Someone recently shared with me this concept of a grief garden…a deeply personal, sacred space we each carry inside. It’s a place where our sorrow blooms and wilts, where memories are planted like seeds, and where the seasons of grief pass through in their own unpredictable rhythm.
This friend explained that we are each the gatekeepers of our own grief garden. That phrase settled into me like rain on dry soil. I pictured myself standing at the gate, weathered, worn, protective. Because what grows inside this garden is tender. Fragile. Hard earned.
Grief is not a public park. It’s not open for unsolicited opinions, judgments, or timelines. And it’s certainly not a place for those who trample through with careless feet or critical eyes.
When the grief is from child loss, the number of people who truly understand becomes even fewer. Fewer still have the capacity to hold space for it. You may find that more people need to be kept outside the gate…not out of bitterness, but out of self preservation. Because some will come in with good intentions but say things that cut like thorns. Others may offer fleeting comfort but not have the endurance to walk beside you through the long, unrelenting stretch of this kind of grief. Some may lack the depth of compassion this loss requires.
There are some days when the garden feels overgrown with sadness, and I can barely find the path through. Other days, a small flower of laughter or remembrance peeks through the soil. Sometimes the garden is quiet, still, peaceful. Other times it’s wild and unkempt, too much sun, too little rain, weeds of regret or anger trying to overtake the space.
But always, always, it is mine.
And that’s the thing, we don’t owe anyone access to it.
Not everyone deserves a key to our grief. Some people may want to enter out of curiosity, some with good intentions but heavy boots, some expecting us to tidy things up before they arrive. But we get to decide who walks in, who sits beside us in the silence, who helps pull the weeds, and who must remain outside the gate.
There’s freedom in that. Permission. Boundaries that aren’t cruel, but necessary.
Grief is already heavy enough without the added weight of managing other people’s discomfort or expectations with our process.
So I’ve started thinking of my grief as a garden I tend with love and reverence, not something I need to explain or justify. And when someone wants to step in, I ask myself:
Will they tread gently here?
Will they respect the space?
Will they honor what’s growing, even if they don’t understand it?
If not, the gate stays closed. And that’s okay.
Because my grief garden isn’t meant for everyone, it’s meant for healing. And healing needs protection.
So to anyone else tending a grief garden: You are allowed to keep the gate closed. You are allowed to rest beneath the tree you planted in your loved one’s memory. You are allowed to grow slowly. You are allowed to bloom, wither, and bloom again.
This is your sacred ground. Guard it well.