When a child diesโat any ageโlife does not return to what it was. Identity shifts. Meaning fractures. The future no longer looks the same.
๐๐ฒ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ผ๐๐ ๐ถ๐ ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐๐ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐ต๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐น๐ผ๐๐ ๐ฎ ๐๐ผ๐ป ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐ฑ๐ฎ๐๐ด๐ต๐๐ฒ๐ฟ, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฝ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ณ๐ฒ๐๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น๐ ๐๐ต๐ผ ๐๐๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐บ. Hosted by Dr. Sharon Spanoโa developmental coach, systems thinker, and parent whose life was changed by the death of her own son Michaelโthis podcast explores what unfolds after the unthinkable.
Children die in many ways, often surrounded by silence, stigma, guilt, or misunderstanding. While every loss is unique, this space begins from a simple truth: no parentโs grief is more or less legitimate because of how a child died.
Beyond the Loss makes an intentional distinction between the urgency of early grief and the deeper work of integration that unfolds over time. While both are real and necessary, ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ ๐ฝ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐๐ ๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ป ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ณ๐น๐ฒ๐ฐ๐๐ถ๐๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐ผ๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ถ๐ป ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐๐ถ๐๐ฒ, ๐บ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ป๐ถ๐ป๐ด, ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐น๐ถ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ป๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ๐ถ๐ป๐ดโso that parents further along can offer orientation and possibility to those who are just beginning to imagine life beyond the immediacy of loss.
๐ง๐ต๐ถ๐ ๐ถ๐ ๐ป๐ผ๐ ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐๐ ๐ฎ๐ฏ๐ผ๐๐ ๐บ๐ผ๐๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ผ๐ป, ๐ณ๐ถ๐ ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ด๐ฟ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ณ, ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐ณ๐ถ๐ป๐ฑ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐ฐ๐น๐ผ๐๐๐ฟ๐ฒ. It is a space for honest conversation about life, identity, and meaning after lossโwithout comparison, judgment, or explanation.
Drawing on adult human development, systems thinking, and lived experience, each episode offers language, reflection, and orientation for navigating the long after.
๐๐ฒ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ฑ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ผ๐๐ is centered on the experience of parents, while holding the wider family system in view. As this podcast unfolds, it will also explore how the death of a child reverberates through siblings, grandparents, extended family, and close relationshipsโhonoring those voices within a systemic understanding of parental loss.
Whether you are grieving personally or walking alongside others professionally,
Episode 21 "I Don't Fit In Anymore": Feeling Like a Stranger After Child Loss
โขSharon L. Spano, PhDโขSeason 1โขEpisode 21
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In this episode of Beyond the Loss, I examine a subtle yet deeply lonely reality of The Hidden Aftermath: feeling like a stranger in familiar social spaces. While others may assume that your ability to attend gatherings, smile, and engage in conversation means you are returning to "normal," the internal reality is often vastly different.
I open up about my own journey following the death of my son, Michael, detailing how child loss alters our relationship to reality itself. I share why small talk and everyday complaints can suddenly feel surreal or frustrating, the tension of deciding whether to speak your child's name in casual conversation, and the immense energy required to manage what is visible versus what is hidden. I hope this episode offers you a compassionate framework for honoring your current boundaries without isolating yourself or forcing an old version of who you used to be.
In this episode, I discuss: โข The Unseen Aftermath: Why walking into a room while carrying unseen grief creates an internal sense of living in a "foreign land." โข The World Moving On: My vivid memory of a blooming tree the morning after a devastating loss, and the jarring contrast of everyday life continuing around us. โข Social Energy & "Performance": Recognizing why casual gatherings leave you exhausted when so much energy goes into masking your internal state. โข Dilemmas of Connection: Navigating the shift in conversation when you decide whether or not to speak your childโs name. โข Honoring Your New Identity: Shifting from trying to fit back into old patterns of belonging to honoring the person you are becoming.
Welcome to Beyond the Lost. This is a space for parents who have lost a child in any way at any age, where no grief is ranked, explained, or excluded. I'm Dr. Sharon Spano, developmental coach, systems thinker, and a parent whose life was forever changed by the death of my own son, Michael. What happens when you still show up, but you no longer feel like the same person in the room? Welcome to another episode of Beyond the Loss. I'm Dr. Sharon Spano, and this season we've been exploring what I'm calling the hidden aftermath of child loss, the quieter realities parents may carry after the first layer of grief has been experienced. This month we're looking at some of the feelings we don't always know how to name. We've talked about guilt and shame, we've talked about anger and the way it can rise up when something sacred has been violated. And today I want to talk about something that may sound a little bit like a feeling at first, but I think many parents know it very well. It's the strange experience of being around other people and realizing you no longer feel like yourself, or more importantly, that you belong in the room. You may still be able to walk into that room and you may still know how to smile, make conversation, ask about someone's family, and sit through a dinner or a meeting or some kind of gathering. From the outside, you may look present and you may even look like you're doing just great. But inside, something is very different. You may feel distant from people you used to feel close to. You may feel guarded in places where you were once very relaxed, and you may hear conversations unfolding around you and find yourself feeling disconnected, and that things that seem to matter to everyone else are somehow silly or mundane to you in that moment. No one's doing or saying anything that's wrong or harmful. People are just living their lives. But to you, it all feels oddly surreal, like you're silently living in a foreign land where nobody gets who you really are. This sense of being physically present while at the same time being somewhere else can feel deeply unsettling. And this sense of not feeling like you're the same person in the room then goes along with our earlier discussion on identity. It can be deeply unsettling because other people still interact with you in the same way, but you're not the same person you were before the loss. And yet we've talked about this before, where we feel that others are expecting that familiar version of ourselves, expecting us to respond in the familiar way that they know and are used to. And they may assume that because you're showing up at all, you are slowly returning to who you were. But inside you may be thinking, I don't know how to be here anymore. This is not simply social anxiety. It is far more than that. And it's not only exhaustion, although that could be a part of it. It's the experience of being profoundly changed while the people around you do not know how to make space for that change. And it creates an awkwardness at best. This sense of not knowing where you belong in this new world you're experiencing can be lonely and confusing, and it can make you wonder whether there's something wrong with you, as many of the other things I've been talking about can make you feel. When in truth you may be trying to stand among people while carrying something that they cannot see. After a child dies, one of the hardest things to accept is that the world doesn't come to a screeching halt the way you feel it should. I vividly remember the morning after my friend Jane's daughter died. Rachel was only five years old, and her passing was a great shock to all of us. I remember getting up the following morning and taking the dog out. And there in my yard was this giant tree that had overnight somehow begun to bloom. And I don't remember the type of tree or the flowers that were on it, but I remember thinking, how is it possible that this tree can bring forth such beautiful flowers literally overnight and be so full of life when Rachel is gone? It was such a shock to me the fact that a tree could dare to spring life in my very own yard after such a devastating loss. It seemed unfathomable to me that life continued to go on, even in this simple version of nature. So we're in this space carrying our own pain, and people around us are still going to lunch. They're talking about schedules, their future plans, and even their frustrations. They're going to parties and they're playing golf and they're just living their lives. And I think the scenario that I personally struggle with the most is when people are complaining. And maybe it's about traffic or something at work, dinner reservations, all the stuff that any one of us has a tendency to complain about just for the sake of complaining. But if it goes on too long, or if there's a particular person who seems to go on and on and on about what feels like something mundane to me, well, I wish I felt differently, but I can't help it. There's a part of me inside that wants to say, really? You don't even know how lucky you are that this or that thing in your life is the biggest issue. The reality is that when you've lost a child, ordinary life can feel kind of ridiculous. I think we all share in that feeling from time to time. Such a contrast between what you're feeling and where others are can feel awkward, as I said a moment ago, if not even painful. After Michael died, I became aware of this in ways I did not always know how to explain, which is why I'm bringing it up for you today. I could be with people in a conversation and do what was expected of me in that moment. But there were other moments where I felt as though some invisible layer had come between me and the other people in the room. And it was not that I didn't care about the people I was with. It was not that I believed others should simply stop their lives because my son had died, or that I wanted every conversation to become about my own grief. But something in me had obviously changed. My tolerance for certain kinds of conversations had changed. My energy for casual social performance had changed. My ability to sit through small talk changed, and it still has. Sometimes I would leave an interaction feeling far more tired than the situation seemed to warrant because so much of my energy had gone into managing what was visible and what was not. There's this constant distance between the fact that the child loss changes your relationship to reality itself. You now know something about fragility that cannot be unknown. You know a life can change in a moment. You know love does not guarantee protection. You know the future you may have imagined can suddenly disappear. And you know a family can continue and still never be the same. I've heard many parents share a variation of my own experience. You go into an event and spend the whole time sensing how much of yourself to share. And this is particularly true when people start talking about their own children, isn't it? You don't quite know what to say or how to fit in. You wonder whether to mention your child's name. And if you do, you may feel the shift in the air. And if you don't, you may feel the ache of leaving that part of your life outside the conversation. And there's a different kind of knowing that rises up after you lose a son or daughter. This distance can come from the fact that your relationship to what is real or what is true or safe has changed. Basically, what you know is that you are surrounded by people who seem to be moving through life with assumptions you no longer have. And that's a very weird feeling. I can almost bet that most of us have had this experience. Again, you find yourself sitting in a conversation thinking, I cannot believe this is what we're talking about. I had that happen to me just today. And then you judge yourself for that thought because you know other people's concerns are real to them. You know they have their own struggles. It's all relevant, isn't it? And you don't want to become hard or dismissive because something in you has been reordered. But the game has changed and it's changed forever. And this is where grief can become very lonely because we quite naturally miss the old comfort of belonging. I'd like you to think about what you might need in such moments where you don't know how to fit in or belong in the room. Maybe you need the comfort of hearing your child's name without someone blankly staring or changing the subject. Or maybe it's about someone who can give you a quiet moment without taking it personally. Someone who does not need you to be less changed in order to feel comfortable. Maybe it's more about having people in your life who don't need you to be who you were once before, but who are willing to slowly learn who you are becoming when even you yourself don't necessarily know what that looks like. All of this, this major transition in your life takes time. And it may also require you to be more honest about your limits. It may be about giving yourself permission to stop performing the old version of you, to accept that being with other people can be challenging, and that you may need to listen more carefully to your body and what it needs. Or you may need to choose relationships that hold more truth. For some connections to become simpler, quieter, or less central to your life. I know that's been true for me. And through all of that, I hope you can remember this. Feeling different around other people doesn't necessarily mean you are failing in your relationships. It may mean you're learning how to be present without abandoning your own needs. So, as I always do, I like to leave you in these solo episodes something to notice this week because we're working on increasing self-awareness. This week, I want you to notice before you enter a social space, even a small one, just to pause for a moment and ask yourself what part of me is going into this room? You don't need a long answer and just notice what is true. And maybe you feel steady enough to be with others on this particular day. Maybe you feel a bit guarded or sad or disappointed, or maybe even angry, as we talked about last week. Maybe you want to be seen, but you're not exactly sure how to fit in. And maybe you're already tired. Maybe you want to speak your child's name, or maybe you need to keep something private today. And all of that is perfectly okay. Once you've noticed whatever part of you is entering the room, I want you to ask yourself, what would help me stay connected to myself in this moment while I'm with others today? Now, the answer could be simple and maybe leaving earlier than usual. Today I found myself just needing to be more quiet. Maybe choosing one person to be more honest with, or it may be taking a breath before answering the question, how are you? It may be carrying something small that helps you feel somehow more connected to your own child, or it may be giving yourself permission to just step away for a few minutes if the room becomes simply too much. And afterward, when you leave, ask yourself gently, what did that cost me? Again, not as self-judgment, but as just information. I'll always remind you to come back to that. That whatever is going on is just information in your own system. Notice whether you felt nourished, unseen, strained, maybe judgmental, relieved, or grateful for one small moment of real connection. And let that information teach you something about what you need in the here and now. So the practice is never about forcing yourself back into old patterns of belonging or any other old patterns. The practice is simply about noticing how you can be with others without leaving yourself behind. So, to recap, when you do not feel like yourself around other people after the death of your child, and there's going to be many moments where that occurs, it can feel lonely and confusing. But it does make sense. You're carrying a reality that has changed you, and we want to honor that. You are moving through familiar rooms with a heart that knows something it did not know before. You are learning where you can be fully honest, where you need protection and where connection and with whom is still possible. I want to encourage you, as I always do, to be gentle with yourself in that process. You don't have to become who you were before in order to belong. And you don't have to perform normalcy to prove to anyone that you're okay. And you don't have to disappear in order to make others comfortable. Your child's death, your son or daughter, and the loss of that most important person in your life has changed the way you stand in the world. Others simply need to catch up. And though you may not yet know it, this change can prepare you to be more empathetic and compassionate in the future. And it may also be preparing you for some yet unknown future, a future where you will bring yourself forward in ways that may provide others with some level of comfort and safety. When we walk through the fire of grief, we unwittingly provide others with hope. I truly believe this. And now slowly, carefully, I hope you will learn how to stand among others as the person you are now. Until next time, take gentle care. Thank you for spending this time with me. If this conversation stirred something for you, you don't need to make sense of it right away. There's no timeline for understanding and no right way to carry what remains. Beyond the loss exists to honor parents who've lost a son or daughter and all the complexity that this implies, and to support the professionals who walk alongside them without comparison, judgment, or explanation. Wherever you are in the long after, you're not required to arrive anywhere else. Until next time, take gentle care.
