“What do you want us to say? I’m not okay and I’ll never be okay again?” This is a direct quote from a video I made about a year ago. I look back and shake my head. I feel terrible for the woman in that video. She is absolutely heartbroken. She has just entered a phase in which her grief is no longer socially acceptable. Her baby is seemingly forgotten. She thinks that life will never be good again. She is working to accept that new normal.
Walking through those initial months is hell. Even once you get past the early days of grief and move to some regular sense of everyday life, you are left standing still while the world keeps turning. Truly, everyone has moved on from this terrible tragedy but you. No one reaches out. No one says their name. Even within your own family, it is quickly becoming a distant past.
I found myself immersed in everything death and grief related. I was searching for validation. I was on a mission to solidify my son’s memory. I genuinely believed that this way of life would never end. In fact, the very notion of “healing” brought anger. I remember a fellow loss mom who I knew personally wished me healing multiple times. Although I knew that she understood my pain, I was appalled that she would use these words. Healing? I just put my kid in the ground. It made me angry.
Two days before Drew’s first birthday, I heard a voice in my head. It said, “You can’t stay here.” I don’t know if it was God, Drew, or just my own epiphany, but the message was loud and clear. I was being given permission and encouraged to move forward to a different place in my grief journey. It was okay to leave this place of mourning. Drew would not be forgotten or loved any less. I would find ways to honor him and include him in my life going forward. I was not leaving him behind. I could not stay “here” indefinitely. I had a life to live.
I did not share anything about his birthday on my personal social media. I was guarding my heart. I knew that I would not have the support I needed. Instead, I called upon the community of mamas which I have grown to love more than words, to celebrate Drew with our family. The morning of his birthday, I awoke to find that all over the world, people were dressing in blue for my sweet Drew. All day Happy Birthday messages poured in. It was a beautiful celebration of his life. He was remembered. He was loved. This was more precious to me than gold.
And there it was. My grieving mama heart now had a bandage wrapped around it.
I still grieve. It just looks different now. I will never move on from my son. A child never leaves a mother’s heart. I still break down. I still find myself weeping uncontrollably on occasion. I am not “healed.” It still feels like yesterday. I am learning. I am evolving. I am accepting this reality. I do not have a choice.
If you have found yourself here in this same space, there is hope. There will be joy. There will be laughter. And just so you know, it is okay to be okay.
There is no “how to” handbook for grief. There is no universal timeline. I have no words to make it better. This is your grief. This is your loss. This is your trauma. This is your pain. Your journey is yours alone. The waves may be crashing. You may be gasping for air, but someday you will breathe again. Life may never be the same, but it won’t always be this way.
