Filters are everywhere these days. With AI taking over so much of our digital world, it feels like there’s a filter for everything. But filters aren’t new. We’ve used them on our phones for years—first to turn a photo black and white, then sepia, then “vintage.” Especially in our phones. We have used them for many years, mostly what started innocently, simply to change our photos from color to black and white and when we got advanced, sepia, the “vintage” look.
But nowadays, filters have taken on a whole different
meaning and do just about anything. Not
only can you change the color to black and white, but you can change it to
blue, purple, or orange. You can change
it so it’s a vibrant rainbow with a pronounced shadow behind you. You can erase the background and create a
whole new one. And you can even create a
brand new YOU if you want to. And therein
lies the problem.
Now I could take this in direction, which I will probably
do, another day, but for today, I want to stay right here and talk about grief
filters.
Filters in some instances are good. But in grief, not so much. Filters make things “easier to look at,” but
grief isn’t meant to be edited, softened, or color‑corrected. It’s meant to be
lived, felt, carried, and spoken. Out
loud. Too often there is pressure to
tidy up our pain so others don’t have to witness it. No.
Why should we???
Can we remove the filters from grief? Can we remove the filters from OUR
grief? Can we just be real?
I’ve just come down from remembering my Joseph’s birthday—my
precious son, gone almost eleven years now because of a dreadful, terrible,
awful, no‑fault‑of-his-own car incident. (I still refuse to call it an
accident. An accident is unintentional. But when you intentionally drive
distracted, you are intentionally creating the conditions for a tragedy. And
that’s what happened).
Anyway, the days prior I was fine. I knew his birthday was coming. We are always painfully aware of the dates
surrounding our loved ones, (even those we try to filter). Those dates live inside us. They don’t
sneak up; they sit quietly and wait. So I knew his birthday was on the
horizon. And it didn’t bother me. At least I thought so. But when I woke up, I didn’t know what to
feel. I felt off. Lost. And I just
really missed him—deeply, painfully, wordlessly.
As I sat down to write about him, I found myself struggling.
How do you express the missing? Him being a poet, I don’t even think he can
come up with the words to describe the missing that I’m feeling?” How do you put into words the ache of a child
you carried, birthed, fed, nurtured, bathed, shopped for, laughed with, cried
with, prayed over, and celebrated twenty‑one birthdays with? He was 22, we only missed one.
I have two daughters. I can call them. I can say “Happy
Birthday.” I can buy them gifts. But I can’t do that with Joseph anymore.
What do you do with those emotions? Those feelings? Where do they go? You can’t hide from them.
You can’t change the filter. There is none.
But yet we try. We put
on a face. Change the subject. Change the scenery. Create a distraction. No matter where we go, or what we do, don’t
you know that we cannot run from our grief?
No filter can cover it. No filter
can alter the scenery of what happened.
No filter can change the background.
No filter can change your pain.
Your feelings. Your loss.
There is no filter for grief.
I recently had a conversation with someone. And I told them that my Joe’s birthday was
coming up and the person’s response was, “I don’t like to talk about that
stuff.” I was like, “What? Well, I do?
I like talking about my son. I
know he’s not here. And I know that it
might hurt a little, but it makes me feel better when he’s remembered.” The person remained quiet and I kept on
talking but I wasn’t going to use a filter in my conversation.
Many people avoid grief because it reminds them of their own
fragility. But I wasn’t asking her to carry my pain— I speak of him so that he
can be remembered. I speak of him to
honor his life. All I want is to
acknowledge that he existed, that he mattered, that he still matters. That’s
not “sad stuff.” That’s love. Unfiltered.
No more grief filters.
Can we just remove them and be free?
I am.
Still walking in this shadow of grief, filter less.
Joe’s mom,
Sis. E
Evelyn Fannell ©2026
www.intheshadowofgrief.com
