Reflections and conversations with Long
When Kim died, there was an outpouring of support. Friends checked in, family showed up, and people made sure Long and his son Max had what they needed. But as the months passed, those calls became less frequent. By the end of the first year, most had stopped altogether.
“I felt a little disappointed and shocked about that,” Long says. “I kind of accepted that this is a very lonely path.”
At the same time, he was adjusting to a reality he hadn’t fully anticipated. He wasn’t only grieving the loss of his wife. He was learning how to parent without the person he had always parented alongside.
“I hadn’t fully recognized that I had to wear both hats,” he says. “It’s been a tough transition.”
When Kim died, Max was four years old. Long remembers him walking into the living room where Kim’s hospital bed had been and asking, “Where’s Mommy?” At that age, Max understood pieces of what had happened, but not all of it. Long was trying to make sense of it too.
“There were a lot of times when I wasn’t fully present because I was dealing with grief,” he says. “Max would need something, and I would delay my reaction or be preoccupied. I think he felt that.”
Like many grieving parents, Long focused on keeping life moving forward. By the time he connected with The Children’s Room nearly two years later, he wasn’t even sure he needed the support. He thought he was doing fine. He was mostly going to see whether it would help Max.
Instead, he discovered how much of his own grief he had set aside.
“The reality was, I had shut up most of those feelings to keep moving on in my life,” he says. “This space allowed me to open that door again.”
As he connected with other parents, Long found something he hadn’t realized he was missing: community. Not people who had experienced the exact same loss, but people who understood what it felt like to rebuild a life after one.
“I really looked at the people who were a few years ahead of me,” he says. “They were role models of how to walk that journey.”
At the same time, he noticed changes in Max. After joining group, Max began drawing pictures of their family again. Their red house. Himself. His dad. And always, Kim.
What struck Long wasn’t just that Kim appeared in every drawing. It was the way Max remembered her. While Long often approached those memories cautiously, worried about the pain they might bring, Max spoke about his mom with warmth and joy.
“If he can remember his mom joyfully,” Long says, “why can’t I?”
Today, when Long talks about The Children’s Room, he doesn’t start with the programs. He talks about the people. The parents who understood. The friendships that formed. The realization that grief didn’t have to be carried alone.
For a long time, he thought his path would be a lonely one. Instead, he found a community of people willing to walk alongside him, each carrying their own story, but understanding something words often struggle to explain.
Editor’s Note: This story draws from interviews with Long and was originally featured in The Children’s Room’s 2024 Annual Appeal. It has been adapted for the “30 Years, 30 Stories” series on Substack.
About This Series: 30 Years, 30 Stories is an ongoing collection of reflections from the community that has shaped The Children’s Room over the past three decades. For 30 years, all of our services have been offered free of charge to grieving children, teens, and families thanks to the generosity of our community. Learn more or support our work at childrensroom.org.
