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Transcript
- You are not supposed to be alone in this. Not when the house is too quiet, not when the bills arrive, and certainly not when you’re trying to remember how to breathe through the grief. I want you to take a deep breath with me right now. Just one. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Good. Because I know that some days, even that feels like a mountain to climb. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it looks like to lose your partner while you’re holding down the fort for your children. It’s a specific kind of exhaustion, isn’t it? It’s not just the sadness. Although the sadness is heavy enough. It’s the logistics. It’s the sudden realization that you are now both the mother and the father, the comforter and the provider, the soft place to land and the strong arm that holds things together. And let’s be honest, honey, that is a lot for one person to carry. Most people don’t realize that grief doesn’t stop because school starts on Monday or because the grocery bill needs paying on Tuesday. It keeps going. It seeps into the cracks of your day. You’re standing in the cereal aisle, looking at two boxes, and suddenly you miss them so much your knees buckle. And who do you call? Your friends? They’re probably overwhelmed with their own lives. Your family? They love you, but they might not understand the sheer volume of your pain. That isolation... it’s a dangerous place. It tells you that you’re failing, that you’re broken, that you should have been stronger. But here is the truth, and I need you to hear it: you are not failing. You are surviving. And survival is hard work. It requires a village, even if that village feels miles away. Let’s get practical for a moment. Why do we pull away when we need connection the most? I think it’s because we’re afraid of being a burden. We look at our messy houses, our tired eyes, and our chaotic schedules, and we think, 'Who wants to see this?' So we retreat. We put on a brave face for the neighbors, for the coworkers, maybe even for the kids, and then we collapse behind closed doors. We treat our grief like a secret shame, something to be hidden until it passes. But grief doesn’t pass like a cold. It transforms. And trying to transform alone is like trying to navigate a storm without a compass. You spin in circles. You make decisions from a place of panic rather than clarity. I remember talking to a woman named Sarah last month. She told me she stopped inviting people over because she didn’t want them to see her cry during dinner. She thought she was protecting them. But really, she was protecting herself from the vulnerability of being seen in her rawest state. And in doing so, she cut off the very lifeline she needed. Peer support networks aren’t just about having someone to talk to. They’re about having witnesses. People who can say, 'Yes, this is hard. Yes, it’s okay to not be okay. Yes, you can ask for help with the laundry.' It’s about breaking the spell of isolation that tells us we must do everything perfectly. We don’t. No one does. Especially not when you’re carrying the weight of the world on small shoulders. So, how do we build these bridges? How do we turn that abstract idea of 'community' into something tangible? It starts with intention. You have to actively seek out spaces where single parents are gathering. This might look different for everyone. For some, it’s a local church group or a community center class. For others, it’s an online forum where anonymity allows for more honesty. The key is finding people who are walking a similar path. When you’re surrounded by people who understand the specific texture of your loss, the explanations become unnecessary. You don’t have to justify why you’re crying in the car park. You don’t have to explain why you snapped at your teenager because you were exhausted. These networks work because they operate on shared experience, not pity. Pity is a one-way street; it puts the giver above the receiver. Empathy is horizontal; it stands side-by-side. I’ve seen groups form around simple activities—weekly coffee meetups, playdates where adults talk while kids run wild, or even just a text chain where people check in once a day. These structures create accountability. They create routine. And in the chaos of grief, routine is a anchor. It reminds us that life continues. That there is still joy, still laughter, still moments of peace. These networks also provide practical resources. One member might know a great lawyer for estate issues. Another might recommend a pediatrician who actually listens. Another might just know where to find the best comfort food in town. It’s a web of support, woven together by people who care. Now, I know what you’re thinking. 'Judy, I’m scared to reach out. What if they judge me? What if I’m too much?' That fear is real. It’s valid. But let me tell you something about human nature. People want to help. Most of us feel helpless in the face of another’s pain because we don’t know what to say. When you give them an invitation—a clear, specific way to help—you remove that barrier. Instead of saying, 'Let me know if you need anything,' which usually results in nothing happening, try saying, 'Could you pick up my kids on Thursday evening so I can nap?' or 'Would you mind driving me to my appointment on Tuesday?' Specific requests are easier for people to act on. They feel useful. They feel connected. And for you, it creates a pattern of receiving. Receiving is a skill, just like giving. We often pride ourselves on independence, on being self-sufficient. But true strength lies in knowing when to lean on others. It takes courage to admit you’re struggling. It takes even more courage to trust that someone will catch you. Think of it this way: if your friend came to you with this same burden, would you turn her away? Would you tell her to toughen up? Or would you wrap her in a blanket and sit with her in the dark? Be that friend to yourself. Allow others to be that friend to you. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s understanding that we are social creatures, designed for connection, not isolation. If you can’t find a pre-existing group, don’t despair. You can start one. It might feel daunting, starting from scratch, but think of it as planting a garden. You don’t see the flowers immediately. You plant the seeds, water them, wait. Reach out to one or two people you trust. Send a message. Say, 'I’m looking to connect with other single parents who understand what I’m going through. Would you be open to meeting for coffee once a month?' You might be surprised by how many people are feeling the same way but are waiting for someone else to make the first move. Start small. Consistency is more important than size. A group of three people who show up every week is worth more than a group of thirty who never interact. Create a space where rules are clear. Respect confidentiality. No advice-giving unless asked. Just listening. Just being. Over time, this circle will grow. New faces will join. Stories will be shared. Laughter will return. And slowly, the darkness will recede, not because the pain is gone, but because it is shared. Shared burdens are lighter. That’s a fundamental law of physics, applied to the heart. When you distribute the weight, no single person breaks under it. You become part of a system that supports you, sustains you, and celebrates you. Not for what you achieve, but for who you are. A survivor. A parent. A human being worthy of love and support. Let’s talk about longevity. Relationships fade. Lives change. Kids grow up. Friends move away. How do you keep these networks alive? By making them a priority, not an afterthought. Schedule them like you would a doctor’s appointment. Put them in your calendar. Honor them. If someone cancels, reschedule. If you’re feeling low energy, still show up, even if it’s just for ten minutes. Presence matters more than perfection. Also, rotate leadership. Don’t let one person carry the organizational load forever. Share the responsibility. Ask for feedback. Check in on each other. These networks thrive on reciprocity. Today, you might need someone to listen to your fears. Tomorrow, you might be the one offering stability to someone else. This cycle of giving and receiving builds resilience. It reminds us that we are all vulnerable, all powerful, all connected. And finally, celebrate the wins. Small ones. Your child smiled today. You cooked a meal without burning it. You took a walk outside. Acknowledge these moments. In a network of grieving parents, joy can sometimes feel guilty, like betrayal. But joy is healing. It’s proof that life is still good. Celebrate it together. Let your laughter echo in the room. Let your hope be contagious. Because when you surround yourself with people who believe in your capacity to heal, you begin to believe it too. That’s the power of community. It reflects back to you a version of yourself that is whole, capable, and loved. Even when you feel broken. Even when you feel lost. You are seen. You are held. You are not alone. Take care of yourself today, sweetie. You’re doing better than you think. Until next time, I’m Judy Growney. Keep fighting the good fight.