Repair Is Not Fixing: How Parents of LGBTQ Kids Can Carry Grief Without Letting It Crush You

In today's episode, you will discover what it means to truly heal grief. Welcome to More Human, More Kind, the podcast for parents of LGBTQ+ kids and anyone trying to stay human in a world that keeps hardening. I'm Heather Hester, and here we talk about fear, belonging, boundaries, courage, love, and what it to protect what matters without losing yourself in the process. Your child doesn't just need a parent who's informed, they need a parent who is grounded and strong. Let's take a breath and let's begin. Welcome to More Human, More Kind. I'm Heather Hester. Healing isn't loud or flashy. Most of the time it looks like staying up late, holding space, choosing love again and again, even when it's messy, complicated, or inconvenient. And sometimes, the hardest part, it looks like letting go. This is the final episode in our grief series, and today we step into repair. In this episode, you will see what it actually means to live with grief instead of trying to fix it. You'll find out how to hold boundaries, compassion, and your humanity all at the same time. And you'll walk away with a simple, grounded practice you can use when grief feels overwhelming tonight, tomorrow, and in all the moments that catch you off guard. So over the past two episodes, we've walked through some pretty heavy ground together. We've given ourselves permission to name our grief, whether it's the loss of a beautiful soul like my sister Corinne, the shifting expectations that come with parenting an LGBTQ child, or the heartbreak of living in a deeply divided world. But naming the grief is only the beginning. The question I keep coming back to, and I have a feeling you might be too, is this: how do we live with it? In my coaching and in my book, Parenting with Pride, I teach a framework that applies beautifully here: recognition, realization, repair. We've done the recognition. Naming the grief, refusing to let it hide behind numbness or exhaustion or a brave face. We've moved through realization, understanding how grief shifts our expectations, lives in our bodies, reshapes how we show up as parents, partners, humans. And now we step into repair. But I want to be really clear about something. Repair is not fixing. It's not making the grief disappear. It's not getting back to normal. Repair is about creating the conditions, both internally and externally, where you can carry the grief without letting it crush you. Where you can hold the loss and still live fully. And I want to name something I see all the time, especially with parents of LGBTQ kids. There is this quiet, painful belief: "If I truly love my child, I shouldn't be grieving." That is one of the most damaging myths out there. Grief and fierce love are not opposites. They coexist. You can be your child's greatest champion and still mourn the expectations you once held. Naming that grief is not betrayal, it's honesty, and honesty is what real connection is built on. So let me share something that I feel really strongly about. We are living in a world that pushes us into extremes. You're either loud and combative or silent and compliant. There doesn't seem to be space for anything in between. But here's what I know to be true: kindness is not compliance. And this is where repair gets real. Sometimes repair looks like setting a boundary with someone who refuses to respect your child's identity. That's not mean. That's not divisive. That's love in action. And here's the shift that changes everything: boundaries are not something you do to someone. They are something you do for yourself, for a relationship. And maybe it sounds like this: "We're not going to talk about politics when we're together." You say that not because you don't care, but because you do. Because you want to stay in relationship without tearing each other apart. And yes, sometimes repair looks like compassion, even toward people who have caused harm. And stay with me because I know that is really hard. That compassion is not for them, it's for you. It's the refusal to let someone else's cruelty harden into bitterness inside your body. Because it is so easy, especially right now, to get pulled into the chaos, to react, to lash out, to live in a constant state of activation. So here is a simple practice you can take with you. Right now or later tonight, place one hand on your chest and one on your belly. Breathe in for 4, hold for 4, and breathe out for 6. Do that 3 times. This is you coming back to yourself. This is you choosing your response instead of being hijacked by your reaction. You can do this at the kitchen table, in the car, At 2 AM when your mind just will not slow down or shut off. Come back to yourself first, then decide what to do next. Because you can hold a boundary and still lead with your humanity. You can protect your child fiercely and still refuse to dehumanize the person across from you. Those things can coexist. They must. This is where curiosity, compassion, courage, and connection come together. This is where the real work lives. We tend to think that healing is loud, big breakthroughs, crying on the floor, some cinematic moment where everything shifts. But in my experience, the rituals that actually repair us are quiet. They look like staying up late with your teenager when they finally feel safe enough to talk. They look like choosing love again and again and again. They look like a Death Cab for Cuties song on a random Tuesday that lets me cry for 10 minutes and then make dinner. They look like texting your child's other parent and saying, "Hey, I think they need both of us right now." They look like putting your phone down at 10:00 PM and choosing sleep over doom-scrolling. That in and of itself is a radical act of self-repair. And here's what I want you to understand: every one of these quiet acts ripples outward. When you regulate yourself, you show up differently. When you show up differently, your child feels it, and they carry that safety into their world. That's the butterfly effect, and you are already a part of it. And if you are a parent, some of your deepest repair is simply continuing to be a safe harbor. Not fixing, not rushing, not performing acceptance, just being there. And eventually, it involves letting go. I'm about to walk through that for the fourth time, and I'll be honest, it does not get easier, except perhaps maybe this: I've grown my capacity to hold it, but the tears, they still come every single time, especially when I'm thinking about a quiet house coming this fall. One of the rituals I return to is writing a letter that I will never send, pouring everything onto the page, all of my feelings, the pride, the fear, the love, the ache, and then deciding what to do with it. I usually burn mine. Not because I want it gone, but because it's my way of releasing it. Inviting someone into your home to paint is a big deal. You want people you can trust. People who show up on time, respect your space, and do the job right the first time. That's exactly what we do at Hester Painting and Decorating. With over 58 years of experience and a commitment to true craftsmanship, we treat your home like it's our own, creating masterpieces one wall at a time. To schedule a consultation, go to go.hesterdecorating.com/mhmk. That's go.hesterdecorating.com/mhmk. /mhmk. And I'm learning the same thing with Corinne. I had to let go of the version of our relationship that existed when she was physically here and trust that what we built is strong enough to exist in a different form. She is still teaching me, still showing up, just differently. If you are grieving in any form, I need you to hear this: you are not meant to carry this alone. Our culture celebrates independence, self-sufficiency, powering through, but that's not actually how humans are wired. We heal in connection with others. And that's why I've built what I've built. —not as a set of rules, but as a place to land. A place to breathe. A place to be seen. To be held in the messy middle. If this series has resonated with you, and if it has helped you name something you've been carrying, I'd love to invite you to go deeper with me on Substack. It's where I share reflections and practices and real conversations like this one. It's a space designed for connection, not noise. I think of it as a community, not a subscription. A place to keep becoming more human and more kind. This week, your invitation for your butterfly effect is simple: choose one quiet act of repair. Just one. Put your phone down earlier. Take a breath. Send the text. Hold the boundary. Stay present. Small is powerful. 3 weeks ago, I sat with the weight of my sister's birthday and her friend's email that really cracked something wide open inside of me, and I wondered if it was time to share all the notes I had been keeping on grief. Corinne nudged me. The universe nudged me. You all showed up. So, let me leave you with this: We hear the saying that grief is love with nowhere to go, but I don't think that's quite right. Because the love does go somewhere. It goes into how you hold your child, into the conversations you finally have, into the boundaries you set, into the quiet Tuesday night when you choose presence over escape. The love goes into everything you build from here. Name it. Feel it. Move through it. Let it transform you. And use it to connect, not isolate. That is how we honor the people we've lost. That is how we show up for the people still here. And that is how we begin to heal ourselves, our families, and this beautiful broken world. Thank you for walking this road with me. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. And remember, you are not alone. You never were. Until next time.