This past weekend was, without question, one of the most difficult things I have ever voluntarily done.
In the months leading up to it, I nearly backed out more times than I can count. I knew what it would demand of me – that it would be exhausting, that it would bring tears I could not contain, that it would force me to sit face-to-face with a sorrow I spend much of my time trying to hide.
That was exactly what happened.
And still, I went.
And I am deeply grateful that I did.
This past weekend I attended the national MADD conference.
Walking into that space, I was not prepared for the first thing that would hit me – not sadness, not even grief, but anger. A deep, unexpected rage. In front of me was a board filled with faces – lives lost, stories cut short. And in that moment, what overwhelmed me was not a single person on that board should have been there. Every single one of those people were there because of another’s actions and bad decisions.
Every single one of those children, brothers, sisters, parents, were lost for the hateful reason of impaired driving.
Among those faces, I saw people I recognized. Young people. People I had known, people I had mourned. And then, I found my son.
Like every other face on that board, he did not belong there.
Those faces on the wall and on the big screen in tributes are supposed to be anonymous. They’re not supposed to be your own. I do not have the words to describe seeing your child smiling face looking back at you from these tributes of loss.
In this column, I usually reflect on issues that affect our community. When it comes to my own journey – losing my child to an impaired driver – I have been quiet. Not because it doesn’t matter, or that impaired driving doesn’t affect each and every one of us, but because I am still trying to understand it myself.
Grief is deeply personal. It is isolating. It asks questions that have no answers.
And yet, impaired driving is not a private issue. It touches every single one of us. Every family, every neighborhood, every community is vulnerable to its consequences. The ripple effects are endless.
Still, most of us go through grief feeling completely alone.
How do you share emotions you don’t fully understand yourself? How do you answer the question, “How are you?” when the truth is too heavy for casual conversation?
So often, that question is rhetorical. A social reflex. An exchange we are not expected to answer honestly.
While I rarely speak of my grief, I talk about my son everyday.
I share stories – his adventures, his accomplishments, even the challenges of raising someone with so much spirit. I know it makes people uncomfortable. I see it in the pauses, and the uncertainty of what to say next.
I won’t stop.
I believe a person is never truly gone as long as there is someone still willing to say their name.
What this conference gave me – something I did not expect – was connection. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who understood without explanation. People who wanted to hear my son’s story, and who trusted me with theirs.
There were tears shared with strangers. Laughter shared with new friends. And a quiet, powerful realization that there is no “normal” in grief – and that’s okay.
I still don’t have answers.
I am still very much in the depths of grief.
But I am no longer alone.
Before this experience, I resisted the idea of group support. I believed my own grief was already too heavy – that I could not possibly carry someone else’s as well.
I may not have been ready before, but now, I understand something different.
Through organisations like MADD, we don’t carry it alone. We carry it together.