It Happens in Threes

They say it happens in threes. I’ve heard that more times than I can count. But I don’t know if tragedy really strikes in neat, organized sets of three — or if when you’re in the thick of grief and trauma, every high and low feels sharper, deeper, and heavier than it ever did before. Maybe it’s not about the number at all, but about the way life keeps moving when yours has been shattered into pieces you barely recognize.

For us, it felt like our “threes” were never-ending.

I still remember the day my dad didn't wake up. That Monday morning phone call from my mom at 7 a.m., and before I even answered, my stomach dropped. I knew. Nothing good comes from a call like that before the sun is fully up. “Don’t ask questions. Three-way your sisters right now.” The words that would mark the beginning of what I now realize was a whole different life — a version of life where everything familiar was about to be ripped away.

That day, I watched my mom wrestle with every emotion imaginable. She was shattered, broken, trying to be strong because that’s what moms do. The fear of what life would look like without her person, without her husband of 31 years, was written all over her face. One of the first things she asked when she came home from the hospital was, “Am I going to be able to afford the house?” It sounds like such an impractical thing to worry about in the face of unimaginable loss, but grief hits like that. It pokes holes in every place you thought was solid. Even when we assured her she was fine financially, that fear of losing the stability she’d built her life around lingered in the background. I saw her battle with the depression, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of having to hold everything together while the world kept moving like nothing had changed. The endless tasks after someone dies — the paperwork, the calls, the decisions no one should have to make when their heart is breaking. And she did it. She did all of it.

Then two months later, life swung at us again.

As if the universe hadn’t already taken enough, my mom, the same woman still drowning in grief, was diagnosed with an aggressive, rare, and terminal cancer. Cholangiocarcinoma. It sounds like a made-up word when you first hear it, until you learn how devastatingly real it is. The next six months felt like a surreal blur, where we tried to keep up with normal lives — jobs, families, marriages — while also making sure she was never alone for an appointment, a scan, or a chemo session. My dad wouldn’t have let her do it alone, and neither would we. She was stubborn as hell, though. Independent, proud, and always more worried about everyone else than herself. She wouldn’t let us help with much at home, but we tried where we could. Grocery runs, laundry, sitting with her after treatments. Anything to soften the blow, even if it barely made a dent in the heaviness.

The hardest part was how, for a moment, we had hope. She was scheduled to meet with doctors at the Cleveland Clinic about joining a clinical trial. It wasn’t a promise or a cure, but it was a maybe — and sometimes a maybe is enough to keep you going. She just needed to make it one more week. One more. But deep down, I think she knew. When she went into the hospital that last time, she knew she wasn’t coming home. And then came the words no one ever wants to hear. There wasn’t a “when you get out” anymore. There was no more time to buy.

And just when you think you can’t possibly take one more hit, life reminds you that it doesn’t care how broken you already are.

The day my mom died, we hadn't even made it back home from the hospital before the text came in. My brother-in-law’s dad had taken his own life. I still don’t have words for how cruel that timing was. We hadn’t even begun to process this loss before another was thrown on top of it. My sister and brother in law, who were already dealing with the massive grief of losing dad suddenly, then mom after months of cancer treatment, were sucked right back in with the spiral with his dad's death. Suicide is a different kind of grief. According to the CDC, more than 49,000 people in the U.S. died by suicide in 2022 — the highest number ever recorded. What isn’t recorded, though, is the ripples it sends through the families left behind. The unanswered questions, the guilt, the anger, the aching confusion. When you’re already carrying grief, suicide adds a whole new weight. It makes everything you’re already dealing with feel heavier, darker, more impossible.

Would that have been our three? Dad. Mom. Brother-in-law’s dad. The big, headline moments that shaped a nine-month stretch of our lives in ways I still don’t fully understand. But the truth is, those were just the major events. In between them were dozens of other things. Work problems. Relationships stretched too thin. Family tensions. Sick pets. Broken down cars. Endless house maintenance. Arguments over stupid things. Things that, in a different time, would’ve been small. Inconveniences you could brush off, annoyances you could roll your eyes at. But when you’re in survival mode, every little thing feels like the thing that might finally break you. And sometimes it does.

It’s strange how when you’re in grief, the world keeps going. It keeps breaking, too. The heater breaks, the roof leaks, the dog gets sick, your car won’t start. Life doesn’t pause because you’re hurting. And when those everyday stressors pile up on top of deep, profound loss, it can feel like the dam is going to burst. You feel out of control, like no matter what you do, you can’t stop the bleeding. And maybe that’s why it feels so hopeless when everything keeps compounding. Because you’re in the middle of a storm you didn’t ask for, with no way out except through.

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim." — Vicki Harrison

I wish I could tell you there’s a way to fix it. A guide, a formula, a shortcut to make it easier. But there isn’t. There’s no checklist to make life stop being life when you’re already drowning. What you can do is hang on. Cry when you need to. Scream in your car. Text a friend who will just listen — not fix it, not offer solutions, just listen. You can find a healthy outlet, something that gives you a release without adding more pain. Walk, lift, write, paint, sit outside with your face in the sun. Tiny things, small actions, anchors in the chaos.

Life will keep moving, with or without you. The good, the terrible, and everything in between. And as cliché as it sounds, the only thing you can do is ride the waves. Let them hit you when they come, and trust that they will settle, even if only for a little while. It’s okay if it doesn’t feel okay. It’s okay if you don’t have answers. It’s okay if you’re just surviving.

They say it happens in threes. Who they are, I’ll never know. And maybe it does — maybe it’s endless cycles of threes, one after the other. I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know this — life is going to keep coming. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly. And somehow, we keep going too. We ride out the waves, even when we feel like we’re drowning. You will make it through. Somehow, some way. I promise. You are stronger than you realize. And I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.