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Right now, you might not feel like you’re at the beginning of anything, much less the beginning of the rest of your life. After losing a child, it’s not like we can completely start over and pretend that what has happened never happened. We can’t alter the past, but we can change how we choose to move forward.

Don’t worry, your grief isn’t going anywhere. Little by little, you’ll learn to absorb it until you forget that it was once a separate entity that scared the hell out of you. You’ve been moving through it at your own speed while putting in the work, and at some point down the road, you’ll wake up and decide it’s finally time to let go. Just to reassure you, you’re not letting go of your child. You’re letting go of the pain and suffering and fully accepting the reality of losing them.

Letting go is scary. What if you lose your connection with your kid and no longer miss them? What if it feels like you’ve abandoned them? What if you feel guilty for not feeling sad? What if you fall so far into the grief abyss now that you have nothing to grasp?

What actually happens is the opposite of everything you feared. Once you’re able to let go of the agonizing thoughts that you’ve clung to since the day you got the terrible news, you’ll feel stronger—no, it’s more than that; you’ll feel, for the first time in a long time, a sense of freedom and control, which sounds contradictory but no less mind-blowing. Most of all, you’ll feel a different and deeper connection with your child.

Strangely, I had a more difficult time letting go of Rob while he was still among us. I was never able to just sit back and wait for him to “bottom out,” and that went double for “Let go, let God” or doing the “detach with love” thing. It all made perfect sense in my head.

My head was never the problem. Tough love just never felt right to me—and, yes, I was well aware that was the way it was supposed to feel, but I didn’t care. And neither did my heart.

It was my heart that eventually helped me let go of Rob, but my memory is fuzzy, other than it seemed to have crept up on me. I don’t remember the exact time and place when I let go, because I don’t think there was an exact time and place. It was gradual and imperceptible, similar to the way we change while processing our grief.

Observing it from a distance now, it looks as though one day I was a heartbroken, sad sack that could barely lace up his sneakers, and the next day I was walking barefoot on the beach with my wife Janie, making plans for dinner. Somewhere between those two days, I let go of the pain in the ass that was Rob in life—as well as the pain in my heart set off by his death. Letting go is just another aspect of grief that you can’t possibly recognize while you’re tumbling around inside the belly of the beast.

It was my heart, about a year after Rob died, that also helped me simplify my life by choosing to live in the moment. I no longer looked back, because other than learning from the past (which all of us have endured and then some), it just seemed hollow and pointless.

I also stopped future tripping because I had learned—in the hardest way possible—that things tend to unfold in ways that I never could have imagined. Future tripping only triggered feelings of anxiety, which I already had more than my fair share of.

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How I managed to stop was surprisingly simple. I remember meditating for a short while (for whatever reason, that practice never stuck) and repeating the words, “This is the only moment,” and since then, I’ve been more present and have felt more alive than ever before.

This para-Buddhist outlook also informs how I view Rob today. I haven’t and will never let go of him, as you’ll never let go of your child, but I have reworked the way I remember him. I’ve let go of all of his bullsh*t that drove me crazy. I’ve let go of the near–heart attacks I had whenever I saw his name pop up on my iPhone.

I’ve let go of being scared of what Rob might do to us, what he might do to someone else, but mostly what he might do to himself. I’ve let go of the version of Rob who made our past tense.

At the same time, I’ve let go of Rob’s future. I’ve let go of him calling one day with good news. I’ve let go of seeing him take a five-year chip at an AA meeting. I’ve let go of the fantasy that Rob finally would get himself together, find a good woman, have a bunch of kids, settle down, and live happily ever after. I’ve let go of us growing old together.

When I think about Rob today, it’s never about the past or the future. It’s about how I feel about him at this very moment. How much I love him and how much I adore all the good that was inside him. That’s the way I choose to remember him. The best of Rob is all that’s left, and that’s what I hold most dear.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.

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