The Day Everything Changed: A Holy Week Reflection on Grief, Guilt, and Grace

By: Melody Rabor-Dizon

 

There are moments you never forget. Not because you want to remember them… but because your heart and body won’t let you.
This Holy Week feels different for me. Because this time, the story of suffering is no longer something I reflect on from a distance. It came into my own space. My own home.
We had invited family friends over. It was supposed to be a simple day—laughter, conversations, children playing. The kind of moment you don’t think twice about. I remember the baby. Seventeen months old. Playing. Smiling. Alive in the way only a child can be. And then—everything shifted.
In a moment that felt both too fast and too long… she was found face up in the pool. There are no words for that kind of moment. Only instinct. Training kicks in—but your heart is screaming. We pulled her out. We began resuscitation efforts. And in between compressions and breaths… there is a silence inside you that you cannot explain. Because part of you is functioning. And part of you is already breaking.
As a nurse, I know what to do. But in that moment, I was not just a nurse. I was there. I was present. I was witnessing something no one ever wants to witness. And when the immediate crisis passes, another wave comes.
Guilt. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. A quiet, persistent weight that settles in without words.
And then fear. Fear for the child. Fear for the family. Fear of what comes next—not just medically, but in every sense. Because tragedies like this don’t just stop at the moment. They ripple……Into grief…….Into questions……Into realities that feel too heavy to carry.
Even the legal weight begins to surface… quietly, but undeniably. And you find yourself standing in the middle of it all—trying to be strong, trying to be present, trying to hold space for everyone else… While you are still trying to make sense of it yourself.
What do you say in moments like this? When there are no right words. When a parent is breaking in front of you. When hope and fear are sitting in the same room. Sometimes… you don’t say anything.
You stand.
You stay.
You cry with them.
You hold their hand even when yours is shaking. Because presence becomes the language.
This Holy Week, I understand
suffering in a different way. Not as something distant. But as something real. Immediate. Human. And I am reminded—pain does not always come with answers.
Not everything can be explained. Not everything can be controlled. And yet, we carry it.
We carry the images. The emotions.
The weight of being “there.”
But here is what I am slowly learning: We were never meant to carry these moments alone.
Not the grief.
Not the fear.
Not the heaviness that follows.
Because sometimes, the deepest burden is not just what happened…
…but how much we try to hold within ourselves afterward.
As we walk through Holy Week, we are reminded of a different kind of surrender. Not giving up—but placing what we cannot hold into God’s hands. Trusting that even in tragedy… He is present. Even in silence… He hears. Even in brokenness…
there is still grace.
I don’t have all the answers. I am still processing. Still praying. Still holding space for a family that is walking through the unimaginable. But if there is anything
I can offer, it is this: Be gentle with yourself.
In moments like this, love was present. Care was present.
Humanity was present. And sometimes, even that cannot stop what we never saw coming.
So we grieve…..We pray…..We hold on to faith—however fragile it may feel. And we trust…..that God meets us even here.
— Unchained Melody
Start where you are. Ask for one thing. Share one truth. Take one hour off. Let that be the beginning.
Melody Dizon, RN, is the founder and Visionary CEO of Vital Signs Wellness. As a nurse, mother, and advocate for health in the Filipino-
American community, she writes Unchained Melody each month to give voice to the quiet strength, truth, and spirit of her readers.