Bereaved women share what gave them the strength and the courage to keep moving forward

I let the process happen. 

There are no rules for grief other than that you need to let it happen, so I told myself I’d do whatever I needed to get through. If I wanted to cry, I cried. If I wanted to laugh, I laughed. If I wanted to look at photos, I looked at photos. If I wanted to forget for a bit, I forgot. You know what you need — but you have to pay attention to that voice.

Esther Kaplan, whose infant son passed away three years ago

I talk to her and I talk about her.

After my mother passed away, I used to sit on my bed and tell her about my day, vent about my siblings, or ask her for advice. Sometimes it worked — I’d feel comforted. And sometimes I would walk away thinking, Uch, why can’t she answer me?

Now I talk to my son about her. When I first introduced him to his grandparents, I made sure to tell him about his other bubby — the one in Shamayim.

Liba, who was 6 when her mother passed away

I spoke to others who had been through something similar. 

At first, I had this idea that Hashem was out to get me — why else would He take away someone I loved? When I met other people who’d also lost parents, they helped me realize that there’s a bigger purpose I can’t see. I never would have thought that it was possible to be okay until I spoke to people who had already gotten there. One told me that it never stops hurting, but it stops occupying as much of your mind. It was good to know that it wouldn’t always feel like such a heavy burden.

Chani, who was a teenager when she lost a parent

I became observant.

Our family was always traditional with a kosher-style home. After my mom passed from breast cancer, I went with my father and brother to shul when they said Kaddish. I met a new community there, I became involved in the shul, and eventually started keeping Shabbos and kosher. The grief didn’t vanish, but Judaism gave me a way to rationalize and compartmentalize.

Leah Goldshmidt, who was 16 when her mother passed away

It wasn’t allowed to be an excuse. 

My father said we couldn’t be pity cases. He said we could cry and scream, but we had to pull ourselves together afterwards. We were allowed to need help, but we couldn’t throw our lives away. It wasn’t an excuse not to go to school, it wasn’t an excuse not to do our homework, it wasn’t an excuse to be mean. I’ve repeated it over the years, and people say the advice was a lifesaver for them, too. However hard it was for us to hear, my father was so smart to stress it.

Chaya, who was 7 when her mother passed away

I remind myself that Someone is in charge. 

My son passed away suddenly. I checked on him an hour after he went to bed, and he wasn’t breathing. Because we live in Eretz Yisrael and it was Motzaei Yom Tov, our son was already buried by the time I spoke to my parents.

At times, it’s hard not to feel any guilt when you experience loss. But there’s no room for guilt. It’s pure torture with no benefit. Sometimes I give myself pep talks saying, “Esther, you think you could have avoided it? Hashem is the one Who gives and takes life, not you.”

There’s a certain clarity that comes after. It can be something simple — a few days before my son passed away, I felt pressured to make a photo book. I compiled all the pictures of him and sent it to print. After he passed away, I was so grateful to realize that Hashem made sure we had a record of his beautiful life, because I wouldn’t have been able to do it after he was niftar.

Esther Kaplan

I look through photos. 

After my brother’s sudden petirah, my brother’s sister-in-law printed full-page photos of my brother and had them bound. We passed the book around, over and over, at the shivah. I can’t express how much it meant to our family, and how helpful it was to be able to share our memories and love with all those who came to the shivah.

Baila, whose older brother passed away when she was 32

I stopped focusing on what would have been. 

When we went to speak with Rabbi Yitzchok Ginsburgh, he kept repeating that, “No one lives for a minute longer or a minute shorter than Hashem destined.” My daughter was never supposed to live for longer than three years, three months, and three days. She was never supposed to have a bas mitzvah or marry and have children of her own. When I knew she lived her allotted time, I stopped getting crushed by the disappointment of things that were never meant to be.

Hindel Swerdlov, whose daughter passed away in a car accident 11 years ago