There’s a type of grief that doesn’t get talked about enough, the kind where you’re raising one child while mourning another. It’s heavy and layered and full of guilt, especially when your child who passed needed so much of you in such a short time. My daughter was medically fragile and only here for three precious years. My son, her big brother, is 8 and full of life, energy, and curiosity. Loving one while longing for the other is a balancing act I never expected and one I’m still learning to walk every single day.

The Guilt of Loving What’s Left

After losing my daughter, I felt broken. She was my second child, my little girl, my fighter. Her life was wrapped in wires, ventilators, trachs, and G-tubes. And through it all; surgeries, hospital stays, and sleepless nights, she was full of light. When she passed, it felt like a part of me left with her.

But I’m still a mother. And my son still needs me.

He’s healthy, thriving, and full of questions. And while I love him more than words can express, there are days I struggle with guilt. Guilt for smiling again. Guilt for celebrating milestones with him. Guilt for not being as present as I want to be because my heart is still healing.

How can I laugh with one child when I ache for the other?

Watching My Son Grieve Too

My son had to grow up too fast. He watched his little sister live hooked to machines. He learned early what hospitals smell like and what “emergency” really means. He saw his parents scared. And worst of all, he lost his sister.

Now, I watch him carry a grief that no 8 year old should have to carry.

Sometimes he talks about her with a quiet voice, sometimes he asks hard questions. And sometimes, he just wants to pretend it didn’t happen; to have a normal childhood. And that’s okay too.

But it’s hard.

It’s hard to be his safe space while I’m still trying to find my own.

The Comparison That Creeps In

I often find myself looking at my son and wondering how she would have fit beside him. Would she have followed him everywhere? Would she have tried to copy everything he did? I imagine them laughing, playing, fighting over the TV remote.

Instead, he’s alone.

And that comparison, between what is and what could’ve been, hurts in a way I can’t explain.

He’s here. She’s not.

He’s healthy. She never had the chance to be.

And even though I know it’s not fair to compare, the thoughts come anyway. Not because I love one more than the other, but because I love them both so deeply.

When Joy and Guilt Live Side by Side

Some days, I watch my son hit a milestone, win an award at school, tell a goofy joke, run across the yard with joy, and my heart bursts with pride. But right behind that pride is guilt. Because his sister never got those chances. Her milestones looked different; surviving surgery, coming off the vent, being stable enough to go home.

It’s hard to celebrate him without feeling like I’m betraying her memory.

And it’s hard to grieve her without feeling like I’m shortchanging him.

This is the constant tug-of-war I live in: one hand in the present, the other tied to the past.

There’s No Manual for This

Grieving one child while raising another doesn’t come with a handbook. There’s no perfect way to do this. I’ve had to learn that some days will be heavy, some will be beautiful, and most will be both.

I’ve had to learn that my son needs all of me; not a perfect version, just the present one. And I’ve also had to learn that it’s okay if I still fall apart sometimes. It doesn’t make me a bad mom, it makes me a grieving one.

And there’s power in showing my son that it’s okay to feel it all.

What I Want Other Moms to Know

If you’re a parent who has lost a child but still have another to raise, especially if your child who passed was medically fragile, please hear me:

You are not alone.

You are not wrong for feeling joy.

You are not broken for still grieving.

You are not a bad mom for feeling torn in two.

You’re a warrior. A mother who has carried sorrow in one arm and life in the other. That’s sacred. That’s real. That’s enough.

This blog is a space for honesty; the kind that motherhood, grief, and healing demand. If you’re walking this road too, I hope you’ll follow along as I share the real, raw moments of raising one child while mourning another. You are seen. You are strong.

Feel free to share your heart in the comments, I’m listening.🩷