Grief is not Linear

Grief is Not Linear

I am in a constant state of mourning. Some days it is visible. Other days it hides in the

shadows. Even the moments that bring great joy are accompanied by sadness. Like when I

get ready for bed and think about my five-year-old galloping into my room in the morning,

squealing “Mommy!” as she leaps onto me for a hug. It is a perfect moment. And yet, I

realize I will never, ever have the experience of her doing that and being able to roll over

and smile at the person I made her with, that one glance acknowledging just how lucky we

are. It will never happen then, or when my children are giggling with delight making

imaginary recipes in the tub, or when we cuddle under the covers reading a book before

bed. Kindergarten graduations and dance recitals and every child’s sporting win will

forever lack what was supposed to be an unspoken bond between parents of children who

are so very loved.

Those very loved children know in an unconscious, biological way, what is missing from

their daily lives. My toddler, who cannot possibly remember a time when Daddy lived with

us, still longs for all four of us to be together. That sweet toddler voice asks when Daddy will

come live with us again, or if we can all move together between the two houses. My five-

year-old still has moments of massive sadness, grieving the life of love under one roof that

she was silently promised. There was a time when she would constantly ask for life to be

"regular" again, for me to make Daddy come back. The repetitive questions and needs I

could not fulfill have ebbed, as have all of our tears. We are a joyful family of three, but we

bear scars.

I will miss countless days of my children’s lives. That knowledge brings me to my knees.

Every time. But I now have the capacity to put it in a box at the back of my consciousness. I

understand ways to feel better - that you can even do things to help rewire your brain so

the awful feels less awful. Mindfulness and yoga help quell the volcanoes when they begin

to rumble. I know that grief is not linear, not pretty. Some days are bliss and others -

particularly when I am tired - end in anguish. I show myself grace in those moments,

appreciate that the tears come less often and are reserved for a smaller number of

injustices. But the mother in me, she knows this will always be torture, that mothers and

children should not be forced apart. The mother in me will honor the losses her children

feel, the time with them that cannot be restored. And she will hold onto the moments of

togetherness with every fiber of her being.

Taking a deep breath, I greet the morning in a state of love, boundless love for those two

little people I brought into the world. They are, I am quite certain, the two most beautiful

people on earth. I will have the privilege of witnessing their milestones, both big and small.

I will be their biggest cheerleader at their first soccer game, or preschool sing-along, or

debate team win. Each morning that I get to wake up to their perfect, sweet faces, is a gift I

will never take for granted. Those mornings bring boundless love anew.