The Dance I'll Never Have

Last weekend, I stood in a room glowing with twinkle lights and the warmth of love. It was a beautiful celebration—our dear friends' son had just married the love of his life. The air was filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the joy of two families becoming one.

And then came that moment. The moment every mother of a son dreams about—the Mother/Son dance.

I watched as my beautiful friend took the hand of her grown boy, now a husband. She beamed with pride. He looked down at her with a tender smile. And they danced. Surrounded by applause, tears, and camera flashes… they danced.

And I wept.

No matter how hard I tried to smile, to soak in the joy of the moment for someone I love, the tears came anyway. Not quiet, controllable tears—but the kind you choke back when grief punches you without warning.

Because that dance is the one I’ll never have.

My son, Ryan, was taken from this world far too soon. Six days after his twentieth birthday, he died by suicide. I will never get to straighten his tie, watch his face light up as he sees his bride, or feel his strong arms gently wrap around me on the dance floor. This side of heaven, that moment is gone.

Grief is strange in how it finds you—often right in the middle of someone else’s joy. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy for my friends. I am. I truly am. But celebration and sorrow can sit in the same room. I can rejoice for others while my own heart aches with a longing that will never be fulfilled in this lifetime.

Still, I don’t grieve as one without hope.

As I sat in that moment of loss, God gently whispered truth into the ache: “This is not the end of your story.”

We love and serve a God who brings dead things back to life. A God who turns mourning into dancing (Psalm 30:11), even if the dance looks different than we imagined. A God who reminds us that where brokenness abounds, He abounds even more.

I didn’t get the dance I dreamed of. But I cling to the promise that there is a day coming—where there will be no more death, or mourning, or crying, or pain. A day when every tear will be wiped away, and joy will be unshakable and complete.

Until then, I hold tight to Jesus. I grieve with hope. And I wait for the day when Ryan and I will meet again—whole, healed, and perhaps, in the presence of angels… we’ll dance.