What color is your heart today?

In this episode, I sit down with Rachael, Addy's mom, to talk about grief, healing, and the unexpected ways art can help us survive unimaginable loss. After 12 year-old, Addy's death, Rachael's grief showed up not only emotionally, but physically—through panic, sleeplessness, and a constant sense of overwhelm. Words often felt insufficient.

Months later, painting entered her life without intention or expectation. Through color and movement, Rachael found a new way to release what grief held inside. Art became a language when words were unreachable—and a way to gently check in with herself each day.

We also talk about how this simple question—What color is your heart today?—creates space for honesty without pressure, allowing grief to be messy, changing, and deeply personal. Rachael shares how this mindset now informs her work with young people in suicide prevention, reminding them that while life brings hard things, they are capable of moving through them.

This conversation is a tender reflection on grief, creativity, and learning how to carry love and loss together—one day, one color at a time.

In this episode of Always Andy's Mom, Luna returns for a new conversation—one shaped by time, lived experience, and the quiet ways grief continues to unfold.

Years ago, Luna signed a letter to her son Hunter with words that have stayed with me since reading her book, Look Mom, I Can Fly. She signed it:

Love,
Your devastated, aching, flailing, vulnerable, wrecked,
and resilient Mama.

Those words hold so much of what it means to live after the loss of a child.

When Luna first joined the podcast, she was only weeks into her grief after Hunter died suddenly while he was sleeping. Even then, she carried a rare clarity—an understanding that grief does not need to be fixed, rushed, or hidden.

Now, five years later, we talk about how grief lives in the body, how healing asks us to listen differently, and how moments of peace sometimes arrive quietly, without explanation. Luna shares how she honors her emotions as they come and how love continues to show itself through small signs and deep presence.

Luna closes the episode by reading her poem "Signs," from her book Look Mom, I Can Fly, written from Hunter's perspective. It is tender, powerful, and filled with the kind of love that does not end.

This episode is a reminder that grief is full of contradictions—that we can be devastated and resilient, wrecked and still growing.

Some things remain.
Some things grow.
Both can be true.

In this episode of Always Andy's Mom, Marcy is joined by Melinda, a mother whose love for her son, Cody, continues to quietly shape the way she lives, grieves, and remembers. Melinda reflects on how Cody's life changed her family for the better—how his presence deepened their compassion, softened their hearts, and continues to guide them forward even after his death.

Melinda shares the story of the day her world changed, the confusion and shock that followed, and the unexpected moments of peace that met her in the midst of profound grief. She speaks honestly about how grief looks different for each member of a family, especially as her husband wrestled with guilt and trauma, and how love—patient, steady love—became the thing that carried them through.

Seven years into her grief journey, Melinda describes learning how to live in the love rather than the pain, allowing space for sorrow without being consumed by it. She talks about journaling as a way to stay connected to Cody, the meaning she found in small signs and moments, and the comfort that arrived exactly when it was needed most.

Rather than grand gestures, Melinda honors her son in quiet, intentional ways—anonymous acts of kindness, simple remembrances, and choices rooted in who he was and what he would have wanted. Her story is a reminder that there is no timeline for grief, no right way to carry loss, and no measure for how deeply love can continue after death.

This conversation offers a tender look at how grief evolves, how peace can arrive unexpectedly, and how love—when held gently—can still make us better.

In this episode of the Always Andy's Mom Podcast, I'm joined by Taylor, a grieving father who shares the story of his son, Ray, who was stillborn late in pregnancy.

Taylor talks about the moment fatherhood became real for him — feeling Ray kick for the first time — and the joy and anticipation that followed a healthy 20-week scan. Then, at 27 weeks, everything changed. Ray's heartbeat was gone. Taylor and his wife went through labor and delivery knowing there would be no living baby at the end, followed by precious time holding their son and saying goodbye.

Taylor speaks openly about the emotions that came next: the anger that surprised him, the fear that the world no longer felt safe, and the weight of realizing that some things cannot be fixed. As a father, he felt the pressure to stay strong, even while grieving deeply himself.

One of the most moving parts of this conversation is how Taylor found healing through an unexpected outlet. At the suggestion of his wife, he taught himself how to crochet using yarn that had been purchased for Ray. What started as a simple way to stay busy became a form of connection and comfort. With each stitch, Taylor found a way to honor his son, quiet his thoughts, and give his grief somewhere to go.

Today, Taylor continues to crochet — creating hats, keepsakes, and donations — each piece carrying love, remembrance, and Ray's presence forward.

This episode is a powerful reminder that grief doesn't disappear, but it can transform. Healing sometimes comes not through words, but through the work of our hands.

What comes to mind when you hear the word miracle?

For so many of us who have lost a child, that word can feel complicated. We prayed. We begged. We hoped with everything in us—and the miracle we were asking for did not come. This week's episode gently asks us to reconsider what a miracle might look like after unimaginable loss.

I knew the day Andy was killed in a car accident that I was praying for a miracle. I begged as the paramedics worked, believing with everything in me that he could be saved. But Andy could not be revived, and the miracle I was asking for did not come.

Today's guest, Renee, knows that place of longing well. She is the mother of Patrick, who died at the age of 29 after a fall while hiking in the mountains of Colorado. When Patrick went missing, Renee prayed for a miracle too, holding onto hope until he was found.

Now, four and a half years later, Renee offers a powerful and unexpected reflection: she believes the grief journey itself is a miracle.

As bereaved parents, continuing to live after the death of a child can feel impossible. And yet, somehow, we do. We wake up. We breathe. We carry our children with us in new ways. We persevere.

This episode is a gentle, thoughtful conversation about grief, resilience, faith, and the quiet miracles that can emerge even after devastating loss. It is an offering of companionship for anyone navigating life after child loss—and a reminder that survival itself is something extraordinary.

This episode of Always Andy's Mom is a replay of a Christmas Memories Livestream—created as a place of reflection, remembrance, and gentle presence during the holiday season.

In this episode, Gwen and I read Christmas memories shared by parents from around the world within the Always Andy's Mom community. These stories speak to the deep love that remains after loss and the complicated emotions that often surface during Christmas—joy intertwined with longing, tradition mingled with grief.

Together, we paused often. We spoke children's names. We honored moments both ordinary and sacred: gifts unwrapped, traditions remembered, laughter recalled, and absences deeply felt. This is not an episode about fixing grief or finding silver linings, but about allowing memory and love to coexist with sorrow.

Christmas after loss is rarely simple. This episode offers a place to slow down, to breathe, and to remember that grief is not something to overcome, but love continuing to move through our lives.

As always, the episode closes with Andy's voice—a steady reminder that love endures.

In this episode of the Always Andy's Mom Podcast, host Marie Crews speaks with Lisa Oris, founder of Grief Guide, about why grief is not linear and why loss cannot be reduced to stages, stories, or a tidy "journey."

Lisa shares a powerful metaphor for grief — how loss "blows up the dresser," leaving emotions scattered and overlapping rather than neatly contained. Together, they explore the harm caused by cultural expectations to be strong, move on, or turn grief into a success story.

This episode is for bereaved parents and grieving mothers who feel overwhelmed, unfinished, or exhausted by the pressure to heal correctly. It offers permission to grieve honestly, without apology or timelines.

Today's conversation with Drew's Momma, Melissa, is one that lingers long after the episode ends. She lost her vibrant, adventurous son Drew twenty-five years ago, and in the decades since, she has come to understand her relationship with grief in a way that feels both gentle and profoundly true.

She says grief has not been a journey for her.
Not something linear.
Not something with a clear beginning or an end.

Instead, grief has become a dance.

A dance that ebbs and flows.
A dance with rhythms she didn't recognize at first.
A dance that asks us to draw close, then step back, then learn to move in ways we never imagined we could.

In the early years, Melissa's dance was filled with the familiar weight of guilt and blame that so many grieving parents carry. But slowly—through connection with other bereaved moms, through grace, through honesty, and through allowing herself to sit with the pain—she found a new rhythm. Not a rhythm of "moving on," but a rhythm of moving with. Bringing Drew with her. Letting his love rise up and shape her life in unexpected, meaningful ways.

Twenty-five years later, she says she still feels Drew's presence as vibrantly as ever. The love never faded. The bond never broke. The dance simply changed.

Her new book, Dear Drew: Creating a Life Bigger Than Grief, captures this transformation beautifully. It honors Drew, honors grief, and honors the possibility of a life expanded—not in spite of our losses, but alongside them.

For anyone in the early days of breath-stealing grief, she gently reminds you: you won't always feel the way you feel today. You learn the steps slowly. You borrow strength from others who are a bit ahead of you. And over time—one breath, one moment, one tiny step at a time—your body remembers that love still lives here, too.

Grief is not something to conquer.
It is something to move with.
And you are allowed to find your own rhythm.