When Grief Comes Back: Mourning Drew, Mourning Myself

Written By Melissa Hull

On May 19th of this year, I’ll mark 25 years since my son Drew died. He was four years old, vibrant, full of light, impossibly sweet. His life ended in an accidental drowning in an irrigation canal near our home. A moment. A breath. And everything changed.

Twenty-five years. That kind of time can hold entire lifetimes of growth, healing, and change. And it has.

I’ve built a meaningful life since then. I’ve known joy again. I’ve raised children. I’ve contributed, created, worked, and found purpose. For a long time, I believed I had grieved well, that I had honored Drew’s memory while making room for beauty and hope.

But last year, something unexpected happened.

Drew would have turned 29 — the same age I was when he died.

And when that birthday came and went, it hit me: I was not okay.

Not in a dramatic, fall-apart kind of way. But in a quiet, soul-deep way that left me shaken. The grief I thought I had long since processed returned — not for Drew this time, but for me.

For the first time in 24 years, I realized: I had never truly mourned myself.

The Unseen Grief

When Drew died, I was 29, young, devoted, exhausted. A mother of small children, doing everything I could to keep our family afloat. But I didn’t just grieve my son, I took on the responsibility for everyone else’s pain.

I carried my husband’s sorrow, my children’s confusion, my family’s heartbreak. And more than that, I carried a sharp and unrelenting guilt, because I had been asleep that morning.

That fact became the shame I swallowed. I never gave myself permission to grieve simply as a mother who had lost her child. I felt I had to atone — to make it okay for everyone else. To fix what could never be fixed.

And so, I became strong. I became capable. I became the person who “survived.”

That identity saved me. But it also cost me something.

Because I was never allowed to fall apart — not really. And I never gave myself permission to grieve not just what I lost, but who I had to become to keep going.

Grief Is Not Linear

We’re told — often subtly, sometimes outright — that grief follows a path. That you work through stages. That eventually, you move on or find peace.

But here’s what I know now: grief doesn’t end. It changes.

It hides for a while. It shifts shape. It lets you breathe and build again. But it stays with you. Woven into your identity, your nervous system, your sense of safety, your understanding of love.

I did grieve Drew. I’ve felt his absence in every room, every milestone, every holiday. I’ve lit candles, written his name, spoken about him in rooms where no one knew him. I’ve kept him alive through memory.

But I didn’t grieve the 29-year-old woman who lost him. Not fully.

And when I stepped into what would’ve been his 29th year, I came face to face with the woman I was back then — scared, ashamed, and broken, and I realized she had never been held. Not by others. Not even by me.

Self-Forgiveness Comes Last

It’s often easier to forgive others than to forgive ourselves.

People told me I wasn’t to blame. That it was an accident. That I was a good mother.

I nodded. I smiled. I even believed them — logically.

But deep inside, I never let myself off the hook. I believed I had failed him. And because of that, I felt I had to earn the right to go on. I had to prove I was worthy of happiness again.

So, I built a life. I poured myself into work, family, community. I gave everything I had. And in many ways, I thrived.

But I never sat with that young woman — the one whose world collapsed in a moment. I never said to her: I’m so sorry. I see you. I know this wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could.

Until last year.

Revisiting the Past with New Eyes

Grief isn’t just about what happened. It’s about what keeps happening within us.

When Drew would have turned 29, I started imagining what his life might’ve been like. Would he have traveled? Found love? Been close with his siblings?

Then came the realization: I was 29 when he died.

That number cracked something open. I began to revisit that period in my life- the pressure I was under, the expectations I held, the way I shaped myself around survival. And I started grieving not just what I had lost, but the self I had never really allowed to exist.

When grief returns like this, it doesn’t just reopen old wounds — it shows you what was never healed in the first place.

Allowing Myself to Be Seen

One of the hardest parts of long-term grief is its invisibility.

To most people, 25 years sounds like a long time. And it is. It’s understandable to think the pain must be less by now. That it’s manageable.

And in some ways, it is.

But grief doesn’t disappear. It just changes form — from the loud, jagged agony to a quiet ache that lives in your breath, your body, the way you love, the way you trust, the way you protect yourself.

What surprised me most last year was how lonely it felt to still be hurting and how hard it was to say aloud: I’m grieving again.

So, I did something I hadn’t fully done before: I let people in.

I let myself be seen — not just as someone strong and resilient, but as someone aching and human. I stopped hiding behind composure. I stopped editing my pain for other people’s comfort.

And in that vulnerability, something softened. Something began to truly heal.

Letting Grief Become a Teacher

Grief strips you bare. But it also clarifies.

It shows you what matters. What doesn’t. Who shows up. Who disappears. What you can carry. What you have to set down.

This wave of grief has taught me more than the first one ever did.

It’s taught me that:

  • Healing isn’t linear. It’s circular, seasonal, and sacred.

  • Strength doesn’t mean never breaking. It means letting yourself break, and choosing to rebuild.

  • Forgiveness isn’t just about the past. It’s about releasing the punishment we keep inflicting on ourselves in the present.

And above all, it’s taught me this: my grief matters.

Not just as Drew’s mother, but as a woman who survived something unimaginable — and is still here.

I deserve softness. I deserve empathy. I deserve to be held — by myself, and by those I trust.

What I Would Tell Her Now

If I could go back and sit with the 29-year-old version of me, I would say this:

You don’t have to hold it all.
You don’t have to carry everyone else’s pain.
You don’t have to be perfect, or brave, or strong right now.

You’re allowed to fall apart.
To scream.
To cry.
To rage.
To collapse.

You’re allowed to grieve not just your child — but the parts of yourself that died with him.

This is not your fault.
You are still a good mother.
You are still worthy of joy.
You are still worthy of love.
You are still worthy of peace.

And one day, even if it takes 25 years, you will come home to yourself.

Why I’m Sharing This Now

Grief can feel isolating, especially when it resurfaces long after the world assumes you’ve “moved on.”

But I’ve learned that speaking grief aloud — naming it, honoring it — creates connection.

If you’ve felt that quiet, lingering ache…
If your grief reappeared after years of being “okay” …
If you’re still carrying unspoken pain…

You are not broken.
You are not alone.
You are not doing it wrong.

Grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a truth to live with.

And in living with it, there can still be beauty.
There can still be love.
There can still be meaning.
There can still be you — becoming, healing, moving forward.

If This Spoke to You…

If any part of this story resonates with you, whether you’re grieving a child, a partner, a parent, or even a former version of yourself — I invite you to join me.

I’m creating a space for honest, heartfelt conversations about grief, healing, and the quiet work of becoming. A space for those who are still carrying deep stories, still finding their way forward.

This isn’t a place for toxic positivity or pretending everything’s fine. It’s a space for truth, for tenderness, for being real.

If that’s what you’ve been looking for, I’d love to welcome you.

You can follow me [insert platform] or join my community [insert link or group name].

Because even when grief returns, we don’t have to face it alone.

Let’s Stay Connected!

I’d love to keep the conversation going. Whether you’re looking for free resources, inspiration, healing tools, or want to dive deeper through my courses and podcast — there’s a space for you here:

Wherever you are on your healing journey, know that you’re not alone.

Melissa Hull
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