Years ago, a former partner once asked me to share my wildest dream. I looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure you want to know?” He nodded, curiosity evident on his face. So, I leaned in closer, lowered my voice, and confessed my deepest desire: to hear someone tell me, with complete conviction, that everything would be alright.
His disappointed expression revealed that he expected something more adventurous, but that was the truth. The phrase “everything will be okay” holds a certain magic; it’s one of my favorites. I’ve reassured countless loved ones with it, and once I became a parent, I found myself repeating it to my children endlessly: everythingisokayitsokayitsokay, a soothing mantra for their tears, fears, and frustrations—like the time my son was upset about not being able to wear dirty underwear as a hat to school. I even whisper it in my sleep when they whimper beside me, a reflex as instinctive as checking the toilet seat before I sit down.
I’ve used it on myself, too, probably millions of times, as a mantra during awkward phases, job losses, and relationship heartbreaks. Yet, when my mother passed away, those words lost their power. They felt empty and untrue.
I tried to comfort myself: “Everything is going to be okay,” I would tell myself while lying on the bathroom floor—the only sanctuary in my house where I could cry without worrying about the kids. “Everything is going to be okay,” I whispered to my youngest when he was born, realizing he would never meet his grandmother. “Everything is going to be okay,” I sang, clinging to the melody of Christmas carols, which only deepened my sorrow during the first holiday season without her.
But grief doesn’t allow for “okay.” There’s the painful absence and the void left behind. Time may dull the ache, but the emptiness remains. Three years later, I still catch glimpses of my mother in crowded places or while driving. My hope is that the sharp edges of my grief will eventually heal, allowing me to carry on without feeling so exposed.
This struggle to find the right words in times of grief is something many face. What do you say when you can’t promise that everything will be alright? How do we support each other when life is undeniably hard and loss is a part of it, leaving us feeling broken?
As I pondered this, my youngest—who will never know his grandmother but has inherited her eyes—came running to me one night, a fresh red mark on his forehead from a fall. I scooped him up, held him close, and inhaled the mix of baby shampoo and the remnants of yogurt he had smeared on himself. As he sobbed, grasping my shirt, instinct urged me to say the familiar phrase, but I paused. Instead, I focused on the moment.
“I’m here,” I said softly, and it felt genuine. “I’m here,” I repeated, this time with more conviction, as he relaxed against my chest, finding comfort in my presence. There is space within me for him, as well as for his siblings and our loved ones.
We all have room in our hearts to support one another through the weight of grief. There is strength in witnessing each other’s pain, in simply being present. Love, in its many forms, is often enough to help us navigate the hardest moments.
If anyone were to ask me now what my wildest dream is, my answer would be different. I would simply say, “Just be there for me. Make a little space in your heart.”
For more insight into this journey of family and connection, check out our article on couples’ fertility journeys. Resources such as Cleveland Clinic’s podcast on IVF and fertility preservation provide valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination, while Intracervical Insemination offers expert insights on related topics.
In summary, life can be incredibly challenging, and while we may wish to reassure ourselves and others that everything will be okay, sometimes the most truthful thing we can offer is our presence and support.