The Ache of Loss, the Anchor of Identity

Grief is not just the breaking of a heart. It is the unraveling of an identity.

For a mother who has lost a child, the pain is not confined to one moment or one memory. It seeps into the very core of who she is. A child is not only “someone we love.” They are woven into our very breath, our daily rhythms, the way we see ourselves in the world. Their absence is not abstract; it is painfully tangible. It lingers in the quiet room that was once full of life, in the empty chair at the dinner table, in the laughter that used to echo through the walls and now leaves only silence behind.

Grief shows up in unexpected places: folding laundry and realizing their clothes aren’t there to put away; reaching for a favorite snack at the grocery store, only to remember there is no one waiting at home to eat it; hearing other children’s voices on the playground and feeling the sharp contrast of what is missing. It is in these ordinary moments that the extraordinary ache of loss makes itself known.

And in that ache, the questions rise like tides that refuse to be silenced:

Who am I now that my arms are empty?

Am I still a competent mother if one of my children is no longer here to need me?

Has God turned His face from me, or was I forgotten in my sorrow?

If I am loved, chosen, and seen, then why don’t I feel it?

Loss doesn’t just leave us mourning; it leaves us disoriented.

Motherhood, for many, is a sacred role—a calling that shapes identity, anchors purpose, and directs the rhythm of life. When a child is gone, it feels as though the very ground beneath our feet has given way. It isn’t simply sadness, it is the tearing of a foundation, the sense that life has been split into “before” and “after,” and nothing will ever feel the same again.

And in that vulnerable, fractured place, the enemy comes with whispers meant to wound:

You failed.

You are forgotten.

You will never be whole again.

But Scripture speaks a truer word.

It reminds us that even in the midst of our deepest loss, our identity is not shattered, it is hidden in Christ.

You are chosen, holy, and dearly loved” (Colossians 3:12).

You are no longer a slave, but a daughter—and if a daughter, then an heir through God” (Galatians 4:7)

The world may tell you that your story has ended, that the best parts of you have been buried with your child. But in Christ, your story is not over. The ache is real, yes, but so is the unshakable truth that your identity is not defined by loss, but by love.

Reclaiming identity after loss does not happen all at once. It is not a single prayer, a single journal entry, or even a single season. It is a slow and tender unfolding. A journey of returning, again and again, to the One who calls you by name when you feel nameless.

We are invited to lay bare the ache, to have the courage to let our hearts speak what they carry without disguise or pretense. We must learn to bring the unvarnished truth of our sorrow into the light. God is not offended by your tears, your doubts, or even your anger. 

The Psalms remind us that lament is a form of worship, and that pouring out our raw, unfiltered hearts before the Lord creates space for His comfort to meet us there.

To reclaim identity, you must first give yourself permission to feel the unraveling. Pretending you are whole when you are shattered only deepens the ache.

The journey continues with the holy work of remembering. Loss tells us that everything is gone, but our memory reminds us that nothing of eternal worth is ever wasted. Remembering who your child was, their laughter, their quirks, their impact on your heart, is part of remembering who you are. You are still their mother.

Love is not severed by death; it is anchored in eternity.

And in the remembering, you also recall who God says you are: His daughter, His beloved, His heir.

We then must welcome, with open hands, what grace is already offering. It leads us into the posture of receiving, learning to be held rather than to strive. Grief often convinces us we must “find” our way back to God, as if His love were hidden in some distant place.

But the truth is, His presence seeks you in the shadows.

To reclaim your identity is to learn, slowly, to open your hands again, not to grasp for control, but to receive the daily mercies that whisper, You are not abandoned. You are still Mine.

And finally, the tender invitation begins, the quiet, steady work of rebuilding. Rebuilding does not mean replacing what was lost. It means allowing God to weave the threads of your sorrow into something sacred. Purpose may feel foreign right now.

But identity is not something you have to create; it is something you return to.

 In Christ, you are not defined by what you have lost, but by what can never be taken from you: His love, His Spirit, His promise of eternal life.

Friend, your grief is real, but so is your belonging. Your identity is not suspended in the silence left behind. It is rooted in the unchanging truth that you are a daughter of the King, dearly loved, and forever held.

Missed the latest blog post? You can check it out here!

Click here to join our newsletter!