They Never Really Let Go

I realized something today while talking with another grieving parent.

They shared how desperately they long for signs from their loved one. They admitted that sometimes they even get angry when the signs seem to stop, wondering if they’ve been forgotten.

And in that moment, something clicked.

Signs are a lot like learning to ride a bike for the very first time.

Remember how terrifying it was? You begged the person teaching you not to let go. Their hand on the back of the seat was your safety, your confidence, your comfort zone. As long as they were holding on, you believed you couldn’t fall.

Grief can feel the same way.

When the signs seem to disappear for a while, panic sets in. We become afraid that we’ve been left behind. We fear falling back into the unbearable moment we first learned they had died. We worry that the silence means they’ve gone farther away.

But maybe they never really let go.

Maybe it’s just like learning to ride that bike.

At some point, the person running beside us lets go of the seat—not because they want us to fall, but because they know we’re stronger than we think. They don’t disappear. They’re still right there, running alongside us, ready to catch us if we stumble.

Our loved ones may no longer hold us through constant signs, but that doesn’t mean they’ve left us.

They’re still beside us.

You see, we have to learn how to ride through this loss—this unimaginable, heartbreaking reality. We have to find our balance. We have to discover that we are capable of taking another breath, another step, another day.

If they held onto the seat forever, we would never learn to move forward. We’d remain frozen beneath the safety of our blankets, trapped in the moment our world shattered. That isn’t the life they want for us.

They want us to live.

They want us to trust.

To trust God.

To trust that love is stronger than death.

Just as a parent eventually lets go of the bicycle seat while never leaving their child’s side, our loved ones may no longer give us the reassurance we desperately crave every day. Not because they love us less, but because they love us enough to help us keep going.

And when we wobble, they are still there.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

Lovingly.

Love never dies.

Its flame never dims.

Forever isn’t really forever. It’s simply a little more distance to travel until the day they reach for us once again, wrap us tightly in their arms, and with tears of joy tell us how proud they are that we kept riding…that we made it through this life…until we finally came home.

Until then, we keep pedaling.

Not alone.

Never alone.