The “forgotten” grief

Last week marked the ninth anniversary of our girl Savannah leaving Earth for Heaven. For nine years, I’ve called this week “hell week,” because that’s often how it feels when the memories and the missing return so sharply. I still can’t fully understand how we’ve survived nine whole years without Savannah’s beautiful smile and warm spirit in our everyday lives.

This year, the week brought even more sorrow. Savannah’s uncle Barry unexpectedly joined her in Heaven.

And yet, in the middle of grief, God gave us a gift of comfort. My nephew, Ricky’s favorite boy, now a grown man, came home with his wife and children. I can’t begin to describe how healing it has been for my soul to hold him close, to love on his babies, to share laughter, memories, and quiet moments together.

Spending time with Braxton stirred so many things in me, remembering him, Savannah, and Taylor running around as babies… remembering the grief Taylor and Braxton walked through… and now watching Braxton’s mom, Heather, grieve the loss of her brother. Like so many moments in life, it made me stop and think.

There is a kind of grief that doesn’t always draw a crowd. It doesn’t always sit in the front row. And it often goes unnamed.

The loss of a brother or sister is one of those griefs.

When my sibling Jason died, I quickly noticed how support naturally gathered around others, around parents, around spouses, around children. And rightly so. Their loss is devastating.

But somewhere in the middle of all that love and concern, I felt something unexpected.

Invisible.

People asked how my parents were holding up. How the family was managing. Rarely how Ricky, DeLisa, or I were handling the loss of Jason.

Yet we weren’t just people who loved him.

We were the ones who grew up with him.

We shared a history no one else shared in quite the same way. We carried the same childhood spaces, the same family stories, the same echoes of who we were before the world shaped us.

When my other big brother died, it felt like part of my past died too.

They were among the few people who knew who I was before adulthood, before responsibility, before grief itself. Their memories held pieces of me no one else carries. And when they left this world, it felt like some of my living witnesses left with them.

Sibling loss unsettles something deep.

It changes the way family feels. It can make the world seem quieter, smaller, and suddenly more fragile. It can make you feel older. It can make you think about your own mortality in ways you never had before.

And then there is the complicated part.

Sibling relationships are rarely simple. Love often lives right alongside rivalry, distance, protectiveness, jealousy, or regret. After death, all of it comes forward — the good, the broken, the unfinished.

I didn’t just grieve who my siblings were. I grieved what we never became. The conversations we never had. The version of us that never got the chance to grow.

Sometimes guilt whispered. Sometimes memories hurt more than the absence. Sometimes I carried grief that didn’t even have words.

There were moments when I felt I had to be strong for others. I questioned whether I even had the “right” to grieve so deeply when parents had lost a child.

What I’ve learned is this:

Grief is not a competition.
Love is not ranked.
Loss does not require permission.

A sibling is not a side character in our story.

They are part of the foundation.

Losing them shakes something at the core.

Sibling grief often walks quietly. It doesn’t always announce itself. It shows up in old photos. In inside jokes no one else understands. In holidays. In family changes. In the ache of knowing someone who knew the truest version of your beginnings is no longer here to remember them with you.

And still…

I carry them.

I carry their place in my story. I carry their influence. I carry the love even when it hurts.

If you are walking this road, I want you to know this:
Your grief is real.
Your loss is significant.
Your bond mattered.
Your sorrow deserves space.

You are not “just” a sibling.

You are someone who lost a living piece of your history.

And that is something worth honoring.

The death of a brother or sister is a significant loss. Yet many people will experience sibling loss more than once in a lifetime. Despite this, it remains one of the most overlooked forms of grief, especially in adulthood.

Support often centers on parents, spouses, or children. Rarely on the brothers and sisters left behind.

But the loss of a sibling is profound.

A brother or sister shares a life history no one else does. They are woven into your earliest memories, your family rhythms, your formation as a person. When they die, it is not only the loss of a person — it is the loss of a living connection to your past.

Because of this, many siblings feel unanchored… suddenly older… suddenly more aware of life’s fragility.

In some families, lifelong roles shift. You may become the oldest, the only, or “the one who is left.” These changes can quietly complicate grief.

You may grieve not only what was, but what never became.

Survivor guilt is common. These responses are normal. They do not diminish love. They reflect the depth of the bond.

Sibling loss deserves recognition, care, and support.

And your tears matter.

Your tears are important to God. Scripture tells us He collects them. He keeps them in a bottle. Not one falls unseen, unnoticed, or unvalued.

Tears are not weakness. They are a sacred release. A language of the heart when words fall short. They allow us to embrace pain instead of burying it, to release emotion instead of carrying it alone, to reveal the depth of love that still lives inside us.

Psalm 56 is a lament — sorrow turned into prayer.

David comes plainly. “Be gracious to me, O God.”

And in the middle of his grief, he reminds his own soul of what is true:

“This I know, that God is for me.”

Not just aware of me.
Not just allowing me.
For me.

There is comfort in knowing the God who counts our tears is the same God who stands for us, surrounds us, and carries us when grief feels heavier than our breath.

Our tears are not signs of failing faith. They are often evidence of it.

If you are crying, God is near.
If you are grieving, God is attentive.
If your heart feels fragile, God is gentle.

And if tears are falling, Heaven is not looking away.

God is collecting them.

And even if your grief isn’t from the total loss of a sibling or a loved one… He’s still there… He’s working…. His timing is perfect.