The Elephant in the Room

Grief carries a weight that changes everything. For me, it’s the loss of my son Caleb to suicide, the two babies we never held, and the other calamities that have left their mark on my life. When I mention Caleb to someone I haven’t seen in a while, their face often shifts to unease, as if I’ve unveiled an elephant in the room that they’d rather not see. They search for words or look away, unsure how to respond to a pain so raw.

I’ve grown used to the silence that follows. If I say Caleb’s name in a crowded room, the conversation falters. If I share a light memory, perhaps how his quirky humor could light up a moment, people stiffen, as if my grief is too much to bear. They try to sidestep it, to pretend the elephant isn’t there. But for me, ignoring it is impossible. Caleb is my son. His laughter, his struggles, his life are woven into my heart. The same is true for our lost babies, whose brief existence left an ache I carry always. To stop speaking their names would be to deny their place in my story, to erase a love that still burns brightly.

It hurts when people who claim to care pull away at the mention of Caleb. Even when I share a joyful memory, like his knack for making me laugh with a silly joke, I feel their retreat. I give them space, stepping back from their lives to spare us both the discomfort. Yet, I wonder if they see what their distance does, how it feels like abandonment. I’m not asking them to heal my pain, only to sit with it, to listen, to let Caleb’s name live in the conversation.

I think of shows like Hoarders and My 600-lb Life, where suppressed grief festers until it overwhelms. That’s not a path I can take. Holding in my love for Caleb or my sorrow for our losses would suffocate me. Instead, I choose to speak, to let my grief breathe, even as I wrestle with God over the why of it all. Doubt creeps in, but so does a quiet hope that God is still writing a story through this pain.

I learned something remarkable about elephants. Beyond their size, they are tender and fiercely loyal. When one of their herd dies, they linger, gently touching the bones as if to honor the life lost. My grief is like that elephant: a heavy presence, but also a testament to love, carrying Caleb’s memory in every step. Perhaps I’m a bit like that elephant too, guarding his story with a heart that refuses to let go.

To those of you carrying your own elephant, perhaps the weight of a loved one lost to suicide or another tragedy, I see you. Your pain and your love are real, and you don’t have to hide them to make others comfortable. Keep speaking their names. To those who pull away when I mention Caleb, I ask you to see the cost of your silence. I don’t need you to fix my grief. Just ask about him, share a memory, or listen. That’s how you acknowledge the elephant, how you show me I’m not alone.

In my faith, I grapple with God, asking hard questions about all we’ve endured. Yet, I hold on to the truth that love endures beyond death. Caleb’s life, his humor, his spirit remain part of me. The elephant in the room is not just my grief; it’s my love, my story, my son. If you carry an elephant too, let’s sit together, share our stories, and give voice to those we’ve lost. Perhaps then others will find the courage to see the elephant and embrace it.