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We use the words widow, widower, and orphan, but there is no word in our vocabulary that identifies the bereaved parent. So, I coined the term willower®. From the words willow, a weeping tree that symbolizes deep mourning; and willpower, that creative source within that provides the superhuman strength and determination it takes to continue on—despite unimaginable loss.

Readjusting to living without our deceased children (though we are never detached from them) is an ongoing, unpredictable, and lifelong relearning process. There is no final goodbye, no recovery or end, only rewriting our stories, the ones we tell ourselves so that we can keep going. 

“So no, if your child dies, you will not heal.”

— Augusten Burroughs, This Is How: Surviving What You Think You Can’t

It took me five years to come to this truth. When I heard this (listening to the audiobook, This Is How: Surviving What You Think You Can’t, by Augusten Burroughs), the burden I’d been carrying—thinking I should feel less pain, less sorrow—shifted.

I think you, too, should come to this truth sooner than later. Because oddly, knowing the truth helps. The pressure to feel better gets released. In time, you can move forward instead of waiting for the healing to happen. You can exist and do and function. And somehow, though it seems impossible, you can learn to live again—while remaining unhealed—after the death of your child.

After experiencing the worst loss, or trauma of any kind, we have to redefine who we are, or who we want to be, in this world, continually. There will always be that painful void. Rewriting our story helps us to process, learn, find meaning, rethink, and recreate ourselves. Sharing our stories helps us crawl out of that hole and connect with others.

We can heal from a lot of things, but not this kind of injury. Wanting to heal from this is an impossible goal. Learning to rewrite your story is a more realistic one. One step, one hour, one day at a time.

The idea of rewriting began here. A few months after Sam’s death, I didn’t want to survive. I was at a point of giving up when a wise someone suggested: “You may remain blocked by the ending you did not choose. Or . . . you may rewrite your story—his story—with a different ending.”

That one simple word, rewrite, became a lifesaver.

The word rewrite may not resonate with you. But you can take that line, that wisdom, and fill in the ending with whatever works for you right now. Go ahead, try it, and see what happens.

“You may remain blocked by the ending you did not choose. Or . . . you may _____________________________ .”

Did you do it? Did you revise the line so it works for you? Drop me a note. I’d love to know what ideas or words you used in your revision.

Note: Sometimes, I just fill in the blank with a simple: go for a walk.

Hello, I’m Deanna. After the sudden death of my beautiful boy, Sam (2007), I created this site to share my experience as a bereaved parent. It took almost 16 years of rewriting to finish my award-winning book Willower. And now, I’m ready to reconnect with you here and share more of what I know about rewriting life after unimaginable loss.

Writing a book, which involves a lot of rewriting, gave me purpose, a reason to live. Perhaps it was also a way of embodying Sam. He was only a boy, but he was an old soul; and an aspiring writer who didn’t get to finish the stories he was working on. I like to imagine that we were rewriting together. (I can’t wait for you to meet him in the ending chapters where I bring him alive—if only in my imagination.)