When Even a Loose Bolt Feels Like Failure

This has been a hard week.

Ever since our dads support group last week, and especially after talking about guilt, I’ve been struggling with it even more. Guilt already has a way of finding its own openings, but sometimes it doesn’t even need much. Sometimes all it takes is one small thing, and suddenly it feels like confirmation of every fear I already carry.

Earlier this month, I built a shield for Alex and placed it by the side of the road. It meant a lot to me to make something for him, something tangible, something made by my own hands. Last week I went back over there and noticed that one of the bolts had come undone and pulled out of the wood. Now I need to go back and repair it.

On the surface, that sounds like a simple thing. A bolt came loose. It needs to be fixed.

But that’s not how it felt to me.

What I felt was the weight of it landing on top of everything else I already carry. My mind didn’t stop at “this needs repair.” It went straight to, “Here’s one more thing I tried to do for Alex that didn’t work out. One more thing I failed at for him.”

That’s how guilt works for me.

It doesn’t just attach itself to the biggest moments. It seeps into the smallest ones too. It takes something ordinary and turns it into evidence. Evidence that I wasn’t enough. Evidence that I still can’t get it right. Evidence that even now, when I try to honor him, I somehow come up short.

The hard part is that I know better logically.

I know wood shifts. I know weather wears things down. I know bolts loosen. I know repairing something doesn’t mean the original act of love failed. I know all of that in my head.

But grief and guilt don’t live in the head alone.

They live in the body. In the chest. In the silence after you notice something is wrong. In the voice that’s always ready to tell you this is one more reason to blame yourself. One more reason to believe that whatever you do, it won’t hold. It won’t last. It won’t be enough.

And this week, that voice has been loud.

What I’m trying to remind myself is that the shield coming loose doesn’t mean I failed Alex. It means I loved him enough to build something for him. It means I care enough to go back. It means I still show up.

Maybe that’s what love looks like now.

Not getting everything perfect. Not building something that never needs tending. But returning. Repairing. Refusing to stop caring. Refusing to stop loving, even when grief tries to turn every act of devotion into another accusation.

I’m writing this because I know I’m probably not the only parent, not the only grieving person, who does this. Who turns even a small setback into another stone to carry. Who knows the truth intellectually but still feels blame emotionally.

This week, that’s where I am.

Trying to separate what is broken from what is blame.

Trying to remember that needing to repair something is not the same as failing.

Trying to believe that love can still be present, even in the repair.

And maybe especially there.