đź’” The Unseen Weight of Grief
How to Speak What Hurts Out Loud
Some of the hardest parts of grief are the ones no one sees.
They’re the moments you carry silently—the facts that never change, whether anyone remembers them or not.
The empty chair. The quiet room. The memories that surface out of nowhere and take your breath away.
People say you’re so strong, but they don’t see what you’re struggling with on the inside.
Today I want to talk to you about what it means to live with the unseen weight of grief—the realities that are too sacred or too heavy to put into words.
And then I want to teach you how to speak them out loud.
Because even when no one else understands, God does. He’s not afraid of what you carry. He calls that place holy.
God Heals What Others Can’t See
As I was sitting at my desk this morning asking the Lord, “What do You want me to put on the page today?”—the Holy Spirit whispered to my heart: “Tell them about what no one sees.”
There are facts that you and I live with every single day that very few know—maybe even the ones who walk beside us—because they’re too hard to say out loud.
I want to share mine with you today.
Psalm 147:3 (NLT)
“He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds.”
Notice something about that verse.
It doesn’t say He ignores the brokenhearted.
It doesn’t say He fixes you quickly and moves on.
No, friend—it says He heals and He binds.
Those are tender words, hands-on words, intimate words. When something is bound, it means someone came close enough to touch it, to see it, to tend to it.
That’s what God does with us.
He comes close to the parts of your heart that others turn away from.
He doesn’t look at your pain from a distance—He kneels down beside it.
And He calls it holy ground.
The Facts I Live With Every Day
My child’s name is still the most beautiful word I know, and I still long to hear it spoken out loud.
There are parts of my heart that stopped the day Andrew took his last breath, and I’ve been learning how to live with that missing piece ever since.
I still buy his favorite foods.
I still pause at the places I once saw him stand.
I still talk to him in my head—sometimes out loud when no one’s around.
There’s a seat forever empty at my table, and no one else will ever fill it.
Some mornings I wake up and for a split second think maybe this isn’t my reality… and then I remember it all over again.
There are dates on the calendar no one else remembers, but my body never forgets.
I live in two worlds now—one where my feet are on earth and one where my heart longs for heaven.
The moment my son took his last breath didn’t end his story. It divided mine.
Learning to Live Between Sorrow and Joy
I’ve learned how to smile while grieving because I’ve learned how to hold joy and sorrow in the same breath.
I’m stronger than I ever wanted to be and weaker than most people realize.
There are people who mean well but avoid my pain, and I’ve learned to forgive their silence.
I’ve stopped expecting others to understand what they cannot see, because grief doesn’t end—it becomes a part of who I am.
Love doesn’t die. It gets stronger.I carry the ache of what was, yet the hope of what will be when heaven restores everything.
I’ve surrendered the fact that some prayers will only be answered in eternity.
And when I stopped asking why and began asking “Where are You, God?”—that’s when I found Him.
Right here, in the middle of my pain.
The Holy Ground of Grief
There are nights I fall asleep clutching my memories and saying my son’s name out loud.
I’ve realized that some of the holiest ground I’ve ever walked on is the ground of my deepest grief—because that is exactly where the presence of God is.
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
It means letting God hold me when it’s too painful to walk alone.
It means leaning into His shoulder and resting my head there, letting Him carry what I cannot.
Because what others can’t see—and probably never will—He does.
And that is what keeps me on my feet.
My child is not gone. He lives on. He will always be Andrew, my son. He’s just no longer walking beside me.
When others look away, God leans in closer.
I carry the ache, but I also carry His presence.
And some days, He carries me in the ache.
That is the only way I’ve survived the long-term pain of child loss.
Lament as Worship
Friend, I invite you to make your own list.
Remember how I said some truths are too heavy to say out loud?
That list I just shared with you—that’s how you begin to lament.
Write your own list. Not just of the pain you carry, but of the whole truth you live with.
Write down the moments that still break your heart and the mercies that remind you God is still near.
Because lament is worship in its rawest form.
It’s saying, “God, this hurts more than I can bear, but I still believe You are good.”
When you start writing, you’ll begin to notice traces of His hand—His fingerprints all over your story.
Those small mercies don’t erase your pain,
but they remind you that He is carrying you through the hardest places of your grief journey.
The healing God offers isn’t a one-time miracle. It’s daily mending. Sometimes He binds one wound at a time.
Listen to the Full Episode
If this message resonates with you, listen to the full episode of The Grief Mentor Podcast:
🎧 Episode 223: The Unseen Weight of Grief — How to Speak What Hurts Out Loud
In this episode, I share my own list of truths I live with every day, teach you how to create yours, and show how lament can become the very place where healing begins.
Next Steps
If you’re ready to start naming what you carry with someone who understands, I’d love to walk beside you.
In a 1:1 Grief Mentor Session, we’ll create space for your story—the invisible and unseen parts—and invite God into your grief right where it hurts most.
You’ll learn how to recognize His presence, apply the truth of His Word to your daily pain, and begin to see the signs of His healing that have been there all along.
❤️‍🩹 Book a Grief Mentor Session
