My son was born five years ago, and I’ll never forget that first week after giving birth. I was terrified, overwhelmed, sleep-deprived, and physically sore from delivering an 8-pound baby. Let’s be honest—having a baby is incredibly hard. It takes every ounce of you, both physically and emotionally. But there’s a kind of joy that shines from the inside, pure and unshakable, that makes all the hardships worthwhile. The early days of caring for an infant are some of the most challenging—and at the same time, some of the most rewarding—moments in a parent’s life. I experienced these highs and lows with my son, Jaxon, just like any new mother. But my journey was different in a way no one could have prepared me for: the highs quickly gave way to an overwhelming wave of grief. On just the third day after giving birth, my husband was killed by a stray bullet in our home. From that moment on, smiling at my son—or feeling any joy at all—felt nearly impossible.
I remember the first time I smiled again after Justin’s death. It was a few days later, as I gazed down at Jax. The smile was small, almost unnoticeable, and I’d describe it as shallow—not fake, but heavily overshadowed by sadness and guilt. To anyone else, it might have looked like a frown. But in that instant, as I stared into my baby’s wide, trusting eyes, a smile emerged. I had cried so much in the preceding days that I was taken by surprise at my own reaction. My friend Emily was beside me and gently said, “Honey, it’s okay to smile at your baby.” I couldn’t accept it. “How can I smile when Justin is gone? How could I ever smile again?” I asked, my heart breaking in pieces.
I was a new mother, and instead of celebrating a life, I was mourning one. Guilt consumed me. I thought of Jax growing up without Justin—who would rock him to sleep, witness his first steps, hear his first words. It felt unfair, unbearable. Many people would kindly say, “I hope Jax helps ease some of your suffering.” And while he did, he also reminded me, painfully, of what had been lost. Watching Jax learn and grow, experiencing his tiny victories and milestones, tore me apart because Justin wasn’t there to witness them.
Once the initial shock of grief faded, I finally allowed myself to feel everything. The weight of guilt over Justin’s absence was crushing. I felt I should spend every moment crying, consumed entirely by loss, and I chastised myself for any fleeting moment of happiness. “It’s not right,” I would whisper. “I shouldn’t feel joy. I shouldn’t enjoy anything.” I realized, slowly, that I had taken on the impossible burden of Justin’s feelings, carrying the weight of what he was missing in life.
If Justin had known this would happen, he would have been heartbroken to know he would miss his son’s entire childhood. I was mourning for him so deeply that I hadn’t even begun to process my own pain. Over countless conversations with friends and family, they tried to show me another way to see things: this is not what Justin would have wanted. He would have wanted me to find joy, even in his absence, for both Jax and myself.
And then it hit me, with an almost blinding clarity: “Oh my God, I’m missing out on my baby!” Sure, I had nursed him, changed his diapers, held him close—but I wasn’t truly enjoying him. That realization hit me like a jolt the day we drove home from the hospital. There was this incredible, indescribable feeling in my chest, a light shining through me straight onto Jax. It’s something parents try to explain, but you truly don’t understand until it happens to you. Suddenly, guilt returned—but this time, it was guilt for my son. How could I not have allowed myself this pure joy? Why had God given me such a blessing and then taken one away? I loved Jax with all of my heart, and yet I had been blind to the gift he was, the living piece of Justin I had with me forever.
The months that followed were a constant back-and-forth of grief and guilt. One day I cried for Justin, the next day I cried for Jax. If I allowed myself to feel joy, guilt followed. If I sank into sorrow, I felt I was missing the precious moments with my son. I realized I was trapped in a vicious, unhealthy cycle—and I needed help. I began seeing a grief counselor, and after about a month, we focused on managing my daily guilt. He encouraged me to give myself permission to cry every day, but also to give myself equal time to smile. Both were necessary. I began structuring my days this way: mornings for joy, evenings for grief. Watching the sunrise gave me hope, a reminder I could survive another day, while sunsets often brought a quiet ache for what was lost.
Now, five years later, I wouldn’t say my guilt is completely gone. It still appears in unexpected moments. The other day, I was having dinner with Jax as he picked up his iPad and said, “Mario song on the guitar.” Watching him grin at the classic Mario Bros. riff brought a sudden pang of guilt, anger, and sorrow. Justin should have been here to play that riff, to race him in Mario Kart, to teach him the songs he loved. Those were Justin’s strengths, and it hurt deeply that Jax would experience them without him.
Yet, I am proud of how far I’ve come. I no longer feel guilty for smiling at Jax or for loving my new husband, Don. The past five years have been a journey of healing, of allowing myself to feel every emotion, in every stage of my son’s life, and in my new marriage. Guilt may linger, but I’ve learned to accept it. Life hands us battles, and every day I fight for the ability to smile guiltlessly again. I know I will succeed—and I know Justin would want nothing less.
