“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” These words, sung softly from a mother to her child in Robert Munsch’s timeless Love You Forever, have lulled countless families into moments of quiet wonder. They’ve been whispered over cradles, read under covers during stormy nights, and passed down like heirlooms, turning ordinary pages into vessels of unbreakable connection. But what many don’t know is the depth of heartache behind this beloved story. Munsch, a father who lost two children at birth and, with his wife Ann, never had the family they dreamed of, until they happily adopted three children. He poured his grief into these lines—a lullaby not just for living children, but for the ones who slipped away too soon. It’s a testament to love’s resilience, transforming profound loss into something that heals and holds us all.
On a personal note, I gave my mother and mother-in-law a copy of this book one year for Mother’s Day. (Of course, they looked at me quizzically until I encouraged them to read it aloud. Once done, they both had tears in their eyes, with the knowledge of my intent.)
This book isn’t just a story; it’s a bridge across generations, a reminder that love doesn’t measure in milestones or years but in the quiet, persistent choice to keep showing up. The illustrations, with their soft blues and gentle curves, mirror the ebb and flow of life—joyful in the toddler tantrums, tender in the grown child’s weary return home. Munsch’s other works, like the fierce independence of The Paper Bag Princess or the playful rebellion in Mortimer, echo this same spirit: life’s messiness is worth embracing, not escaping. Over 80 million copies sold, translated into more than 20 languages, his stories have sparked imaginations worldwide, proving that even from pain, beauty blooms.
Yet, reading about Munsch’s recent openness about his own struggles hit me like a wave. Diagnosed with dementia in 2021, followed by Parkinson’s, the now 80-year-old author shared in a September 14, 2025, New York Times interview that he applied for and was approved for Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) shortly after his diagnosis. He worries about becoming a “lump” for his wife to care for, about losing the stories that define him. His daughter Julie clarified soon after, emphasizing he’s “not dying anytime soon” and is doing well for now, but the weight of his choice lingers. I understand that fear intimately. My own mother battled prefrontal dementia, her once-vibrant mind unraveling into frustration and isolation. The woman who raised me with laughter and wisdom became someone we had to guide, her days a fog of forgotten names, unspoken fears, and huge episodes filled with rage. It was heartbreaking, a slow erosion that tested our family’s love to its limits. And in the quiet aftermath, I’ve wrestled with the same shadows: my brother’s suicide amid his chronic illness, my uncle’s, my mother’s years of suicidal ideation, and even my own attempt during a season of unrelenting despair.
These experiences have etched deep lines in my soul, but they’ve also illuminated truths I hold dear. In the pre-existence, as I believe we did before coming to earth, we chose this mortal journey—not to avoid its thorns, but to walk through them. Heavenly Father allows illnesses like dementia, the gnawing ache of Parkinson’s, the invisible grip of depression, not out of cruelty, but as part of a grand design we can’t fully see. Why? To teach us empathy in our weakness, resilience in our frailty, and compassion for others’ unseen battles. Elder M. Russell Ballard, in his compassionate address “Suicide: Some Things We Know, and Some We Do Not,” reminds us of this divine mercy. He speaks of a faithful man, confined by illness, who ended his life in muddled despair—yet emphasizes that God judges not by the act alone, but by the heart’s intent, the mind’s clarity, and life’s full tapestry. “Judgment is the Lord’s,” Ballard teaches, quoting Elder Bruce R. McConkie: those under great stress, mentally clouded or chemically imbalanced, “are no longer accountable for their acts.” The Lord sees our genetic makeup, our emotional storms, the traditions and teachings that shape us. As Alma promises, if our works and desires are good, we will be “restored unto that which is good” (Alma 41:3).
Munsch’s life echoes this. From the ashes of losing his babies, he created Love You Forever—a gift that has comforted millions, including me as I navigated my family’s losses. His stories remind us that even when the body fails or the mind fades, the spirit’s legacy endures. Choosing to end life early cuts short that sacred unfolding, robbing us of the growth, the unexpected joys, the quiet revelations that come only through persistence. I’ve felt the temptation to let go, the whisper that escape is easier than endurance. But staying—messy, hard, holy staying—has shown me God’s hand in the details: a sibling’s unexpected hug, a scripture that pierces the dark, a stranger’s kindness that mirrors divine love. As the Prophet Joseph Smith taught, our Heavenly Father judges “according to the deeds done in the body… and His inscrutable designs in relation to the human family” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 218). Suffering doesn’t diminish our worth; it refines it, preparing us for eternal progression “line upon line.”
To anyone reading this in the grip of despair—whether from illness, grief, or the slow creep of forgetfulness—hear this: You are not a burden. You are a beloved child of God, your life a thread in His eternal weave. Your story, like Munsch’s, holds beauty yet untold. Hold on, not out of obligation, but out of the fierce love that says, “I’ll like you for always.” Reach out to those who can help carry the weight. Let their hands, and God’s, remind you that you’re not alone. In the spirit world, as President Joseph F. Smith saw in vision, even those who’ve stumbled can repent, pay the penalty, and receive “a reward according to their works” (D&C 138:58–59). Hope isn’t a fragile wish; it’s a promise.
As I reflect on Munsch’s courage in sharing his story, I pray it sparks not resignation, but resolve—for him, for my family’s memories, for all of us. Let’s choose life, one breath at a time, and keep singing our songs of forever.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out—these lifelines are here to help:
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US): Call or text 988 (24/7 support).
• Crisis Services Canada: Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (24/7).
• International Association for Suicide Prevention: Visit https://www.iasp.info/suicidalthoughts/ for global resources.
Shirley
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