It’s been three years, surely things are better.
Some people say it out loud. Some say it with their actions. Some say it by their silence.
Three years have passed since Miranda died.
No, I am not over it.
I’m not sure who perpetuates these beliefs, but there is a notion in our society that there is an acceptable timeline and path for grief and loss. An idea that there is a point in time when you must move on.
I know that there are healthy and unhealthy ways to grieve. But I only know how those definitions apply to me. To have someone else’s expectations and beliefs define my life after loss is suffocating. Especially when those that place those expectations have no personal understanding of what my loss was. You can’t compare grief. You can’t compare loss. You can be sympathetic, but any one who says, “I know how you feel” has immediately lost my attention (and will take an enormous amount of grace to listen to).
That may sound cold, but it is my truth.
Three years later I still miss her. E V E R Y D A Y
When I take a candid picture of a moment with all of my children, I miss the one who is not there.
When I’m asked, “Are they all yours? Six?” I struggle with how to answer.
When I’m asked how old my children are, I despise the ‘gap’.
When I’m brainstorming Christmas presents, I miss the wishlist I’ll never read.
When I see her peers, I long for her presence with them.
When I traveled to Peru, I missed the one I didn’t kiss goodbye.
When I look through the hand-me-down clothes that all of my babies wore, I’m sad that she never wore them.
When I see the bassinet that held each of my babies, I know instantly that it never held her.
It isn’t the milestones that break my heart. It is the million little pieces of every day that she’ll never be a part of.
Yes, we carry her memory with us into each new turn we take.
But it is not the same.
Those on the outside will look and think that we must be okay.
But your life looks ‘normal’…
But you’ve gone on vacation…
But you don’t look like you’re grieving…
But you have other children to care for…
But you’ve had another baby…
Don’t let the surface guide your perception.
Loss cuts deep. The wounds are not superficial.
Loss is an injury to the soul. There is no complete recovery, only adaptation.
When does an amputee move past a lost limb? I don’t believe they do, instead they adapt to the life they’ll lead without it.
A piece of my heart has gone on to eternity. I won’t recover it in this lifetime.
I’m just learning to adapt to the life it has left me with.