Hi Ladies,

This week I’m coming to you from a very sad place.  My daughter lost her best friend a week ago.

Through this experience, I’ve come to realize there’s nothing that prepares you for watching your child hurt in a way you can’t fix.  You can sit beside them, listen, cry with them, but nothing will take away their pain.  And that helpless feeling is hard to comprehend until you’ve lived it (but hopefully you never have to!).

I keep thinking about her friend’s family—her dad, her brother, her husband—and how much deeper that helplessness must feel for them, watching the person they love most in the world suffer and slowly fade away.  If it hurts this much to watch my daughter grieve, I can only imagine what it felt like for the people who loved her friend every single day of her way too short life.

As I’ve shared with my mom, it doesn’t even feel real yet.  It all feels surreal—like how could the world just keep moving like nothing happened?  It should have paused.  Everyone should know the impact of what the world lost last week.  She genuinely was a light so bright and brought joy to EVERYONE she encountered.

What keeps coming back to me, though, are the beautiful things that somehow still existed inside something so heartbreaking, devastating, and abrupt.  Just as the world doesn’t stand still when something terrible happens, multiple and seemingly conflicting things can exist at the same time.  Grief and love.  Heartbreak and beauty.  Loss and gratitude.  Even when it’s hard to comprehend how those things can live side by side, they do and it’s what we need to try and focus on through the pain.

That’s something I’ve found myself gently reminding my daughter (and myself!) through all of this—that even while we’re still grieving and even while it doesn’t make sense, beautiful moments can still exist alongside the pain.  One doesn’t cancel the other out.

She and her husband were able to get married just two days before she passed.  They had been engaged for a long time and all they wanted to do was make it official.  And they did!  Getting to see that love honored before she left this world feels incredibly sacred.  I’m so grateful to have witnessed something so beautiful and impactful.  My daughter stood beside her as her maid of honor, just as she always had—faithfully, lovingly, without hesitation.  It’s a moment I know none of us who witnessed it will ever forget.

Her family was also incredibly inclusive of my daughter throughout her illness and last few days, welcoming her into private moments, the hospital room, and the sacred space of saying goodbye all the way until her last breath.  They honored not only their daughter and sister, but also the once-in-a-lifetime friendship she shared with my daughter.  I will always be grateful for the way they made her feel seen, included, and valued during such an unimaginably difficult time.

Those moments don’t erase the pain.  But they matter.  They are evidence of love still showing up, even when everything feels broken.

My daughter, who loved her fiercely, also put together a GoFundMe to help with funeral and medical expenses, her younger brother’s college education, and the charities her friend cared about deeply.  The generosity that poured in was overwhelming.  People showed up in more ways than imaginable and went above and beyond for this girl and her family.  The love I witnessed has restored my faith in humanity when I least expected it and provided even more of a glimpse into just how much she was loved.

My daughter and her friend met when they were in the 7th grade.  Twenty-five years old sounds young, but when you’ve spent over half your life loving someone, supporting each other, growing up side by side…that’s a lifetime.  I told my daughter that in many ways, they did grow old together.  That kind of friendship is rare and it’s something no loss can erase.

I worry about my daughter now, though.  Losing your ride-or-die—the person who knew you without judgment and stood beside you through everything—changes you, but especially being so very young.  There’s no rushing through that kind of grief and there’s no right way to carry it.  And as I’ve been told when working through grief in my own life, it isn’t linear.  There will be waves and sometimes it will resurface when you least expect it—like how I know my daughter will hurt again when her birthday comes and her bestie isn’t there to celebrate with her or to be her maid of honor and help her put on her wedding dress.

Even though nothing can truly fix it, all we can do for our loved ones when they’re grieving is let them know we’re here when they’re ready.  Sit in the quiet moments with them.  Bring them Whataburger.  Make sure they’ve slept and taken a shower.  And remind them that even in unimaginable loss, love still leaves evidence behind.

This isn’t something I have answers for.  This is not advice—just reflection.  I’m still processing it myself and there are moments when the waves overcome me too.  I just wanted to put words to what it feels like to witness grief up close and to honor a life that mattered deeply to the many, many, many people who loved her.

RIP, little bestie.  We love you so much and will always miss you.