The Love That Stays: Lessons in Showing Up Through Loss

“We are not only shaped by how we are loved…but by how we learn to love in return.” - Mary Coughlin

There are moments in life when everything becomes very clear; not easy or resolved, just clear. This is one of those moments.

Someone deeply loved in our family is nearing the end of her life. Annemarie.

She has been a steady, vibrant, and deeply meaningful presence in my children’s lives since they were very young. The kind of presence that doesn’t just show up—but stays, gives, creates.

When I was navigating life as a single parent, she stepped in — not out of obligation, but out of love. She would gather all six of my children and take them on adventures, sometimes day trips or weekends and sometimes whole weeks at a time.

She loves the Cape, especially Provincetown, and somehow managed to create these beautiful, expansive experiences that stretched their sense of courage and possibility, while at the same time surrounding them with safety, laughter, and belonging.

There was always a sense of freedom with her and also a sense of home.

In the past few days, my phone has been filled with messages from my kids: photos, memories, stories resurfacing from those years.

Pictures from the Cape. Moments at her home. Red boots. Memories of her beloved and slightly crazy cat, Gizmo. But what strikes me most is not just the memories themselves…it’s the way my children are showing up now.

Annemarie has been living with cancer for several years. And we are at a point where treatment is no longer bringing healing — only more strain on her body. She is tired. Her body is tired. And the reality is that we are approaching a threshold.

And still… what I am witnessing in my children is something I can only describe as profound.

They are devastated. Heartbroken, in the way that only deep love allows. And yet, they are not turning away. They are leaning in. They are gathering. Remembering. Loving her out loud.

My daughters are getting small rose tattoos on their ankles — something Annemarie has had for as long as they can remember. A symbol that once felt playful and “cool” has now become something more… a thread that will continue.

My sons, too, in their own ways, are holding her close — through stories, presence, and quiet acts of love. All of them — together with their children — are surrounding her with a kind of energy that is hard to put into words. But you can feel it.

Annemarie said recently that she wanted to leave the hospital, not because she was better but because she needed to be with her family. Because being with them…makes her feel alive.

And isn’t that what matters most? Not the treatments. Not the timelines. But the presence of love. The feeling of being held in it.

I find myself watching my children in awe.

Not because they are doing something extraordinary… but because they are embodying something deeply human. They are allowing their hearts to stay open in the presence of loss. They are choosing connection instead of protection. They are loving her fully even as they begin to say goodbye.

We are all, in some way, fighting something. Carrying something. Loving someone we cannot keep. And yet, within that… there is this...

This capacity to show up. To gather. To remember. To love without holding back.

I don’t know how much time we have left with Annemarie. But I do know this: she has already given something that will remain with us forever. Not just in the memories… but in the way these children, now grown, are showing up in the world with courage, with tenderness, and with love that stays.

Grateful, Mary