Consistency Is a Love Language

People tell me all the time how lucky I am to have such a great support system.

And I know what they mean.

I do have people.

I have friends who show up. People who check in. People who help. People who love me. People who have carried pieces of this life when I absolutely could not carry all of it myself.

I am grateful for them.

But there is something people don’t understand about support after loss.

Support can exist and still feel unstable.

Because what happens when the support system is constantly changing?

Different people.

Different personalities.

Different schedules.

Different availability.

Different opinions.

Different expectations.

Different energy.

Different versions of “I’m here if you need me.”

Imagine waking up every day and not knowing who your safe person is going to be that day.

Who has time.

Who is overwhelmed.

Who is upset with you.

Who agrees with the decisions you’re making.

Who thinks you’re grieving correctly.

Who thinks you should be further along.

Who thinks you’re doing too much.

Who thinks you’re not doing enough.

Who wants to help but only in the way they think you should be helped.

Yes, technically, there is support.

But consistency?

That is something entirely different.

And I don’t think I understood how much I needed consistency until my entire life became inconsistent.

When someone dies, especially someone who was woven into every part of your life, you don’t just lose a person.

You lose routine.

You lose predictability.

You lose the person who was automatically there.

You lose the person you didn’t have to schedule.

You lose the person you didn’t have to wonder about.

You didn’t have to ask whether they had time for you.

You didn’t have to wonder whether they would still be around next week.

They were simply part of the architecture of your life.

And then suddenly they aren’t.

So when everything else starts shifting too, it is exhausting in a way that is hard to explain.

I don’t need a hundred people standing around me.

I need a few people I don’t have to question.

That is the difference.

Consistency says:

I’m still here.

Consistency says:

You don’t have to earn access to me today.

Consistency says:

You don’t have to wonder whether I love you based on my mood, your choices, or whether I agree with you.

Consistency says:

You already know what you’re getting from me.

And after living through a life-changing loss, there is something incredibly comforting about knowing what you are going to get.

Because I have had enough surprises.

I have had enough life-altering phone calls.

Enough unexpected changes.

Enough people entering and exiting.

Enough relationships shifting.

Enough wondering what tomorrow is going to look like.

I don’t crave excitement anymore.

I crave safe.

I crave predictable.

I crave people whose words and actions match.

I crave the kind of relationship where I don’t have to study someone’s behavior to figure out where I stand.

I crave consistency.

And maybe the hardest layer of all of this is that it isn’t only happening to me.

I watch the same revolving door surround my kids.

And somehow that hurts worse.

They lost their dad too.

Their world changed too.

Their sense of normal disappeared too.

And while adults may look at them and think they are resilient—and they are—I also know what it costs them every time another relationship changes.

Every time another routine disappears.

Every time someone who was heavily present becomes less present.

Every time plans change.

Every time they have to adjust to a new version of what family or support looks like.

Kids notice.

They may not always articulate it.

They may not sit down and explain that inconsistency is affecting their nervous system or their sense of security.

But they notice who keeps showing up.

They notice who disappears.

They notice who only comes around when things are easy.

They notice who chooses them.

And as their mom, I notice too.

That is probably where my tolerance has changed the most.

I can handle disappointment aimed at me.

I can handle people changing their minds about me.

I can handle being misunderstood.

I have survived worse.

But watching my children repeatedly adjust to adults who cannot decide how involved they want to be?

That one is harder for me to overlook.

Because they have already had enough taken from them.

They should not have to keep wondering who is staying.

So when I say consistency matters to me now, I’m not asking for perfection.

I’m not asking someone to answer every phone call.

I’m not asking anyone to abandon their own life to take care of mine.

I am asking for something much simpler.

Be who you say you are.

If you love us, love us consistently.

If you want to be part of our lives, be part of our lives.

If you say you are going to show up, show up.

If something changes, communicate it.

And if you cannot be consistent, at least be honest about that.

Because uncertainty is exhausting when you have already lost the person you thought would be there forever.

People see the number of people surrounding me and assume that means I must always feel supported.

But support isn’t measured in bodies.

It isn’t measured in how many people attended the funeral.

It isn’t measured in how many people texted during the first few weeks.

It isn’t measured by how many people say, “Call me if you need anything.”

Support is measured over time.

In ordinary Tuesdays.

In boring weeks.

In months when nobody is checking the calendar to see how long it has been since the tragedy.

In showing up after the casseroles stop coming.

In remembering that grief didn’t end because everyone else went back to their lives.

And perhaps most importantly:

In being the same safe person tomorrow that you told me you were today.

Because after everything has changed, consistency doesn’t feel boring.

It feels like safety.

It feels like trust.

It feels like love.