Mourning a Time You Can’t Go Back To

The other day Jeremy sent me a text that stopped me in my tracks.

He was reflecting on how much he cherishes the small, ordinary moments with his son right now — the closeness, the routines, the things that feel simple but won’t last forever. He said he couldn’t imagine a time when those moments wouldn’t be part of his daily life. He told me he was thinking about me and Alex that morning.

I read it and felt something complicated.

Gratitude. Tenderness. And an ache that only someone who has lived through loss really understands.

He was grieving something he still has.

And I realized I grieve that too.

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Today was one of those days when a “memory” showed up unannounced and triggered a response before I had time to brace myself.

Photos of Alex and Jason when they were little. Innocent. Loving brothers.

There’s one image that completely breaks me every time — Jason looking up at his big brother, smiling like he’s his best friend in the world. Like nothing bad could ever touch them as long as they were sitting side by side on those stairs.

There’s so much trust in that look. So much love. A kind of safety that existed before life complicated things.

That’s where the grief starts for me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why certain photos hit harder than others. Most of the time when I look at pictures of Alex and feel myself get triggered, it’s the ones of him around that 8–10-year-old age. That in-between season.

There’s something almost magical about that time.

They’re old enough to have opinions and independence — but young enough to still crawl into your lap. Young enough to reach for your hand without hesitation. Young enough to need you in ways that don’t last.

They’re becoming themselves, but they haven’t pulled away yet.

That time doesn’t last long. And once it’s gone, there’s no way back.

Even when Alex was still here, I would look at photos from that stage and feel grief. Not because anything was wrong. But because I already knew that version of him was slipping into memory.

When I look at his senior pictures now, I see a young man looking back at me almost as if he’s saying, I’m okay now, I’ve got you. Those photos hurt — but differently. There’s sadness there, yes, but also context. Understanding. A story I can see more clearly now than I could then.

It’s the younger photos that undo me.

In those, I don’t see pain. I see innocence. I see a kid who trusted the world — and trusted me. And somewhere deep inside, I feel like I failed that version of him. Like I lost him twice. Once to time. And once to something far heavier.

That kind of grief is complicated. It tangles love, guilt, memory, and longing into something that doesn’t follow rules.

Pictures of Jason when he was younger get to me too.

I miss that smiling, goofy kid with boundless energy. The one who gave hugs that wrapped all the way around your heart. Seeing those photos makes me ache — not because he’s gone, but because that version of him is.

And here’s the grounding truth: Jason is still here.

He’s upstairs in his room. I see him every day. I hear his voice. I watch him move through the world. I haven’t lost him. And yet sometimes when I look at his younger photos, I wish I could go back and do it all over again — slower, more aware, more intentional.

That doesn’t mean I don’t love who he is now.

I miss both versions of him.

That’s something Jeremy’s message reminded me of.

You can grieve a version of someone without losing the person they’ve become. You can love who they are today and still mourn who they used to be. You can feel gratitude for the present and heartbreak for the past at the same time.

Parenthood is full of quiet goodbyes no one warns you about.

The last time they crawl into your lap.
The last time they reach for your hand without thinking.
The last time they need you in that particular way.

You don’t realize it’s the last time until long after it’s passed.

And when loss enters your life — real loss — it sharpens everything. It makes you aware of how fleeting those moments were. How sacred they were. How much they mattered in ways you couldn’t fully grasp while you were living them.

Jeremy was reflecting on the fragility of the present.

I am living with the weight of the past.

Both are love.

Grief doesn’t always mean absence.

Sometimes it means standing in the present, holding memory in one hand and reality in the other, and learning how to live with both.

And some days, that balance feels impossibly heavy.

And some days, it feels like gratitude.