Grief has taught me many things, but perhaps the most unexpected lesson has been the inner dialogue that exists within me, a quiet but powerful conversation between what I call my human mind and my spiritual mind.

For a long time, I thought these two parts of me were in conflict. My human mind lives firmly in the reality of this world. It remembers the details, the moments, the events that changed my life forever. It remembers the day my son Matthew was diagnosed with cancer. It remembers the hospital rooms, the endless appointments, the fear, and the helplessness of watching someone I loved more than anything slowly fade during two long years of illness. My human mind remembers the day he died. It remembers the funeral. It remembers standing there, struggling to understand how this could possibly be real. Even now, years later, there are moments when my human mind returns to those memories with painful clarity. And in those moments, my human heart simply cries out, “I just miss him.” That voice does not want explanations or philosophy. It does not want spiritual wisdom. It does not want to hear that everything happens for a reason. It just wants Matthew here. It wants one more conversation, one more hug, one more moment. That is the honest reality of being human. When we love deeply, we grieve deeply. The pain we feel is the echo of the love we had.

But alongside that very human experience, there is another voice within me, quieter, calmer, and steady. My spiritual mind. Where my human mind sees loss, my spiritual mind sees continuation. Where my human mind sees an ending, my spiritual mind sees a transition.

My spiritual mind believes deeply that Matthew did not simply disappear when his body stopped working. It believes that his consciousness continues, that love continues, and that the connection between us still exists in ways our human senses cannot fully understand. Through experiences I’ve had since Matthew died, moments of connection, the signs, feelings that are difficult to explain but impossible for me to ignore, my spiritual mind has developed a deep sense of knowing. It believes that Matthew is free from pain, free from illness, and existing in a place of peace and love beyond what our human minds can easily comprehend. And when I connect to that perspective, something shifts inside me. There is a sense of calm, a feeling that on some deeper level, everything is still okay.

But the interesting part of grief is that these two voices exist within me at the same time. Sometimes my human mind is loud and emotional. It says, “This shouldn’t have happened.” It says, “He was only 27.” It says, “I wish we had more time.” And my spiritual mind responds gently. “His life had purpose.” “Some souls come here for shorter journeys.” “You had exactly the time you were meant to have.” For many years, I believed I had to choose between these two perspectives. I thought that if I truly believed in the continuation of the soul, then I shouldn’t feel such intense sadness. I thought that being spiritual meant rising above the grief.

I’ve come to understand something important. These voices are not enemies. They are not contradictions. They are simply two parts of the same experience. I am both a human being and a spiritual being. My human heart needs to grieve. It needs to cry. It needs to say Matthew’s name and remember the moments we shared. Sometimes it needs to sit with the sadness and allow the tears to fall. That is not weakness. That is love expressing itself. At the same time, my spiritual mind offers perspective. It gently reminds me that love does not end when a life ends. It reminds me that energy cannot be destroyed, it only changes form. And it reminds me that the connection between a mother and her child is far deeper than the physical world alone. When I stopped trying to silence either voice, something within me softened.

Instead of forcing myself to be strong, I began allowing my human heart to feel whatever it needed to feel. If I miss him, I say it. If I need to cry, I cry. If I want to talk to him, I talk to him. And when the wave of emotion settles, my spiritual mind quietly steps forward and reminds me that love is eternal, that nothing real is ever truly lost, and that Matthew is still part of my life in ways that continue to unfold.

So what once felt like an inner conflict has become something else entirely. It is an inner dialogue. One voice grounded in human love and human loss. The other grounded in a deeper sense of connection and continuity – and they are both valid. Together, they help me carry my grief. 

Listen to my podcast episode about my inner dialogue here: Episode 50

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