In her book, It’s OK That You’re Not OK, Megan Devine presents an honest, direct discussion of both the pain of loss and the often grueling work of grief. Her tone is kind and supportive but she sugar-coats nothing,  which is why I find her message of hope to resonate so truthfully. If my reflections on her writing speak to you, I encourage you to read or listen to her book. She is also featured in many interviews available on YouTube. 

Near the end of this book, Devine encourages grievers to put their trust in love. But rather than coming across trite or platitudinal, her words ring with authenticity. She suggests that only love can act as the bridge between the life we had and the life that now is. 

She writes, “Living in grief is continually crossing and recrossing that bridge. Survival in grief lies in finding the connection between the life that was and the life that has been thrust upon you.” When my son Stuart died, navigating the distance between then and now felt impossible. I honestly didn’t even know how to exist in the present anymore. But reading her words helped me understand that crossing back and forth—between memory and reality, between before and after—is the work of grief. It is the path.

What guided me on that path, more than anything, is love. And Megan captures this in a way that grabbed my heart.  She says, “Love we can carry with us. It shifts and changes… yet somehow remains foundation, bedrock, home base. Love connects what is now, to what was, to what is to come. It allows us to travel between worlds.”

I feel that so deeply. My love for my son hasn’t disappeared; if anything, it has stretched itself across every part of my life now. It’s the thread that ties me to who I was before the loss while guiding my journey in the present. Love is the bridge.

But love isn’t always gentle, and I appreciate that Devine is honest about that as well. 

She writes, “Love is brutal at times. It asks more of you than you can give. A lot of this work of grief is about being strong enough to bear the weight of what love asks of you. It’s about finding ways to companion yourself, to stay present to both the pain and the love that exist side by side.” 

That is exactly how it feels for me. Loving Stuart now is both a comfort and a wound. And yet, staying connected to that love—letting it exist alongside the pain instead of choosing one over the other—has become the key to not just survival, but actual flourishing.

I come back often to her reminder that, “The love you knew… the love you created together, that is what will get you through. The entire universe can crumble, and it does, but love itself will never leave.” 

Even now, four years after Stu’s death, when the world appears unrecognizable, the love I have for him is still here—unchanged, unmoved, enduring. 

As Megan Devine so beautifully says, “Love is with you here. Love is what sustains us. When there is nothing else to hold onto, hold onto love. Let it carry you forward.” And in my own way, I’m learning to let it carry me—step-by-halting-step across that bridge and back again.