The following is my speech that I gave at the Worldwide Candle Lighting this past Sunday, December 8th. It was not only an honor to be asked to speak, but it was a very emotional night to sit in a room full of grieving families who have lost a child of any age. It is something that I will carry with me for a long time to come. It is a long read as the speech was 15 minutes long. :) I hope that by your reading this that you will understand the depths of pain & grief a parent goes through when facing the loss of their child.
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Good evening. Hi, my name is Angie Hanson—or Angila, as you may see on my book. I want to begin by expressing my deepest gratitude to The Compassionate Friends chapter in Omaha for inviting me to speak at this year’s 2024 Worldwide Candle Lighting. It is both an honor and a privilege to stand before you, united in love for the children who have gone before us.
Tonight, we gather as families who carry the weight of a loss that words can never fully capture. We are united by a shared, unspoken pain—but more than that, by an unyielding love for our children who are no longer here. Whether you’ve lost a child, grandchild, sibling—or, like some of us, have endured even more loss—this room holds the shared strength of our grief and the shared light of our hope. Tonight is about honoring the lives of our children, cherishing their memories, and finding ways to carry their light forward.
I want to begin with a message of hope. Hope—a word that can feel so distant when your world has been shattered, yet it’s a word I want to gently place in your hearts tonight. Because hope is not about forgetting. Hope is what carried me through my darkest days: Hope is not the absence of grief; it is the courage to believe there is still beauty in life, even when it feels impossible to see. Moving forward isn’t about ‘moving on’—it’s about carrying our children with us in every step we take. It’s about choosing, every single day, to honor their legacy by how we live, love, and remember.
And resilience—it isn’t about being unbreakable; it’s about allowing yourself to be reshaped by loss. Resilience is showing up, day after day, to live a life that still has meaning, still has purpose, even as you carry the ache of your child’s absence. As we come together to honor these beloved children, we also honor our collective resilience. Each of us here is a testament to the unbreakable bond of love we share with them. And through their memory, we find the courage to hope again, to live again, and to carry their legacy forward. Yes, you are resilient by choosing to be here tonight.
When we lose a child, the future we imagined for them—and for ourselves—is rewritten in an instant. It feels impossible to take even one step beyond the pain. But here’s what I’ve learned on my journey: moving forward is not about leaving them behind. It’s about choosing to live in a way that keeps their spirit alive. It’s about allowing their memory to inspire us to create, to give, and to love with an even deeper purpose.
I stand before you not just as someone who has walked the path of loss, but as someone who has chosen resilience. I’ve felt the crushing weight of grief, having lost my son, my husband, and my brother within two and a half years of each other. I’ve sat in the quiet darkness, wondering if I could ever find joy again. But I also stand here to tell you that even in the deepest sorrow, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. That light is hope. It is resilience. And it is the love we have for our children, which endures far beyond their physical presence.
June 2006 is when my world was completely changed forever, and the reality of my perfect, beautiful life was shattered. My one year old son, Garret, was at his daycare provider’s house along with my four year old daughter, Graci. There was love, trust, and fun all around them on this sunny day. I received a call around 5:00 pm that Tuesday evening, and an unknown stranger’s voice was on the other line telling me that my son Garret was being life-flighted to the hospital after our daycare provider had found him unconscious after she tried to wake him from his nap. Arriving in the hospital and walking into the sterile “room”, and listening to the doctors tell me and my husband Jack that, indeed, our son Garret had died. The gravity of these words filled our world with brokenness.
We learned the truth eventually—our son had an undetected heart defect. The words sounded distant, like they were happening to someone else, not us. But the questions came, relentless and heavy. How do we move forward? How do we even breathe without him? The ache felt bottomless. There were moments when it seemed impossible to move, like our hearts had been raged by this storm. Our home, once filled with laughter, felt hollow, and I feared what our future looked like.
Answers didn’t come easily. They were the smallest things—a smile from our daughter, a kind word from a friend, a glimmer of something like hope. Faith felt distant, and love was fragile, and resilience? It was not a story we were ready to write yet. But life kept pulling us forward in its quiet, persistent way. I learned that grief would test me again and again as if daring me to find strength I didn’t believe I had. Leaning into faith wasn’t always a choice—it was sometimes the only thing left to cling to.
A year after our son had died, I truly thought that I wouldn’t be able to move forward with life. My husband Jack was diagnosed with Stage 4 terminal cancer, Ocular Melanoma, with metastasis to his brain, liver, & spleen. I knew then and there that our fight for our own survival of grieving our son was going to have to change course. It was now a full-on battle of keeping my husband alive.
Jack never lost the will to want to live life to its fullest, watch his daughter grow into a beautiful young lady, and live a life we had built around hope, faith, and love. Jack battled with the highest of dignity, and we battled together for our own marriage, navigating the sudden loss of our son and the deteriorating life of my husband. Jack lost his courageous battle with cancer on February 8, 2009. This was just two short years after our son Garret had died. My world went from a dream to a storm that was out of control, with no hope in sight for myself or my daughter.
My brother Seth—who had been living with a brain tumor for five years—began to show symptoms again shortly after Jack’s death. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach, the disbelief. The odds of this becoming serious now, after everything? Surely not. But life has a way of unfolding without mercy. On April 7, 2009—exactly two months after Jack’s death and almost two and a half years after we buried Garret—Seth lost his cancer battle. I felt like I was watching the pillars of my life crumble one by one, and I was powerless to stop it.
At this point, I knew that I HAD to choose a path. I had to choose if I would live in faith or doubt, courage or fear, hope or despair; I had to choose to believe. I uncovered a resilience that would become my greatest lifeline. I practiced the 3 C’s of Life: Choices, Chances, and Changes. I had to make a CHOICE whether to give up or survive each day. I chose to survive, and by doing that, I had to take a CHANCE on my broken heart and teach it to love and live. During this process, I slowly saw my life CHANGE into a beautiful story of heartbreak, death, love, hope, and resilience.
Hope doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s built slowly, choice by choice. And I believe there are small steps you can take to invite hope into your life again.
First, allow yourself to grieve, but also give yourself permission to live. Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving your loved one behind—it means carrying their memory with you in everything you do. Whether it’s creating a tradition in their honor, speaking their name aloud, or finding other meaningful ways to keep their spirit alive, let their legacy be your guide.
For me, journaling has always been a way to honor that legacy—a safe space to capture memories, emotions, and milestones. It’s a powerful reminder of how far we’ve come on this journey of grief. And who knows? Perhaps one day, your words could take the shape of a book, sharing your story and inspiring others in ways you never imagined
Second, surround yourself with love and understanding. Grief can often feel isolating, but you are not alone in this journey. Seek out your people—the ones who remind you that it’s okay not to have it all together and who are willing to walk beside you through the hard days. Look for communities of support, like the one Compassionate Friends offers. Whether it’s attending their monthly meetings or finding group coaching and guidance elsewhere, connecting with others who truly understand can be a powerful source of healing.
And finally, seek out small moments of joy and gratitude. At first, these moments may feel fleeting—a beautiful sunrise, a kind word—but over time, they weave into the fabric of a new, hopeful life. One simple practice I always recommend is giving yourself at least five minutes of sunshine each day. Feel the warmth on your face, breathe in the fresh air, and let nature work its quiet magic. It’s one of life’s most powerful healing elements, gently shifting your mind and nurturing your heart.
Grief has a way of consuming us, often leaving little energy for anything else. That’s why self-care is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. It’s about giving yourself permission to rest, to breathe, and to tend to your own needs without guilt. Whether it’s taking a quiet walk, journaling, seeking professional support, or simply allowing yourself a moment to cry, self-care helps replenish your strength for the journey ahead. Remember, caring for yourself isn’t about forgetting your grief; it’s about equipping yourself to carry it with resilience and grace.
As we approach the holiday season, I know how heavy these days can feel. Traditions that once brought joy may now feel hollow. The absence of their laughter at the dinner table is deafening. But what if we reframed this season? What if, instead of focusing solely on what’s missing, we found ways to weave their legacy into our celebrations? What if we lit a candle in their honor, wrote them a letter, or did something kind in their name?
I am beyond grateful for the path I chose because it has allowed me to have a passion and mission to help other grieving people across the world. I poured my heart into my “grief” greeting card business called Butterflies + Halos. My cards are to help friends navigate the grief journey because words matter, and when words fail, cards speak. My cards are crafted with care and provide comfort that words can’t always express. I also recently published my first memoir, “Chapters of a Resilient Heart,” in June 2024 to honor my people. It’s a beautiful story of their lives and deaths, how we survived, honor, hope, faith, dating, remarrying, and, of course, RESILIENCE. Starting in 2025, I will be offering grief coaching as part of my new certification. My mission is simple, I will use my knowledge and teachings to help guide others through their own journey of grief and help them also find their resilience. I want to ensure that no one feels unseen in their grief, and I want to continue to inspire others to navigate loss with grace, courage, and empathy.
Through this journey of loss, I had to feel the incredible power of the human spirit to rise above adversity and find hope in the darkest moments. I found that there was light by leaning into the ones that needed me most while living through grief. My mission is to guide others through life’s darkest times and help them find their resilience. I also followed my own wisdom and writing by telling people; may you find the strength within your heart, turn the pages of your own story with grace and fortitude, and emerge from the shadows with a heart that is, indeed, resilient.
And, tonight, as we light our candles, we remember the light of our children. They will always be a part of us, and we honor them by choosing to carry that light forward. This holiday season, I encourage you to lean into their love, to allow yourself to feel joy where it arises, and to know that healing is not forgetting—it is embracing both the grief and the hope.
Thank you for allowing me to share my heart with you tonight. I see your pain, but I also see your strength. Together, we can find hope again.