The Silence After Goodbye

I used to think that grief was loud.

Like sobbing on the bathroom floor. Like screaming into pillows. Like collapsing at funerals.

But when I lost both my parents, what haunted me most wasn’t the noise.
It was the silence.

It was walking into a room and instinctively reaching for my phone to call Mama—only to remember she wouldn’t pick up anymore.

It was cooking dinner in total quiet, missing Dad’s footsteps, his humming, his jokes that never landed but always made me laugh.

It was the sudden stillness in my life… the kind that echoes.

My father passed away three years before my mom. His death was expected. Cancer had been cruel, and in some strange way, I had time to prepare.
I even told myself, “You’ll be okay. At least you still have Mom.”

We mourned together. She was my anchor. And I, hers.

We'd sit at the dining table late into the night, sipping tea, talking about everything and nothing.
Sometimes she’d share little things about their love story—how he used to leave her notes on the fridge, or how he’d sing out of tune on purpose just to make her laugh when they were broke and tired and raising kids.

Losing him hurt. But I survived because she was still there.

Then one random Thursday—Mom didn’t wake up.

There was no warning. No last hug. No time to say thank you. No final “I love you.”

I remember walking into her room, calling her name like I always did.
I remember the sound of my own voice breaking when I realized she wouldn’t answer.

And I remember sitting on the kitchen floor hours later, trying to figure out how to breathe in a world that suddenly felt too quiet, too empty.

People showed up. They brought food, flowers, warm hugs.
They said, “She’s in a better place,” “You’re so strong,” “Time will heal.”

But time didn’t feel like it was healing anything.
It just kept moving while I stayed stuck—numb, directionless, lonely.

I was in my early thirties. Still single. No siblings. No extended family I was close to.

And I remember thinking: “Who do I belong to now?”

Some nights I’d lie awake, clutching her old scarf, pretending she was just on a trip and would call me in the morning.

I avoided the grocery aisle where she always picked her favorite biscuits.

I turned down dinner invites because being around families just reminded me of everything I no longer had.

I stopped praying. Stopped journaling. Stopped caring.

It felt like no one really understood what it meant to grieve like an orphan when you’re already an adult.

When you’re still figuring out life, and suddenly the two people who loved you before you even knew what love meant—are gone.

But healing didn’t come in one big, sweeping miracle. It came in pieces.

It came when I sat through a church service, tears streaming, and the pastor read this verse:

Psalm 68:5-6
“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families…”

That verse clung to me like a whisper in the dark:
“God sets the lonely in families.”

Not always biological ones. But real ones. Safe ones. Chosen ones.

Slowly, I started saying yes again.

Yes to coffee with a church friend who just sat with me and let me cry.

Yes to joining a small group that felt awkward at first but eventually felt like home.

Yes to healing. Even when I didn’t feel ready.

There are still days I hear a song and think, Mom would’ve loved this.
Or see something funny and instinctively want to tell Dad.

But the ache no longer swallows me.
It sits beside me like an old friend. One I’ve learned to live with.

And though I still long for their voices, I now cling to the truth that I was never truly alone.

Because God, in His quiet, comforting way, filled in the silence they left—with His own presence.

With new people. With deeper love. With purpose I didn’t see coming.

If you’re reading this and you’ve lost your parents…
If you feel like the only one left in your story…

You are not forgotten. You are not abandoned.

Grief will change you. But so will grace.

Let yourself bloom again—even through the ache.

— A Soul in Bloom

Journey with hope today.

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