Still Standing: Teresa Busby on Grief, Faith, and Becoming Whole Again

Teresa Busby is an author, mother, and woman of faith whose story speaks to resilience, healing, and the quiet strength it takes to keep going when life shifts without warning. Originally from Sumner, Mississippi, and now residing in north Mississippi, Teresa is a devoted single mother of three whose life was forever altered by the tragic loss of her seven-year-old son in a train accident in 2008. What followed was not an easy road, but it became the foundation of a deeper purpose.

Rooted in service and empathy, Teresa earned her Bachelor’s degree in Social Work from Mississippi Valley State University and is currently completing her Master’s degree in Social Work at Union University, with graduation anticipated in 2026. Her academic path reflects the heart behind her work. She is committed to helping others navigate grief, identity, and healing with honesty and compassion.

In December 2022, Teresa released her first book, Will I Ever Get Married, a reflective exploration of love, faith, and personal growth. Her latest book, A Shadow of a Mother: Broken Pieces, published in November 2025, is a deeply personal account of motherhood after loss. Through transparent storytelling, Teresa opens space for readers who have experienced grief, depression, loneliness, and moments of feeling unseen. She does not write from a place of having all the answers, but from lived experience and survival.

Despite enduring profound emotional challenges, Teresa continues to lean on her faith as her anchor. Her work is a reminder that healing is not linear, and purpose can still emerge from broken places. As she looks ahead to future initiatives in 2026, Teresa remains committed to sharing her story, supporting others on their journeys, and using her voice to bring light to conversations many are afraid to have.

We had the pleasure of asking Teresa a few more questions about her journey. Here is what she said.

COFFEA: Looking back, were there signs in your childhood or early adulthood that writing, service, or storytelling would one day become central to your purpose?

TERESA: Before I could even help, I learned how people make sense of things: character, problems, metaphors, and thinking things through. So, telling stories isn't just something I can do; it's the base of what I am.

Talking wasn't just about facts; it was about people.

Early on, I noticed people weren’t just looking for information. They wanted to:

* Understand loss

* Say what they believed even if they couldn't explain it.

* Ask questions about life, faith, and who they are.

To respond well, I had to be kind and understanding, not just correct. That made me want to help by using language.

Writing connected what I knew with caring for people. I wasn’t just made to give answers, but to listen to questions. Writing lets me do that: slowing stuff down, showing what things mean, and letting people hear their own thoughts better. I realized writing wasn't just about making words; it was about helping others.

COFFEA: Writing A Shadow of a Mother: Broken Pieces required revisiting moments many people might avoid. What told you that you were ready to turn your healing journey into words others could read?

TERESA: I figured out I was ready to write not when the pain went away, but when the way I felt about it changed. For a while, those memories hurt; they were private and I was defensive. Writing about them then would have felt like exposing myself, maybe even hurting myself more. Back then, healing was just about getting by. But I became ready quietly, almost without me noticing, when the memories weren't so sharp and I could hold them instead of fighting them. The moments I used to avoid started coming back, not as attacks, but as chances to understand them, not hiding them. When a memory wants to be understood more than protected, it's ready to be written about.

At first, I just wrote in my diary to heal. My book, A Shadow of a Mother Broken Pieces, came about when I realized my words might help someone else. It wasn't about giving answers, but about letting them know they're not alone. I didn't want people to be impressed by how strong I was; I wanted them to feel less alone in their own broken stories.

I was ready when I knew that broken pieces don't become perfect again. The truth could still be messy, unfinished, and worth saying. In the end, it wasn't. Am I healed enough to write this? Can I tell the truth without losing myself? When I could finally say yes, even on bad days, that's when I could put my story into words that others could read.

COFFEA: As a mother raising two teenage daughters while carrying the memory of your son, how do you navigate motherhood differently today, especially when it comes to protecting joy and honesty in your household?

TERESA: As a mom, I now realize happiness isn't a given, so I intentionally make sure we have it. Losing my son changed how I view time, truth, and being gentle. I no longer think love alone keeps kids safe. With my daughters, I focus less on messing up and more on appreciating who they are while they're here.

I make sure we have fun by letting it be noisy and natural. We laugh without feeling bad. We celebrate regular days. I don't wait for everything to be perfect, to be cheerful. Grief showed me that happiness doesn't ignore loss; it exists with it. My daughters see that happiness isn't pretending; it's how we keep going. I pick being real over being perfect. I don’t act tough. They know I'm sad sometimes, but it's not their job to fix it. By being honest in ways they can understand, I show them that feelings don't need to be secreted to be controlled.

After my loss, I realized how easily we can lose touch with each other, so I guard our relationship. I ask questions and listen to them even when I don't like the answers. I let them disagree. I want home to be a place where they can always be honest, even as they grow up. I parent with memories, not worries. My son is part of our family, not as a scary story, but as someone who reminds us to love deeply. Remembering him makes me kinder, not stricter. It shows me that I can't control everything, but I can stay connected.

I mother today knowing that my daughters don't need me to promise they'll be safe or cheerful. They need me to be real, reliable, and open, to show them a life where happiness is a choice and honesty is always okay. That’s how I protect what’s important now: not by hiding them from pain, but by showing them they can handle the truth and still be loving.

COFFEA: You openly acknowledge experiences with depression and suicidal thoughts. What role did storytelling, therapy, or community play in helping you choose to stay and continue healing?

TERESA: Each person in my life had a different part to play, but all together, they were like a strong net that caught me when I was falling apart. Telling stories gave me a way to speak when I just wanted to shut down. When you feel depressed and have thoughts about ending your life, it's easy to feel alone. You start thinking that what you're feeling is too awful to talk about, or that you should be ashamed. Writing broke through that. At first, all I could write were bits and pieces: pictures, scenes, sentences that didn't go anywhere. But even those little pieces were a reminder that I was still part of the world. Telling stories didn't make everything better, but it kept me connected. As long as I was writing, I was choosing to be curious instead of just giving up.

Being part of a community reminded me that I was important, even when I didn't feel like it. On the worst days, I didn't keep going because I felt strong or hopeful. I kept going because someone knew me, knew my story, and would notice if I was gone. Sometimes that community was close friends. Sometimes it was just one person checking in. Sometimes it was knowing that my daughters needed a mom who was honest instead of silence. Having a community didn't make the darkness go away, but it made disappearing feel less possible.

What really helped me choose to stay wasn't suddenly loving life. It was starting to believe that pain could be talked about, shared, and dealt with, instead of just suffering through alone. For me, getting better has never been a straight path. Even now, it's something I'm always working on. But telling stories, going to therapy, and having a community taught me this: What you think isn't a command you have to follow. How you feel isn't what will happen. And choosing to stay, even when you're not perfect, is a brave thing that gets easier over time. That's what keeps me going.

COFFEA: Your background in social work gives you both personal and professional insight into trauma. How has your education shaped the way you process your own pain and advocate for others?

TERESA: Studying social work gave me something I was missing before, it changed everything, pain felt like a personal thing that was happening to me, and that I should have been able to stop it or get over it faster. Social work taught me to see pain as something personal and as part of a bigger system. This helped me see my own story in a new light. It helped me take things less personally without making them seem less important.

Learning about trauma, like how the body responds, how emotional wounds form, and how grief changes the brain, let me stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?” Instead, I could ask, “What happened, and why does it make sense that I feel this way?” This question is easier to answer. It allowed me to be kind to myself without excusing bad behavior or avoiding responsibility. It taught me to heal at my own speed.

Social work puts focus on being ready, getting consent, and staying calm. I learned that healing isn’t about ripping wounds open to show how strong you are; it’s about taking things slow, with support, and stopping when you need to. I learned that it’s okay to rest, to take a break, and to heal a little at a time, instead of all at once. It made me a better advocate because it’s centered on respect.

I learned that people aren't problems that need to be fixed. They know their own lives best. This idea shapes how I treat others: I listen more than I try to fix things. I ask before I make assumptions. I help by sharing what people already know about themselves, especially those who haven't been listened to in the past. It also taught me to have strong limits.

Knowing the risks of burnout and secondary trauma forced me to take my own limits seriously. Helping others shouldn’t cost you your own well-being. I learned that taking care of myself is part of taking care of others.

Most importantly, social work helped me connect my own pain to my work in a way that makes sense, without letting it take over my life. My experiences give me understanding; my education gives me a way to help. I learned that people do not require to be saved. They need to be believed, supported, and they need to have the space to make their own options. This changed how I heal and how I help others do the same.

COFFEA: What part of your journey do you still struggle to talk about publicly?

TERESA: What I have a hard time talking about is how mixed my feelings were, feeling love, relief, anger, sadness, and just being worn out all at once. People are usually okay with hearing about tough times or how you bounced back. But they don't really get that getting better doesn't make all your feelings pure. I had times where I didn't feel brave or strong, or even feel like things would get better, and those times didn't teach me some big lessons also when I wanted to rest instead of getting better. Not that I wanted to die but I wanted to stop being on guard all the time, stop being responsible, and stop having to be the strong one. People don't get that kind of tired, and I'm careful when I talk about it because people can easily get the wrong idea or judge me. The tricky feelings I had about being a mom after losing someone.

I love my girls so much. But sometimes, being sad makes being a mom harder, not easier. Saying that you can love someone but still be tired or that you can be happy but also scared feels risky because everyone expects moms to be grateful all the time, no questions asked. The anger that I couldn't really aim at anything.

People want you to seem like you're always getting better. But some days, even now, the bad memories come back not because I messed up, but because bad experiences leave a mark on you. Saying that out loud goes against the idea that telling your story once is enough to get rid of the pain. I’m starting to get that keeping things private doesn’t mean you’re hiding something, it means you’re being careful. Respecting that is part of how I’m getting better now. What I can tell you is this: just because I have a hard time talking about some stuff doesn't mean it controls me. It means I'm trying to be careful with it until, or if, I feel like sharing it.

COFFEA: Looking ahead to 2026, how do you envision expanding your work beyond books, whether through advocacy, speaking, or community healing initiatives?

TERESA: Looking ahead to 2026, I see my work growing outward, focusing on real-time healing spaces instead of just staying on the page. Besides writing books, here's what I'm thinking about. I want to use my life experiences and social work background to influence policy, education, and how things are done. I'm especially interested in maternal mental health, dealing with loss after losing a child, stopping suicide, and care that understands trauma. This means working with groups, helping make training programs, and making sure support systems consider what real people need.

If I'm speaking in 2026, I don't want it to be about perfect success stories. I want to create comfortable, real-feeling spaces. I want talks that make people think. There should be room for quiet, questions, and being honest about feelings. I want people to feel like they're part of a conversation, not just watching someone talk. Creating safe community healing spaces, I'm interested in leading small groups, like writing groups or grief support, where people can share their stories without feeling like they have to be fixed or put on a show. This wouldn't be the same as therapy, but it would show how powerful it is to connect with others and share experiences.

Growing in a way that protects my well-being, most importantly, I want to grow in a way that doesn't make me disappear into my work. By 2026, I want my growth to show that you can do work that matters without losing yourself. You can have boundaries, rest, and stay true to yourself. What I really want isn't a bigger stage, but a bigger community, where stories create, leads to pushing for what's right, and doing what's right stays rooted in caring for each other.

COFFEA: For aspiring authors and creatives who feel called to share their story but are unsure how to start, what practical first step would you recommend they take today?

TERESA: Start privately, keep it real, and be yourself, forget the audience, just listen to what your gut tells you. The best thing you can do right now is this:

Write a page you'll never show anyone.

Set a timer for 10–15 minutes. Pick a moment, a picture, or a feeling, don't try to tell your whole life story and just write it like it comes out, don't try to make it sound deep or make sense. Forget about writing well. Don't explain things. Don't wrap it up nicely. Just say what really happened in that one little piece of time.

Here's why it's good:

* It makes it easier. You're not turning into a writer; you're just getting in touch with your own way of talking.

* It makes the story feel safe. Stories come out when they feel secure.

* It shows you how your body feels when you're being honest, where you need to slow down, take a break, or just stop for a second.

When the time is up, stop. Do something that makes you feel calm. Close the book or your computer. The point is to start and finish, not to keep going no matter what.

Once you can do that, the rest is easy: going back to the page, seeing what repeats, and learning how to write better. That's how most real creative things get started, not with knowing what you're doing, but with saying it's okay to try.