Grieving What Could've Been: Life Without Words

 When we found out Wyatt was going to be a boy, David dreamt of all the things he would do with his son. He pictured fishing at dawn, sitting quietly by the water. He imagined teaching him how to hunt, ride a bike, drive a car. He saw them camping under the stars, talking about life, sharing laughs only a father and son can share.

When Wyatt was born, we were over the moon. Our boy. David's little shadow. The excitement David had of having a son to share his passions with was overwhelming in the best way.

Then came the diagnosis—first autism, then a rare genetic disorder we had never heard of. Suddenly, those dreams we had were shaken. They didn’t vanish, but they became blurry. Uncertain. Would Wyatt ever want to fish? Would he even be able to ride a bike or drive a car? Will they have those moments David always thought they would?

It’s a strange kind of grief - one that feels almost wrong to admit. I love my son with every fiber of my being. I wouldn’t change who he is for the world. But at the same time, I grieve the moments we might never have.

No one tells you that you can love your child completely and still mourn the expectations you once had. They call it “mourning the life you thought you’d have,” and that’s exactly what it is. You feel guilty for even feeling it, because how could you grieve when your child is right there, smiling, laughing, loving you?

But grief and love can exist together.

The truth is, we don’t know what the future holds for Wyatt. Maybe he’ll surprise us and do things doctors thought he couldn’t. Maybe he won’t, and our life will look different than we expected.

That uncertainty is hard. It’s hard not knowing. It’s hard loving your child so fiercely while also carrying the fear of what’s to come.

And yet - despite the fear, despite the mourning.. Wyatt brings us more joy than I ever could have imagined. His laugh is the purest sound I’ve ever heard. The way he cuddles up to me, the way his face lights up when he’s happy, the way he dances - those moments mean everything.

He may not fish with David. Or maybe he will. Either way, he’s teaching us that love isn’t about the life you pictured. It’s about the life you have.

If you’re a dad walking this same path, I want you to know it’s okay to grieve. It doesn’t mean you love your child any less. It means you’re human.

Hold on to the hope. Let yourself feel the sadness. And most importantly, cherish every moment you do get, even if they don’t look like the ones you imagined.

Because at the end of the day, our boy doesn’t have to fish with us to be our greatest adventure.

Kerri