Tag Archives: Still Standing

Allowing Myself to Feel Whatever I Need. 

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I’ve been staring at a blank screen for an hour. There’s so much to say, but the words can never accurately describe the madness inside. Sometimes I wish I could let this pain consume me from the inside out, that it would eventually take over and be in charge for good. 

It’s been six weeks. 

Instead of wanting to drink my sorrow away, I should have a happy sixteen week baby bump. I wouldn’t know he was a boy yet, but I would be happy to find out soon. I looked in the mirror this morning, thinking of the grey shirt that’s hanging in my closet. The one I used to document his short ten weeks. If things went differently, I’d be wearing it today wondering if my anatomy scan would go more smoothly this time around. 

This isn’t fair. Six weeks ago, I still had hope everything was going to be alright with Huxley. He had his big brother watching from above. 

Miscarriage hurts. 

Damn it, it’s more than hurt. I’m drowning over here in what could have been. My longing for Jensen is even more intensified, I’ve never squeezed his Molly Bear more than I have since I miscarried. I’m literally gasping for air and it feels like my head is continually being pushed under. 

I’m supposed to be ‘strong.’

I should just get pregnant again to mask the pain. 

At least I’ve already went through the worst part of my life. Miscarriage should be so much easier after having Jensen. 

Focus on the good in your life, not the pain. 

It’ll get easier. 

I don’t want to be strong. I don’t want to feel anything but how I’m feeling right now. Another pregnancy does not take away that they lived and they matter. You’re right, I have lived through the tragedy of having my full term child die before he was born. I’ve cried everyday for him and it hasn’t gotten easier without him. 

Why does our society diminish pregnancy and infant loss of any gestation or age? It’s not easy and I know grief and death is uncomfortable, but this is my life. 

I should have a sixteen month old baby boy and be sixteen weeks pregnant today and because they’re not, I’m allowed to feel whatever I need to get by to the next moment. 

The Scariest Thing of All.

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The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.

Well maybe the second scariest thing, only behind living with and through your greatest tragedy. After the tragedy though, the mind haunts you with what happened and what should be. It’s like a personal torture chamber that you can’t escape.

My mind’s latest punishment for me? Reliving being wheeled out of the hospital and the car ride home after Jensen was born.

I’ve talked about PTSD and how certain events trigger parts our brain has blocked out from us. Since leaving the hospital after my miscarriage, I’ve been remembering more. The shock or numb feeling that I had with Jensen, never came with Huxley. I felt it all as it came and my mind didn’t have any more room to block another horrible part of my life out. My brain tried to help me, but in truth, it just brought up other parts it tried so hard to keep away from me.

When the nurse was wheeling me out, I can remember gasping for air. I couldn’t catch a breath and seeing others sitting in the waiting room for the good news broke me. They saw me, my tear-stained face, and understood what had happened to me. I don’t think I was breathing in those few moments, just staring back at them as the elevator closed in front of my face.

One part I can’t remember is if my dad walked behind me or left earlier to get the car. All I know is I waited there alone (with the nurse of course) for moments that now feel like hours.

I didn’t feel anything inside of me. My body didn’t feel real and that my spirit was just going to float up. The hollowness scared me because I knew this is what I would feel from here on out. Maybe a part of my soul floated away then or stayed with Jensen’s body. I lost the biggest part of me in the hours before, it would make sense that I could physically feel it leaving me. Sitting in that wheelchair was the most hopeless I have ever felt in my life.

Crazy right?

Not even twenty-four hours beforehand I heard the worst thing anyone could ever say to me and had to give birth to my child’s lifeless body, but there waiting to get picked up I felt the most hopeless.

My mind has kept that short amount of time in the dark. I don’t blame it, it’s terribly difficult to process those complex emotions. Yet, somehow, it did bring it back to me… on a loop. It’s letting me revisit in first person and third person. I can see me sitting in the wheelchair and everything else going on around me. How could the world keep spinning? Why didn’t anyone notice the mother whose child that died going home to a complete unknown? Did anyone else experience this or was I too naive to ever notice?

Those questions have ripped through me.

The dark place that is my mind has pushed me to answer them, to keep replaying that scene until something makes sense. Anxiety pressures me to nitpick every detail, but my logical mind questions, what if it never makes sense? I’m not sure whether that is comforting or completely terrifying.

That’s what makes the human mind the scariest thing of all.

Another Post-Op Appointment.

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Seventy days are all I had with Jensen’s sibling.

In that short amount of time I took pictures, laughed out loud, and had hope for the future ahead of us. Everything was going to be right with this baby. We had an angel looking out for us. I was feeling so positive in that time, the anxiety of pregnancy after loss didn’t set in.

When this child died, my world crumbled again. The days I was stuck on the couch, I looked at all I had from this pregnancy. It doesn’t dent the amount of things I had for Jensen, but this is what it is. I had a feeling this baby was a girl and planned the nursery out. There were clothes I had on my Etsy favorites and I even bought a little onesie for his or her arrival. The truth is, I didn’t know anything about the baby growing inside me, besides it was mine and I loved it very much.

Last week, my doctor’s office called and wanted me to go back in to hear more of the results from the testing on the baby. Today was the day I went back in.

I found out the exact reason why this baby died and that there was no fault on my part. That the reason I lost this child would be unlikely to happen again in a subsequent pregnancy, which I’ve heard before then lost again. From the testing, I found out that even if they baby made it full term, they would have died shortly after. Hearing that didn’t make it easier to know I miscarried. I guess I should be glad for future babies, but I don’t feel that. It just felt/feels like I was in a whirlwind of information, but it was always backed up by the hope of the future. Sometimes when we’re pressured just to look towards the future, we don’t really grasp how we feel in the present.

There was one, big fact I learned about my child, he was a boy.

The six weeks I knew about him, I thought he was a girl. Somehow finding out that little piece of information gives me a little more closure. He isn’t just a disregarded ‘it.’ Jensen has a little brother to play with in heaven. They can do what boys do and that makes me smile.

It has been a hard day. Obviously.

As soon as I came home, I pulled out all the papers I had on him and the things I bought so early on to put them in his own little drawer. Then I looked on my phone and saw the pictures I had of him. There’s not a lot, but it’s all I have and cherish.

His name is Huxley. This is a snippet of his life: his infinity.

‘Your Loss Makes Me Uncomfortable’ and Five More Things I’ve Heard.

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Last year I wrote this post about hurtful things I had been told only four months into losing Jensen. It’s been one of my most read post and I think by sharing things that are painful to hear will help others know what they’re saying is hurtful.

Now fifteen months into my loss journey, on top of my miscarriage, there are comments said to me that really sting. Sometimes hearing them is just the tipping point of a complete grief attack. It’s horrible. Deep down I believe a lot of these are just a person trying to help, but it’s a little misguided. Other times it’s just complete cruelty from a person. I’m not sure if that stems from not having any empathy/sympathy for a person or they just don’t care.

With all that being said, here’s part two of my original post. As with any of my posts that could come off distasteful, this isn’t me trying to put anyone down. If you have said any of these things, I’m not calling you out. This is purely just to help break the stigma of child loss and open the conversation of how to treat the bereaved. Of course, every person is different and what bothers me may not effect the next.

Your loss makes me uncomfortable.

Oh, I’m sorry that my child who died makes you uncomfortable, I guess I’ll act like it never happened so you’re okay. HA.

Guess what death and grief is uncomfortable and I live with that every second of the day. Losing a child is hard, sad, and really indescribable. The moments I get to talk about Jensen and the love he brought into my life are the ones I treasure the most. If I’m sharing him with you, that means a lot. Yet, when I hear how uncomfortable you are about my stories and his pictures… it makes me never want to share him.

Of course I keep sharing him because that’s what makes me happy. Babies who have gone so soon shouldn’t be hid away, they should be celebrated.

At least it was an early loss, it doesn’t hurt as bad.

This has made way in the mix of comments since losing Jensen’s little sibling. I was ten weeks, which was a lot less time with that little baby then Jensen. Our time together wasn’t ‘long,’ but it was that child’s whole life. The moment I saw that pregnancy test flash positive, I was over the moon with happiness.

Then he or she died and I tumbled down.

Pregnancy and infant loss, heck any loss, hurts. It doesn’t matter how long with a person you had, they still mattered and made a difference. Honestly, people told me this with Jensen too. That it was a good thing I wasn’t attached to him because he hadn’t taken a breath outside my womb. My question with this comment is how long is long enough time with your child that losing them starts to hurt?

That’s in the past. You need to live in the present.

My eyes roll so far in the back of my head every time I hear this.

Yes, believe me, I know how many weeks and days it’s been since Jensen and his sibling died. Just like I know that I’m in this day right now. This comment usually is said when I’m having a bad day because I don’t have enough strength to look my ‘okayest’ on the outside.

It doesn’t matter how long it has been, my life should be different. My present should not be how it is now. Jensen should be walking around all over the place and I still should be growing his baby sibling inside my belly. When you look at it like that, how could you not understand why the present is so hard? Their death is deafening. Loss parents try their best to keep moving forward, never leaving their children and their memories behind, and continue healing in the best way they know how. We are living in the present we never thought was possible, don’t judge us while we’re trying to figure it out.

You can always have more.

This was on the last list too, but I think it’s important to mention it again.

Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong. I don’t know infertility rates off the top of my head, but I do know there are tons of men and women who are battling to get pregnant. There’s also this little thing called secondary infertility. Just because someone was able to get pregnant before does not always guarantee a future pregnancy.

Let’s take this in another direction, that I’m all too familiar with. What happens if you do get pregnant and that child dies too? Yeah, that’s real talk. The truth a pregnancy doesn’t always result in a living child. Multiple loss happens to so many parents.

My advice on this one, mind your own business. You never know what’s happening behind the scenes.

I couldn’t go on if my child died.

Each time I’ve heard this I’ve wanted to scream.

One, I’m not strong or cold-hearted to have ‘kept going on’ after Jensen’s death. There’s really only two options of what I could do. First, try to make sense and keep moving forward in life after loss. Second, not go on. That was nicely put. When you say you couldn’t go on, you’re implying you would die if you children did. So frankly the other option I would have is to just die and then it would be pity her she couldn’t handle life.

Two, when you say this, it feels like you’re downplaying the love I have for my child and the pain I feel. The truth is you can never predict how you’re going to react after you child dies, but you have the two options I stated above: to keep going on or taking your own life.

So you have NO children.

This is a newly inspired comment to add to my list of horrible things I’ve heard. If you haven’t heard the whole episode of what happened during my post-op appointment, you can read it, here.

I’m going to put this in a perspective anyone could understand. If your mother dies, are you still her child? Is she still your mother? Does death take away the relationship you had with her? If you answered, yes, yes, no. Then you should understand why hearing this would make you livid. Now, let me flip the switch. If you died, right now as you’re reading this, would your mom still be your mother? Or would your death just take that away from her?

She would still be your mom, just like I’ll always be Jensen’s and this little baby’s. Death does not take that time away. It steals your future, of course, but not the unique relationship with that person. SO, how could a person look at a mother who has went survived pregnancy and infant loss and tell her she has no children. It’s cruel and completely untrue.

Again, this post is not written to throw anyone under a bus. It’s meant to help educate to make others aware that child loss is a real tragedy and words really can hurt.

Learning How to Swim, Again.

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Yesterday, as I floated alone in my parent’s pool, I was fueled by anger. In my head I was screaming so loud, but my exterior just seemed like I was uncomfortable. I tried to calm myself by watching the clouds, feeling the sun’s warmth, and letting the cool water extinguish the flames of madness inside me.

How is this my life?

Let me back this up a little bit. Since my D&C, I’ve had this horrible cough. I can’t sleep at night due to it and nothing seems to ease my coughing fits. In trying to figure out why I am lacking in sleep, I realized it was from the breathing tube they had to put in my throat for surgery. The lasting, physical evidence from this pregnancy. The combination from the lack of sleep and headaches from constantly coughing and drinking hot tea has me on edge: emotionally and physically.

Knowing all of this, I wanted to try my best to relax yesterday since I had the pool to myself. Right before I plugged my iPhone in to blast music, I scrolled through Instagram like I normally do. Now, I follow lots of loss moms, motivational accounts, and profiles that have journal prompts. If you didn’t know, I write a lot for myself, that no one ever reads. Sometimes it’s nice to be guided in writing. One of my favorite accounts, @rusticojournal, posted a seemingly fun and innocent prompt yesterday…

@rusticojournal


The mix of no sleep and my emotional battle twisted this nice, light prompt into a soul crushing reality that is my life.

Dramatic? Probably, but that was the spark that lit the fire in my mind. Since I felt so emotional after reading the prompt (and spewing while floating) I decided to write a response and wanted to share it with you.

I learned how to swim in this new life after loss because I was pushed off the highest mountain into an ocean that’s undercurrents pulled me down to the bottom. During the fall, I forgot how to swim or even which way the surface was to swim. I succumbed to the ocean of grief and let it twist me around. It would have been easy to just stay there in the darkness, for I was afraid of what would happen when I came back up. The world had defied me and how could I trust it ever again?

Something inside me made me want to begin swimming, to try to heal from the loss of my son. Stroke by stroke, I became stronger and reached the surface. There were waves so tall and big that knocked me back under, but I refused to sink. Each time I was plummeted down, it took me less time to swim back up. When I resurfaced I saw different beautifies that didn’t exist before. Yes, the world had looked different, but I couldn’t go back to how it was before. I didn’t want to go back to a world without Jensen, so I had to accept these pains and joys.

For a year, I learned how to swim in the ocean of grief. I was actually getting quite good at maneuvering and predicted the waves. Then it changed when I got pregnant again. There were still huge obstacles ahead and it didn’t take away all those I had overcome, but something new had come into play, hope.

My short pregnancy after loss experience was smooth, until the hurricane came and I had to learn how to swim again.

I hate comparing this loss to losing Jensen. They’re so different in many ways, but the pain I feel… it’s still heartbreaking. My hope for the future was extinguished and the flames of anger and the intense grief is back. Yes, I’m still in the ocean of grief, I’ve never left. I was pulled down to the bottom again and am still swimming up.

This time though, I’m not afraid of getting back to the surface. I know what’s there now. Learning how to swim this time is easier than what it was when Jensen died. My muscle memory is guiding me in how to grieve, even though it is different from before. The movements and waves are tricky, but I want to be on top. I want to see where I am in this sea and how far this hurricane threw me. There’s no way I can go back to where I was before this miscarriage. It’s a new terrain for me that created completely different situations and experiences.

Loss has altered me and the world around me, but it hasn’t taken away my ability to learn how to swim.

Usually it helps getting all the built up words out on paper, but this wasn’t the case yesterday. My cough kept me up again last night and since I released some of my pent-up emotions, they just wanted to spill out. I questioned God why He had to take Jensen, when he’s all I want, or why He had to take his little sibling away, when he or she gave me so much hope for the future.

If I could share anything from my experience in learning how to swim again (navigate life after loss), is that no matter the loss, it hurts like hell. There is no reasons babies should die and parents to be subjected in this pain and grief. No words can take away that pain, no future living children can erase what has happened, and no matter how much time has passed, a parent can feel how deeply their child’s loss impacted their life. All we can do is help each other swim.

Post-Op Appointment Update.

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I woke up yesterday with so much anxiety just sitting on my chest. It’s going to be the day I found out what I did wrong; why Jensen’s little sibling died. There has to be something wrong with my body or maybe I had been in the wrong while pregnant. My brain is starving for some sort of answers and steps for if I would have another child in the future.

As usual, I put off getting ready for my appointment till the last-minute. Somehow I think if I just act like I don’t have to do something, it’ll magically become reality. Then all I knew I was in my mom’s car and we were talking about… I forget what. My thoughts were consumed. I should be out of the first trimester and getting excited to find out the sex of my child. Not this. Going up to another post-death appointment for one of my children. My nails, that I’ve tried so hard not biting lately, were bitten down so much. All while my mom kept talking. I feel so bad, I should have paid more attention to what she was saying.

When we got to the office, I swear every pregnant person my doctor sees was there.

A few weeks after New Years, I stopped really paying attention to those big pregnant bellies. Sometimes they’re just unavoidable. Well, after my miscarriage, I just want to not see pregnant people. Also, why isn’t there such a thing in the doctor’s office as a designated loss mom appointment day or maybe a little side waiting room. No, the mental torture I was already in just magnified. I probably looked like a complete bitch sitting there not making eye contact with these joyous women and the off-chance I did, I didn’t smile back.

My name finally got called twenty minutes after my appointment time. I didn’t mind the wait time, I get it. Everyone waits, I just wasn’t in the best of moods. The nurse asks, almost too peppy, how I was feeling and just smiles back at me. Again, remember my heavy anxiety and overall hellish weeks and months I’ve had. Coldly, I told her I could be doing much better and stared back. I thought that’d be it, no more dumb questions or statements, but that’s not my luck.

Now I don’t know what’s on my medical charts, but I’m guessing the nurse knew I was there because of a D&C due to a miscarriage. I’m also guessing, that my past history, you know my son dying at thirty-eight weeks in my womb, would also be in there. Thankfully she took my blood pressure when we first got in the room because it skyrocketed soon after.

I’m Jensen’s and this baby’s voice and I will never deny them as my children. They died, but they lived too. I am theirs and they are mine.

This nurse, doing her job I understand, looks me straight in my eyes and says, ‘you have no children, right?’ My loss mama heart fired up and said, ‘yes, my son was stillborn last year. Last April.’

Then it was like a slap in my face.

‘And you just had a miscarriage, but you don’t have any children.’

I felt all the blood in my whole body boil. Then I repeated, ‘I have a son. Unfortunately, he died, but he is my child. So I don’t have any living children, but I do have children.’ Somehow I didn’t scream it at her, maybe that’s because I was trying to keep the tears that were filling up my eyes from falling down my face.

She just nodded and gave me this look of pity. It was so demeaning, like she thought I was just grasping at these straws to be a mom. Then she left.

There have been many times in just the past two weeks where I’ve felt so low and down. Even in this state, I never questioned my motherhood or my value. But in that room, I felt stripped down and worthless. This invisible motherhood felt taken away from me, like the time I had with Jensen and all that I do to mother him now didn’t matter. How can you devalue someone in such a vulnerable state and place.

So many emotions and thoughts flew around before the knock at the door halted them all. The time was here where he was going to tell me I was broken and that my womb was a death-ground for my babies.

I physically felt my fingers tighten the seat underneath me. Then everything happened all at once.

‘Don’t try again for two months.’

‘Keep taking your prenatal vitamins.’

‘Baby’s results won’t be here till Monday, call us then.’

‘There should be no problem during future pregnancies.’

‘Call us as soon as you get pregnant again.’

My head was still in a whirlwind from getting all that information in a matter of five seconds. Just as they started walking out, my mom started asking questions because none of mine were coming out.

Not to get into the entirety of their conversation, I’ll give you the quick details. Pretty much, all my blood work and testing has come back completely normal, again. I did extensive testing after Jensen was born. They didn’t find anything abnormal with me. There was no answers as to why this happened other than it just happened. I should be able to have healthy, living children in the future. Of course I’ll get extra monitoring in future pregnancies. But there’s nothing else I could’ve done to prevent this miscarriage or Jensen’s death for that matter.

I should be ‘happy’ to get that information. I know it.

There’s so many women who definitely cannot have children naturally. It happens to so many and it’s heartbreaking. That desire to grow a baby in your belly is such a natural one. I get that and I can’t imagine getting that news for myself.

With that being said, I was angry walking out of the doctor’s office today. Why is there no answers that loss struck me again? What more could I have done? Isn’t there any explanation as to why I do have a death-ground womb? I have so many questions that are just left unanswered, just to try again and do monitoring. My brain cannot accept that is the only half answer I’m getting; but that’s what I’ve gotten from three different doctors.

To say the day was anything but stressful would be a complete understatement.

I don’t really know what the future has to hold for me right now. There’s some options that I have been considering, but I’m going to see how I feel in two cycles and go from there. When I first lost Jensen, I didn’t want another baby. It took me a while to be ‘okay’ with giving him a sibling. Right now, I don’t know. Yes, I want a living child in my arms SO bad, but I’m not strong enough to keep experiencing loss. It’s just a question that will only be answered with time and a lot of thought.

Anyways, I just wanted to keep you all in the loop with what happened. I appreciate all the positive thoughts, vibes, and prayers you all sent my way.

Fifteen Months. 

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Another month is here without him. One more that I never thought I would survive, yet here I am trying to be strong. The anticipation of each month change has not gotten easier since the very first one. I feel its weight in my bones trying to make me crumble. 

This past month has been one of the hardest. Two weeks ago my second child’s lifeless body was taken straight from my womb. The grief of losing him or her ontop of what I feel for Jensen and his loss has been complex. Most of the time I don’t know how to describe what’s going on in my brain. Maybe this extra weight has made this month change so much worse. 

I went into his room today. Sometimes I have this strong pulling to just sit in there, more than my everyday look. 

Every time I step in there, it’s like I’m transported to another reality. I see his room what it would be like if he was here. Not at infancy, but right now running and testing his limits three months after his birthday. Toys are scattered along his rug and there’s clothes to be put away. There are projects we have done on the wall and all his books are on the shelves. I see this scene and him in there. Somehow I wish I could describe it better than just being transported to another reality, it’s literally like I step through another veil and there he sits. That’s how I picture Jensen and I’s heaven.

After snapping out of the world I want to be living in, I saw things I hadn’t paid attention to in awhile. The little details that I love that wouldn’t be exactly there if he was here. On his changing table lies a little racecar and my favorite sign I bought before he was born. ‘Just be awesome.’ There wasn’t any pressure on him to be something, just as long as he was happy and growing up to be a good boy. Then there’s the books I actually have in his room. Stuffed away with a lot of his things is his whole library, many of those books from the book drive we did during the baby shower. The ones in his room are my favorite though. Sometimes I pull them out on special days and read out loud for him to hear. I know he’s listening and sometimes Leo comes to listen too. 


Yes, I accidentally bought two of the same J’s…. oops. 


Fifteen months have gone by since I last physically felt Jensen. In that time I’ve picked up most of the pieces, dropped them multiple times again, and kept trying to place them back to a new normal. I’ve felt the biggest heartbreak, twice, but I’ve also learned how to love so deeply. 

To feel everything so deeply. 

I wish this wasn’t my reality, but I’m surviving and doing my best to thrive. Even if I knew what was going to happen, I’d still choose my little, blond hair boy born fifteen months ago.

A Little Light in the Darkness. 

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Every month I try to do an outlook of what I have planned or what’s going on. Just four short weeks ago, I announced ‘June’s Name Project‘ and how I had a surprise for you all. Of course that surprise was the little baby inside of me and unfortunately I told you all, just not in the way I had planned. It’s cause the outlook for July to be a little different. 

Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on right now with me. It’s been less than two weeks since my surgery and I’m in am emotionally chaotic state, understandably. My doctor appointment this week will give me a better perspective of what’s going on with my actual body and hopefully brings me some sort of peace with the upheaval of losing this baby. On the other hand, I’m terrified of the possibility that there’s something more wrong with me. Something unfixable and that I actually hurt Jensen and his siblings. Maybe a mid-month update will be better this month when I have some more information, but only time will tell. 

I’m going off track of what I originally wanted to say…

A couple months back, Still Standing Magazine called out for writers to apply to be on their writing team. Since I backed out of Still Mothers due to my pregnancy, I really wanted to continue writing for a huge and incredibly helpful source for grieving parents. The timing was perfect and I knew I had to at least apply. 

For weeks I was so nervous. I’ve fought with anxiety since Jensen has been born and this was no different. Everyday I checked my email hoping to get good news. There were new writers being added to the writing team and I truthfully thought I was out. 

On the morning of my miscarriage, I received an answer. I was in. Although I didn’t know what was going on with me and my pregnancy when I read that message, I was so happy and excited to be able to share about my little family and more importantly to try and help others through their grief journey. My response was haulted with the tragedy I found myself in, but I finally was able to accept and today my bio went up. 


I’m truly honored to be writing for Still Standing Magazine. Being able to write about my grief has helped me heal in so many ways. My other hope in writing is to be ab to let someone know they’re not alone in their journey of loss and love.

Fourteen Months and I’m Not ‘Better.’

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‘You seem better…’

This statement shocks me every time. What is better? Especially when you’re talking about child loss. Is it being able to get out of the house and do more productive things? It’s definitely not how I feel inside. If anything, I (somehow) long for him more than I did in the beginning. I’ve never seen a progression checklist after losing Jensen, so I’m really out of the ‘getting better’ loop.

With as transparent as I am, concerning my grief journey, there’s a lot I hold back from the world. A lot.

If anyone saw me this weekend, they would have been worried. Maybe even thought I was worse or backtracked in the generic stages of grief. As we all know, those are crap. On Saturday, I had no windows open, the blinds blocked any light from coming in, and there I was, paralyzed by grief on the couch. My eyes were red with deep, dark circles under them. I’m not even sure if my hair was brushed.

I was laying there watching every sad movie I could find on Netflix. My arms ached and my heart felt like it was being squeezed. How could Jensen already be fourteen months old in heaven? Why couldn’t he stay with me? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life without him? These questions went unanswered, but were asked in my mind over and over. I manically laughed through my tears at the fact I’d live a long life. Yes, you read that right. A life full of grief and longing for the person I’ll never be able to get back.

Truthfully, I know I shouldn’t think that and most days I’m thankful for every day I’m alive. Today and the day after and so on are days I get to live for Jensen and myself. The days he’d want me to embrace and keep going.

BUT THIS IS GRIEF.

It is a constant battle and it’s exhausting. Days like Saturday is when I have no strength to keep fighting those thoughts. I succumb to them. It hurts.

You’re probably thinking, why didn’t you call for help? Reach out? Something?

My mother came over after an x amount of texts and phone calls. She came in my front door and saw me. I couldn’t even talk, sobs escaped. What I could muster to her was, I need to be alone. I didn’t want this grief and sadness to attach to her and bring her to this level. My self-worth told me I deserved to feel this way. Deserved to face this life without my son.  I couldn’t put that on my mom and I think it was the first time she’s really seen in the last few months, that I’m not really doing better.

Even at fourteen months post loss. 

When I hear that ‘I seem to be doing better,’ I want to laugh in their faces or at the very least, let them live with me for a few days to see how many tears I produce. I’d like to say better is made up. Have I gotten stronger? Of course. Nothing will make me feel any better. My son is gone. There are things I’ve found joy in after, but it doesn’t even come close to the joy he brought me in his little infinity with me. Maybe that makes me a pessimist. I say it makes me a realist.

Instead of saying all of that, I think I have the perfect answer for the world…

No. I’ve just learned how to fake it better. 

May We All Heal | Reflect 

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When I woke up this morning, I knew I had to do a great page for today’s May We All Heal Prompt because I didn’t share mine from yesterday. It was a busy day and what I wrote, just didn’t need to be shared. But, reflection. I reflect every time I write about Jensen and this journey.

How could this go wrong?

Then, I spilled water all over my page today after of a few minutes of trying to be artsy and get an orange reflection for the pictures. It smudged ‘reflect’ and Jensen’s name. Instantly, I was angry.

Why does everything I touch just get messed up?

My eyes filled with tears from the wheel of negative thoughts that keeps turning in my head. Some days I just don’t feel good enough or that any of my actions don’t matter. So what’s the point of even doing them? Over a year of grieving and waiting for Jensen to just magically appear in his room one morning and it still hasn’t gotten any better. This sucks and me spilling half a glass of water on this book and page I’ve worked in everyday this month just topped it off.

Logically, I know that I haven’t messed up everything in my life. I can look back in the time Jensen has been gone and see positives that have come out of the love I have for him. Most times, I can list a handful of great people and things I have right here. Then, I reflect on Jensen’s life. He was here and he lived so greatly. I didn’t hurt him or cause him to die. Quite the opposite.

So why do I want to scream when I  see this water-soaked and marker smudged page?

It reminds me of sadness, tears, and negative reflection. Which shows how easily grief can take this day and twist it and me to something it’s not. This. Is. So Hard.

This is what healing and reflecting is though. The grief process mangles us. It takes us and drags us through the mud. Who’s to say these negative moments and days aren’t apart of healing too? With every up, there’s a down. Just like there has been the past over thirteen months.

This is healing. This is grieving. This is reflecting.