"I am his mother."
Thank you to everyone who read my story and for the outpouring of love and support. I feel seen, heard, and validated — and that is helping to soften the rough edges of this intense grief. It means more to me than you will ever know.
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I am his mother.
Two weeks ago, I lost my son, Owen Briggs. The grief is unrelenting. There are no words big enough to hold the weight of losing him — and yet, I’ve found myself needing to speak. Because while I’m mourning Owen, I’ve also been forced to face another kind of heartbreak:
I was left out of his obituary.
Erased. Silenced. As if I wasn’t his mother.
As if I wasn’t there the day he was born. As if I didn’t kiss scraped knees, sing lullabies, stay up through sickness, fight for him, love him with every ounce of my being. As if I didn’t carry him in my body and in my heart for every single day of his life. He had my curly hair and my whole heart.
I am his mother.
That cannot be written out.
My name should have been there. Not because I need attention, but because I was — and always will be — a central part of his life and story.
I saw the way he showed tenderness to little kids, old souls, and people who were struggling — because he understood struggle, more than most.
And I was the one who saw his pain. I heard the words no parent ever wants to hear. I knew the darkness he was facing — and I fought like hell to get him help.
When he told me he planned to take his own life by intentionally crashing his car, I did everything I could. I took away his license. I sold his car. I hospitalized him. I begged for help and a united front from those that love him. I was ignored. Dismissed. Called crazy. My own mental health and parenting were attacked — both publicly and privately.
My desperate attempts to save my son’s life remain unanswered in my inbox.
And yes, the fight to save my son came at a cost. When you’re a parent trying to save your child’s life, sometimes love takes the shape of hard decisions. Boundaries, interventions, ultimatums, things they don’t understand in the moment — and it can create distance. Over the last year, I had to make painful decisions. I had to set boundaries. I had to say no. I had to hold him accountable for his actions that were warning signs of a deeper issue. And at times, that created distance between us — but never, not for one second, did it mean I loved him any less. I was trying to keep him alive. I was trying to bring him back to himself.
And now, my son is gone.
Owen died by suicide. And even in the darkest moments of his life, he never stopped being loving, funny, and full of light. He mattered. He was not invisible.
Neither am I.
I am his mother. I will not be erased from his story — not in life, not in death, not ever. To be left out of the words meant to honor him is a cruelty I’ll never forget, but it will not silence me.
To the mothers who’ve been left out, to anyone who has fought for someone they love and still lost them — I see you. I carry this grief with you. And I hope you know that you are not alone.
Owen Briggs was deeply loved.
He is deeply loved.
By me. Always.
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Thank you for reading with care. There are two sides to every story. This is my truth, and my heart. Please be kind in the comments — and in the world. We never know what someone is carrying.
Original Obituary Owen
Briggs Obituary - Brookfield, WI | Schramka Funeral Homes
Revised Obituary Owen
Briggs Obituary (2007 - 2025) - Legacy Remembers
If you or someone you know is struggling, please know that help is always available. You are not alone. For immediate support, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.