Hey.
I’m not here to sugarcoat anything. This post isn’t going to be easy, and it’s not going to be pretty. But if you’re here, maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’ve lost a child. Or maybe you love someone who has. Either way, welcome. You’re not alone.
I’m a mom. I used to be a mom of two. Now I’m a mom of one living child and one who…Well, one who doesn’t get older anymore.
Let me tell you what it feels like when your child dies. It feels like the universe made a mistake. Like gravity forgot how to work. Like someone unplugged your soul and forgot to plug it back in.
Shock? Shock is weird. It’s not just crying. It’s silence. It’s staring at a wall for six hours and not realizing you haven’t blinked. It’s making coffee and forgetting why you’re holding the mug. It’s being awake for 48 hours straight – not because you want to be but because you have no choice. It’s hearing someone say “I’m so sorry” and wanting to scream, “Me too. But, sorry doesn’t bring them back.”
People say (and experts preach) that grief comes in waves and in a series of steps.
That’s cute.
Grief is a tsunami that doesn’t stop. It’s a freight train that hits you while you’re trying to tie your shoes. It’s waking up and remembering all over again that they’re gone. Every. Single. Morning.
Any you know what’s terrifying? The ideas that you might forget the sound of their laughter (you won’t). That their toothbrush is still in the drawer. That you instinctively reach for their favorite snack at the grocery store.
I remember thinking, “I can’t do this.”
And then I did.
Not because I’m strong (although I did become strong!). Not because I’m brave (although I did become brave!).
But because I kept breathing.
Breathing is underrated, by the way. It’s the only thing you can do when everything else feels impossible. So I’d sit on the floor, wrapped in a jacket that smelled like my daughter, and I’d whisper to myself: “Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.”
Like a damn mantra.
Like a prayer.
Like a survival tactic.
I’m still here so I’m going to say it worked.
People asked, “How are you?”
What?! Really?!
I wanted to say, “I’m a haunted house with good lighting.”
I smiled. I made jokes. I functioned.
Inside? There were cobwebs and echoes and a door that was permanently locked.
A piece of my heart was gone and I wanted it back.
But here’s the thing.
You don’t stop being a mom or a dad when your child dies.
You just become a parent to children that still are here and to someone that isn’t physically here any longer.
You still love the child who passed. You still talk to them (please still talk to them!). You still fight (more on this later – wah wah) for their memory.
And, sometimes, you laugh.
Because grief is weird like that.
You’ll be sobbing one minute and laughing at a fart joke the next.
And that’s okay. You get to feel and be however you choose. That’s human.
That’s healing.
So if you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it –
If you’re scared, if you’re numb, if you’re angry –
I see you. I hear you. I was you and still am you.
Keep breathing.
Keep screaming into pillows.
Keep laughing at inappropriate things.
Keep loving your child in every way you can.
They mattered.
And so do you.
Thanks for sitting with me.
Next time, we’ll talk about the tough stuff. The stuff you never thought you’d be searching for help with.
Until then – inhale, exhale, repeat.
