Marie made a conscious decision: her life would continue. She chose to ask herself, "Now what?" and began to take small, intentional steps toward healing. Through the darkest days, she trusted that there was a way forward, even when the road ahead seemed impossible to navigate.

In today's episode, Marie opens up about her raw, unfiltered journey through grief. She shares how she found the strength to rebuild her life, one step at a time, and how perseverance, self-reflection, and compassion helped her move through the pain. She also discusses the work she's currently doing—helping other bereaved mothers find healing through writing. Through her coaching and retreats, Marie empowers others to turn their pain into purpose, fostering deep connection, healing, and self-discovery. Writing became a tool not just for her, but one that she now shares to help others begin their own healing journeys.

As I listened to Marie's story, I couldn't help but think back to my own experience after losing Andy. I, too, felt lost and alone and wondered how life could continue without him. Marie's words reminded me that healing doesn't come all at once—it begins with small, tender moments of courage.

Hope and healing can feel distant and elusive after loss, but writing can become a lifeline to help process grief and rediscover a sense of purpose. For anyone struggling with the question "Now what?", writing can be a powerful tool. By sharing our stories and embracing the process of healing, we find the strength to move forward—one word at a time. Marie's journey and her work with bereaved moms show us that even in our darkest hours, healing is possible when we allow ourselves to be open to the process of renewal.

* Visit Marie at mariecrews.com to learn more about her coaching, retreats, and how writing can support your healing journey.

Today's guest, Jonathon's book, indigo: the color of grief, captured me from the first page—a work that feels both intimate and universal. Indigo, the hue between blue and violet, appears in rainbows and twilight skies, yet it rarely gets named. Likewise, grief lingers in daily life, hovering just out of sight, unspoken because its rawness makes many uneasy. Jonathon uses the color as a quiet metaphor for sorrow that colors our existence without ever dominating the palette.

A decade ago, Jonathon's world shattered when his eldest daughter, Quincy, died in a sudden car accident. As a pastor, the loss forced him to confront a theology he'd long trusted. The image of a distant, strategic deity did not fit his pain. Instead, he came to see God as a presence of steadfast love, a hand that holds us tightly within the storm of our hurt.

The manuscript began as a sprawling outpouring of hundreds of thousands of words. Jonathon distilled it to a lean 12,000‑word narrative, deliberately leaving white space on each page. Those empty margins are invitations: they give readers room to breathe, linger on a line, and even inscribe their own thoughts beside his. The result is less a monologue and more a quiet dialogue—a shared place where grief can be named, held, and examined without pressure to resolve it.

Jonathon aims to reshape how we speak about loss. He urges us to move beyond the instinct to "fix" one another's pain with quick solutions. Instead, he calls for us to sit together in the shadow of sorrow, bearing witness to each other's wounds. In doing so, grief becomes a bridge rather than a barrier, allowing compassion to flow freely among those who have known its ache.

Indigo reminds us that, just as the color sits between the comforts of blue and the mystery of violet, grief occupies a space—neither wholly darkness nor pure light—but a profound shade that deepens our capacity for empathy and connection. The next time twilight drapes the sky in that deep, resonant hue, let it serve as a gentle reminder that indigo is not merely a color, but a quiet testament to the enduring presence of love within our deepest hurts.

During one of the first grief‑support group sessions that Eric and I attended in the weeks after Andy died, our Starlight Ministries facilitators led us in an exercise. We were given a black‑and‑white copy of an image created by H. Norman Wright titled "Grief – A Tangled Ball of Emotions." The picture resembled a ball of yarn, but instead of yarn strands, it had strips winding around the sphere, each labeled with a different emotion.

The exercise was simple. We received crayons and were asked to color in any stripe that represented an emotion we had felt during that week. I remember starting at the top: Loss – yes, I colored it in. Sadness – that one too. Anxiety – I'd been feeling pretty anxious, so I shaded it. Then came Confusion, Panic, and Dismay. I found myself actually feeling dismayed that I was coloring all of these emotions! I wondered whether I would ever reach a stripe I didn't feel. When I finally arrived at Vindictiveness, I was relieved to leave that one white. In total, I was shocked to discover that I had colored about 90 % of the more than thirty emotions on the ball.

Looking around the room, I was comforted to see that the vast majority of parents had papers that were almost completely filled in as well. While reading the recent podcast guest Michael's book The Million Stages of Grief, I saw how many emotions had surprised him in his own grieving process. That reminded me of the exercise from years ago and convinced me that it deserved a livestream discussion. Today, we explored several emotions that have surprised listeners of the show.

It is normal to experience twenty to thirty different emotions in a single day. Grief isn't a linear path but a swirling knot of feelings—each one valid, each one a sign of life moving forward. By naming, acknowledging, and gently sitting with even the most unexpected emotions, we give ourselves the space to heal. I encourage everyone to keep their own "tangled ball" nearby as a reminder that, no matter how full it looks, every colored strand is evidence of resilience and progress.