By B.R. Duray
Author of The Mood Swing
Even before my dad died, I was a sensitive kid.
I was curious about the world and how it worked—both the visible and the invisible things—and he always encouraged that curiosity. Before bed, I’d ask him, “Can you tell me about the angels?” And he would. He’d go on and on about the Seraphim, the Cherubim, the Archangels, the Powers, the Guardian Angels… until I drifted off to sleep.
He made the unseen world feel safe. Comforting. Full of wonder.
Then, when I was ten years old, he died.
He was a Major in the U.S. Army, a decorated member of Delta Force. He was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. He was a true American Hero, but he was also my hero. And just like that, my hero, the man who taught me about angels— became one.
After his death, something cracked wide open in me. My world turned dark and gray. Every feeling I had became magnified. The highs were incredibly high, and the lows were devastatingly low. Sadness and anxiety were a constant for what seemed like an eternity, I remember thinking: Is this just how life is now? My grief counselor eventually gave it a name: The Blue.
And yet, I eventually got through it. I found my balance again. Because I had someone walking beside me, guiding me through The Blue—an angel on Earth: my mom.
She was grieving too—she had lost her partner, her co-pilot, the love of her life. But even in her heartbreak, she found ways to help me feel safe, steady, and seen. I’m 30 years old now—it’s been 20 years since my father died—and I’m now able to have conversations with my mom not just as her son, but as someone who better understands the enormity of what she carried. I asked her what she learned from guiding me through my grief while carrying her own.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe, both from my experience and from watching how my mom navigated both grief and motherhood with grace:
First, she never avoided talking about my dad. In fact, she made sure we talked about him often—telling stories, showing me photos and home videos, helping me build a photo album of his life. She kept his memory alive, not as a source of sadness, but as a presence of love.
Second, she made sure I was surrounded by people who loved me, especially during those first hard milestones—birthdays, holidays, Veterans Day, the anniversary of his passing. We created new memories too: new holiday traditions, trips, and community experiences. She showed me it was possible to honor the past while still building a future.
There were practical things, too. I got a cell phone early, so I could call her anytime—especially if I got scared she might not come home. She knew, as the grief counselors told her, that fear of losing the surviving parent was normal. She stayed in close contact throughout the day and reassured me at night through rituals: reading together, talking openly, and watching happy shows like Spongebob or Friends together.
She also met with my teachers and my friends’ parents to keep them informed about what I was going through, ensuring I had a support system that extended beyond our home.
And when I needed it, she brought me to counseling. One of my first therapists introduced me to a biofeedback computer program that helped with anxiety. That idea—that emotions live in the body, and that healing can happen in waves throughout life—has stayed with me ever since.
Most of all, she led with quiet faith. Prayer. Ritual. She kept the spiritual channel open, even when there were no words for the pain. And that faith gave shape to the invisible: to the angels, to my dad, to the idea that we are never truly alone.
What I came to realize is that I was surrounded by angels—my mom, my angel-on-Earth, guiding me, strengthening me, encouraging me, and protecting me. And my dad, my angel above, watching over me.
When we lose someone physically, we often gain something powerful spiritually. I can still feel him with me—in times when I need courage, strength, or comfort. He’s never far.
So, in summary, from both my mom and me—mother and son who lost a husband and a father—here are some takeaways:
- Grief counseling matters. Professional support helped both of us name and process our emotions, especially in the early, disorienting months.
- The first holidays and milestones are the hardest. We surrounded ourselves with love and created new traditions to stay connected to joy—not just memory.
- Talking about the person you’ve lost is healing. We never buried his name. Stories, photos, and videos kept him alive in our hearts.
- Consistency and reassurance help ease a child’s anxiety. Frequent check-ins, practical tools like a cell phone, and reliable routines helped me feel secure.
- Grief doesn’t exist in isolation. My mom made sure teachers, friends, and community members understood and supported me, too.
- Faith gave us a language for the unseen. Angels, prayer, and spiritual presence helped give form to the formless grief.
Inspired by these experiences, I wrote The Mood Swing, a picture book about navigating the ups and downs of grief, for kids and families who are feeling something too big to name—and who need a friend to say, “I’ve felt this too.” It’s a reminder that grief isn’t the end of the story. That love outlasts loss. That angels still hover, even when we can’t always see them.
The story is dedicated to my mom—my earthly angel, who pulled me up from the quicksand—and in honor of my dad, my heavenly angel, who now shines as the brightest star in the sky.
