Leaning Into Grief, One Push-Up at a Time

Grief can take many forms. Sometimes it looks like flipping through old photo albums. Sometimes it looks like a bereavement group or a community grief walk. 

And sometimes, unexpectedly, it looks like 2,000 push-ups in your kitchen. 

Honouring someone we love often brings comfort and connection. Some people donate to causes that carry special meaning, while others join fundraising challenge events that bring communities together through shared physical activity and collective support. Throughout the years, I have joined several fundraising and awareness events to stand with friends, family, and causes. I have participated in Light the Night, the AIDS Walk for Life, the CN Cycle for CHEO, Rattle Me Bones and the Wiggle Waggle Walkathon, each one supporting a community I care about. Many groups attend in matching shirts or carrying signs to honour the person they are walking, running, or cycling for, whether that person is in treatment or remembered with love.  

In the more than three years since losing my son, Caleb, to suicide, I hadn’t considered such initiatives or, to be honest, thought much about them at all. When his obituary was being written, those of us closest to him briefly talked about asking for donations to Kids Help Phone or our local distress center. But in the end, we decided against it; it didn’t feel right. As far as we know, Caleb never reached out to those services, and in many ways, he didn’t fit the usual expectations people have of a suicidal teen. Over time, some family members have made occasional donations to a local animal sanctuary we once visited together, a quiet tribute to Caleb’s deep affection for animals. That always felt meaningful in its own way. 

Then, last fall, I learned about the Push Up Challenge. It’s a nationwide mental health fundraising event in which participants commit to completing 2,000 push-ups over about three weeks in February, representing the roughly 2,000 lives lost to suicide globally each day. Each day includes a push-up target and a mental health fact, and participants track their progress through an app, form teams, and raise funds for the Canadian Mental Health Association – the national office or one of its 80+ branches across Canada. Alternative exercise to push-ups can be used, too. The idea is simply to move, raise awareness, and spark conversations. 

When I first read about it, I felt that this might finally be the right way to do something in Caleb’s memory. The challenge frames suicide within the broader context of mental health. And even though I’d never done a proper push up in my adult life, I’d leaned heavily into exercise as part of my grief, especially in that first year, and it still plays an important role. 

On November 27, 2025, just five days after the three-year anniversary of the worst day of my life, I signed up on a bit of a whim. I even created a team – not a real one with people yet, but the basic structure: a name, an image, a fundraising page, and a goal. Then I tucked it away in my mind and didn’t think much about it. 

As February approached, doubts crept in. Did I really want to draw fresh attention to my loss? Did I want to think about it in yet another way every day? And did it make sense to fundraise for an organization whose services I had never personally used? February was already shaping up to be busy. A friend and I had also signed up for a month-long gym challenge, and a sports team I’d joined in the fall was preparing for its final event. I enjoy physical activity, but I’m a perimenopausal woman in my forties with an office job and four children. I’m strong in my own way, but I’m not an elite athlete. I didn’t think I’d go through with it after all, at least not this year. 

It wasn’t until the morning of February first, Day One of the challenge, that I decided to commit. I stood in my kitchen with my morning coffee, staring at the newly revealed page on my wall calendar, and realized the doubts were gone. All I saw was an opportunity to raise awareness, connect with my community, and challenge my body and mind. 

I downloaded the app to my phone and started reaching out to people. I set up a Facebook fundraiser for friends and family, shared the link with colleagues from work through Microsoft Teams, messaged my book club on Messenger, and sent it to parents from my kids’ cheerleading and hockey teams. Because I’d created the page and team back in November, pulling the pin and launching it that morning was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was share the link. 

I knew almost immediately that I’d made the right call. That first day I raised nearly $400 toward my $1,000 goal, and seven people joined my team to undertake the challenge alongside me. The app was genuinely well designed. I started by doing push-ups over my kitchen island with the hope of reaching the floor by the end of the month. And, for the first time since signing up months previously, I felt excited instead of overwhelmed or apprehensive. 

Each day, I shared the mental health fact from the app in my Facebook stories, which made it feel like I was contributing to awareness in a small but meaningful way. The facts were well curated, informative, and framed the conversation around mental health in a positive, thoughtful manner. I shared the link to my group fundraising page, where I had shared Caleb’s story as the reason behind my participation. Almost incidentally, it brought his story to acquaintances and created moments of connection I hadn’t expected. 

My twelve-year-old daughter had heard about the challenge at school, where one of her teachers, independently of my involvement, was registered and informally encouraged student participation. I let my daughter download the app and join my team. In the evenings, we did push-ups together on the kitchen counter and dining room hutch. Those small moments became a shared ritual that made the challenge feel more personal. 

By the end of the three weeks, I’d met and slightly surpassed my fundraising goal. My team had grown to twenty people from all different parts of my life, creating a real sense of community. It included everyone from my boss and longtime friends to new friends, my youngest daughter, and even Caleb’s best friend. Seeing their names in the app each day, and noticing some of them raising funds too, made me feel connected to them in a new and tangible way. 

The main photo on the group fundraising page, a collage of images of Caleb and me throughout his life that I had put together, appeared several times a day whenever I opened it. When I struggled to finish a set of push-ups, thinking of him gave me strength, literally. Each finished set was bittersweet; an accomplishment mingled with grief. Donations from people connected to him, like former babysitters and teachers, felt like hugs from beyond the void. 

I wanted to improve my ability to do push-ups but progress came slowly. I went from ten to twenty-five sets at a time, lowered myself gradually from the kitchen island to the floor, and managed up to five full plank push-ups. Maybe next year I’ll do even more. 

Looking back, the challenge became so much more than push-ups or fundraising. It became a way to honour Caleb, connect with others, and turn grief into action. The shared effort, the daily focus on mental health, and the support from people throughout my life made me feel less alone. I learned that strength is physical, emotional, and spiritual. Each push up, each donation, and each shared story felt like a step toward healing, a way to turn pain into purpose. I may never master the push-up, but leaning into grief, even imperfectly, can create connection, awareness, and growth. And that feels like a kind of victory.