The Reality of Solo Parenting After Loss

Parenting is hard even with two people. When your partner dies, the weight of raising your children suddenly shifts, completely and irrevocably, onto your shoulders. All of the responsibilities, all of the decisions, all of the emotions become yours alone to carry.

I never imagined solo parenting. Steve and I shared the load: tag-teaming school drop-offs, sports, discipline and the invisible emotional labor that comes with raising three daughters. When he was murdered, I became mom and dad overnight. There was no handoff anymore. Just me.

Grief didn’t just hit me; it hit all of us.

Each of my daughters responded to Steve’s death in her own unique way. Without sharing their personal grief journeys, I’ll just say that the emotional impact was deep and lasting. I found therapists for each of them, three different ones. That meant juggling not only my grief and theirs, but also their schedules, needs and healing timelines.

Their friendships changed too. Because our loss was so public, some people responded in strange ways. Friends who hadn’t been particularly close suddenly inserted themselves. My girls felt like others were trying to share the spotlight, the tragic spotlight none of us ever asked for. It was confusing, hurtful and a reminder that grief doesn’t just touch your heart; it alters your social world.

I had to do things I never thought I would.

Take the girls for driving lessons. That was always going to be Steve’s job. Instead, I found myself in the passenger seat, white-knuckling the door handle, trying not to slam an invisible brake while my daughter made a way-too-wide turn into our front yard, narrowly missing a neighbor on the sidewalk. It would have been funny if I weren’t so terrified.

Then there were the extracurriculars. Three daughters. Three interests. Soccer, dance, band recitals. I couldn’t be in three places at once. They understood, but I still carried the guilt. Always the guilt.

Asking for help became essential.

And I did. I relied on friends and family to fill in the gaps: driving, showing up, supporting. I took business calls in the car while ferrying them to activities. They got to know my professional world by the cadence of my calls: “Oh, she’s talking to Tom, this will be a while.”

Sometimes, I had to change the plan.

We had intended for all three girls to attend the same high school. But grief changed their needs, and I prioritized their emotional well-being above all. Each went to the school best suited for them, not the one we originally planned. It was the right choice, but another reminder that even the best-laid plans can’t survive the emotional hurricane of loss.

There were moments I didn’t see coming.

Like the freshman year roommate dinner. My daughter hadn’t told her roommate that her dad had died. So when the roommate’s mom casually asked, “Is Dad back at home holding down the fort?” I watched my daughter freeze. We stumbled through the moment, but the ache lingered.

Or the grade school daddy-daughter dances. So many kind fathers offered to step in. But my girls didn’t want a substitute. What they wanted, what we all wanted, was the irreplaceable.

Now that I’m dating again, it’s complicated.

They don’t want me to be alone. They really don’t. But when they see me with someone new, they’re reminded of what they’ve lost. Of the dad who should be here. Of the life that changed. And it’s complex, for them, and for me.

If you’re solo parenting after loss, I want you to know this:

It is hard. Some days feel impossible. You will feel guilty. You will feel torn. You will question yourself constantly. But you are doing it. Even when it’s messy, even when it’s imperfect, you are showing up, loving fiercely and doing your best.

You may not have chosen this role, but you have risen to it with courage. And your kids? They will see that. Maybe not right away. But someday, they’ll know just how much it took.

And here’s what surprised me: what we’ve become as a unit. We are close—closer, perhaps, because of what we’ve been through. We are more independent, out of necessity, yes, but that independence has become a strength. I used to be a bit of a helicopter mom when Steve was around. With everything falling on me, I didn’t have the time, or the energy, to hover. And honestly, that was a gift in disguise. My daughters have grown into capable, thoughtful, resilient young women.

We are strong together. A force to be reckoned with. We have each other’s backs. Always.

You’ve got this. And you’re not alone.