What Nobody Tells You About Grief: A Guide for Parents of LGBTQ Kids Carrying More Than One Kind of Loss

In this episode, you will discover why grief is a landscape to navigate rather than a checklist to get through. 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 means 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. March 8th would've been my sister Corinne's 49th birthday. And I want to be really honest with you about it. I thought I would be further along by now. I thought I would be more healed, more okay with it. I think that I expected a finish line that doesn't exist. And spoiler, I have found out there is no further along. So today we're gonna talk about the things so many of us are carrying but have not named. We're gonna talk about grief. In this episode, you will learn a new way to understand the 5 stages of grief, not as a checklist, but as a living, breathing landscape. You'll learn how to recognize where grief hides in your body and your daily reactions. You will learn practical, compassionate ways to sit with loss of all kind and let it transform you rather than consume you. So, March 8th, what would've been Corinne's birthday. Most days I feel her presence truly. She shows up in the weirdest, most Corinne-like ways. Through music, through my kids' sharp wit, through those quiet moments when I swear I can hear her laugh or hear her telling me to pull it together in her direct way. But this past week, the ache of her physical absence was especially acute. I have become accustomed to the wild squiggly line that is grief. I have learned to sit with the feelings when they arrive. A little death cab for Cutie, a few moments of quiet, a mental sharing of my day with her. These tiny rituals usually dull the sadness. And her birthday more or less began this way. But on the evening of her birthday, I received an email from a dear friend of hers. Someone she'd known since childhood, and this friend shared that her husband has a terminal cancer diagnosis, and that through this horrific experience, she has been feeling Corinne's presence. I sat with her words for a long time, reading and re-reading what she had to say, and what I realized, and what I keep relearning is that grief doesn't expire. It shapeshifts. And if we're brave enough to name it, it can actually teach us how to live more fully, more soulfully. I've been keeping notes on grief for a long time now, and journal entries, podcast ideas, questions that are on my mind. Even moments where I've just completely unloaded my rage onto the pages. But this birthday combined with this email felt like a nudge from the universe, or maybe from Corinne herself, that it's time. And here's the thing, this isn't just my story. If you are listening to this and you've lost someone you love, this is for you. If you're a parent navigating your child's LGBTQ identity and quietly grieving expectations you didn't even know you held, this is for you. If you are mourning the state of our country, our world, our fractured communities, this is for you. If you are living through any kind of massive change, and can't quite name the heaviness, this is for you. Grief doesn't always wear black. Sometimes it wears exhaustion, irritability, numbness, or a fake smile. So what if instead of judging our grief, we got curious about it? Instead of stuffing it deep inside, What if we just sat with it, acknowledged where we felt it in our bodies, and showed ourselves the same compassion that we'd offer a friend? That's what we're going to do today. In 1969, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced the 5 stages of grief. And I think one of the most important things I can tell you right now is what they are not. They are not linear. They are not a to-do list. And you absolutely do not graduate from one to the next, like levels in a video game. They're more like weather patterns. They roll in, they roll out, and sometimes they slam into you all at once on a random Tuesday in March. So let's walk through them together. I'm going to share how each one showed up for me personally, how I see them show up for parents of LGBTQ kids, and how they're showing up for us collectively right now, because the through line is the same. So the first is denial. Because of the nature of FTD, frontotemporal dementia, which is what my sister had, I actually began cycling through these stages long before Corinne passed. It was surreal, to say the very least. At the very, very beginning, I would sit and talk to her, genuinely puzzled as to why she wasn't giving me her usual sass or her completely unfiltered thoughts. I would pick up the phone to tell her something And then remember, I kept asking anyone who would listen, isn't she too young? How can this be happening to someone who was just a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, so vibrant and so full of life? Denial shows up for parents of LGBTQ kids too. You hear your child come out. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you think, "Maybe it's just a phase." And I want to be really clear here: that thought is not overt cruelty. It's your subconscious moving into protection mode. It's your brain's way of saying, "I need a minute." Collectively, gosh, we are swimming in denial right now. It is so tempting to look at the world on fire and stick our heads in the sand saying, "Our democracy is fine. Someone will fix this. It can't possibly be this bad." Denial is the enabler of self-preservation. When we hit our max, our brains just default to it. But here's the kindness I want to offer you. Sitting in denial, experiencing denial, isn't failure. It's your psyche's shock absorber. The next stage is anger. This one is so important to talk about and to encourage because so many of us were taught that anger is bad, that something is fundamentally wrong with us if we feel it. Or if, God forbid, we express it. Quite the opposite is actually true. Anger is information. It is emotional intelligence. I have felt moments of white-hot rage at the universe, at the randomness, at a beautiful life cut short, at people who still have their sisters and don't seem to know how lucky they are. And I need to tell you this part of the story because it still takes my breath away when I think about it and makes this point about anger beautifully. The day of Corinne's funeral, someone actually asked me why I was so angry about her passing, suggesting instead that I should just be happy that she was with the Lord and at peace. Anger in that moment kept me speechless, which was probably a good thing. I could not understand how this person couldn't see the tragedy of a life cut so short, of me losing my sister. How dare they say that to me? How they could not hear the heartbreak in my eulogy or see the pain on my face in that moment. Stuffing all of that down, pretending it's just fine, just wreaks havoc on your personal body. So instead, we learn to understand the information and to express it, and we learn to process it in a healthy way. And the same goes for all of the anger you feel at a world that isn't safe for your child. Anger at family members who say the wrong thing. Anger at yourself for not knowing sooner. It's all information. Sit with it. Feel it. And when you're ready, let it fuel you towards something productive and good. Now, addressing anger that arises from situations completely out of our control That is harder. The fury that we feel towards systems and policies and leaders causing harm with such impunity, such cruelty, such casual disregard for humanity. The rage that scrolls through your feed at 2:00 AM. The heat of outrage you feel every time you read about another innocent life taken or the dehumanization of yet another group of people. At minimum, notice how and where anger comes up for you and give yourself a little grace in acknowledging that it will probably be from multiple directions. Bottom line, anger is grief's bodyguard. When it shows up, it means something mattered deeply to you. The next stage is bargaining. And this one, oof, is crazy-making. The mental torture we submit ourselves to. What if I'd called that day? What if I'd said something different? I still think about this one from time to time. I think about how scared my sister must have felt as that awful disease slowly locked her inside her mind with no ability to communicate. What if we had figured it out sooner? Parents of LGBTQ kids do this constantly. What if I'd been more open earlier? What if I'd found the right therapist sooner? What if I'd reacted differently? And boy, are we doing this as a collective right now? What if we had talked to more people? Had a clearer, more compelling message, not been so afraid to speak the truth. It's the exhausting illusion that if we had just done enough, perhaps we could avoid the loss or even reverse the damage. Bargaining is the mind trying to regain control in an uncontrollable situation. And it's human. It's also a trap if we stay too long. Naming it and learning to recognize it when it pops up helps us allow the feeling and then gently let it go. The next is depression. Deep, deep sadness. The quiet, heavy days. They're not necessarily dramatic, just flat. The birthdays. Holidays. My sister's Angel Day. The random Tuesday when Peter Gabriel or The National shows up in my playlist. Missing her voice. Feeling so deeply sad that my kids and my nephews will never get to hang out with the coolest big kid aunt. Depression shows up in a big way for parents of LGBTQ kids too. The sadness of watching your child face discrimination, or loneliness of feeling like no one in your circle understands, and the bone-deep fatigue of advocating constantly. And collectively, the doomscrolling, withdrawing, the feeling that nothing matters, so why even bother? Depression is the stage of grief that sits down in your living room and refuses to leave until you acknowledge it. You can't skip it, ignore it, or positive think it away. The only way out is through. But, and please hear me on this, you do not have to walk through alone. Finally, acceptance. Are you ready for a critical reframe here? Acceptance does not equal, "I'm fine with this." Acceptance equals, "This is what it is, and I'm going to figure out how to carry it and still live fully." For me, this looks like learning to old Corinne's absence and her presence simultaneously, feeling her in her friend's email about a tragic diagnosis, feeling her as I quietly sit contemplating this episode, feeling her through the snark and sharp wit of my kids. She's still here, just differently. For parents of LGBTQ kids, it's about moving from tolerating to truly affirming and embracing your child. From surviving to advocating. From acknowledging to seeing. From grief to fierce, protective, joyful love. 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.heatherdecorating.com/mhmk. And as a collective, it's accepting that I can't fix all of it, but I can show up for this one thing today. It's shifting to thinking of acceptance, not as complacency, but as the birthplace of sustainable action, of grounded, clear-eyed commitment. Here's the thing that nobody tells you: grief changes you. Period. You never look at life the same. And that's not entirely a tragedy. It's also a gift, albeit an excruciating and probably uninvited one. Losing Corinne transformed me in ways that, as I began to process the grief, made me a better mother, partner, and friend, a stronger advocate, a more determined leader, a more empathetic human. It connected me more deeply to parents grieving their expectations for their LGBTQ kids. And through my processing, my personal grief became a bridge to understanding collective grief. There is a through line here. Whether you are grieving a sister, a version of your child's future, or the soul of your country, the path is the same. Name it, feel it, Move through it. Let it transform you. And use it to connect, not isolate. Doing this work is part of the way I honor my sister, who she was while she was here on this earth, as well as with the version of me she saw long before I did. She is still teaching me. Teaching us. Her friend feeling her presence is proof that love doesn't end. It just changes shape, like grief itself. So let's end this episode today with the butterfly effect, a small shift that can create meaningful change, because the most powerful transformations usually begin with one Quiet, brave moment. Today is a micro rebellion, and it is this: I will stop measuring my grief against anyone else's timeline. I'll say that again. I will stop measuring my grief against anyone else's timeline. There is no should in grief, no correct pace. No final stage. No moment where you suddenly become finished loving someone. Your grief is not a problem to solve. It's a relationship that changed form. If any of this landed somewhere tender in your chest today, I want you to know that it's not weakness. It's your grief asking to be seen. And I see you. This is the first of 3 episodes in this grief series. Next week, we're going to explore how this personal grief map applies to the collective parenting through national heartbreak, holding space for LGBTQ families, and what it looks like to grieve and keep going. And if you are in the middle of this right now, any of it, please hear me. You are not meant to do this alone. Join me on Substack for more tools to stay human in a complicated world. The link is at the top of the show notes. Thank you for being here, for listening, and for choosing to be more human and more kind. Until next time.