It is Bereaved Mother’s Day today. A day I never knew existed until suddenly, I existed in its cause.
It’s been 3 years and 5 months since this photo was taken. 3 years and 5 months since the very first time I held a baby who’s entire length of life would be able to be counted on one hand.
I have said many times that it often feels as if it all occurred in some past life that I only vaguely recall the details of because I am someone else now. I’m a shell of that person, there are pieces of me reminiscent of her, but her shell is now filled with the loss, pain, lessons, healing, and gratefulness that only trauma can teach.
I wish, every second, of every day, that I could be where he is. That I could cradle him in my arms and feel his breath on my skin. But by some unimaginable, unfair, horrific twist of fate-that is not what was chosen for us.
Bereaved motherhood is a balancing act, a delicate, haphazard, but skillful teetering between our world, and theirs. A before and after, who we were, and who we are. All because death touched us, took from us, changed us. This day is for us, for our pain, longing, struggle. For our healing, coping, continuing. We are seen.