The Fear of Wanting
Grief does not only change who we miss. It changes how we imagine our future. This piece is about the fear of wanting after loss and the small, steady way I am beginning to move forward again.
3/1/20262 min read
There is something about losing a child that reshapes more than your heart. It reshapes your nervous system, your identity, and your ability to imagine a future.
Since becoming a bereaved mother, I have struggled with wanting anything for myself. Before Carter died, I had goals and direction. I could picture things and move toward them. After he died, something in me went quiet. When I ask myself what I want now, the answer often feels unclear.
For a long time, I judged myself for that. I called it laziness. It felt as though I had lost not only my son but parts of myself as well.
Over time, I began to understand what might be happening beneath the surface. Carter’s death was the loss of someone irreplaceable. My nervous system absorbed a devastating lesson: when I love deeply, I can lose deeply. In response, it tried to protect me by softening my desires. Wanting began to feel unsafe.
I see this when I think about expanding my work. There are moments when I feel genuine excitement about writing more or deepening my jewelry and grief education. Then, almost immediately fear follows. The fear is not because building something is the same as losing my son. It is because my body remembers what it feels like to pour your whole heart into something and have it shattered. Sometimes it feels easier not to grow at all than to risk caring deeply again.
Grief does not stay contained to the fact that someone is gone. It moves into other parts of life, shaping our ambition, our joy, and even our sense of hope. At times, even simple anticipation can begin to feel vulnerable.
Understanding this has shifted something for me.
Instead of asking myself what I want to dream about, which feels overwhelming, I ask what feels safe enough to tend.
Tending feels smaller and more approachable than dreaming. It does not require certainty about the future. It invites me to care for something in the present moment. Tending might look like spending time in the jewelry studio, writing a blog post, going to yoga, or learning about grief.
When I ask that question, I notice a little more steadiness and a little less pressure. It allows me to acknowledge my fear while still taking a step.
For now, I am choosing to tend. I am trusting that careful steps still count and that wanting, even cautiously can be a beginning.