Originally written September 14, 2019

There is a little girl inside of me,

In the depths of the silence of absence.

In the far reaches of my soul.

Who screams out between the sobbing and gasps for air, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!!!!” 

Only I do.

I understand how it feels that no one else understands.

And how it feels to be lost off on some distant island praying, hoping that someone will get the gravity of what she feels.

And how words like “losing a child is hard” sometimes makes her angry because when they do that, they try to define it.

They try to put it into words and the loss, the pain that she is feeling, is undefinable.

I also understand how she trembles to her core and just wants someone to come and wrap their love around her like a warm blanket, to shield her from the elements.

But then, she is so raw, so tender, that the idea of that kind of comfort is discomforting.

So, there she stands, in the recesses, crying out through the darkness both wanting help and warning everyone to leave her alone.

She is in a quandary…

I am like every other human. I believe my experience to be special, unique.

Unlike anything anyone has ever experienced.

And the reality is that intellectually, I know that someone has and that I am not alone in what I feel. 

What I really hope that people can understand is who Josiah was to me. Losing him is so much more than losing a child.

We lived our lives together. It really was, for the most part, just us for all of those years.

We faced hardship together – tragedy, abandonment, heartache – but we always had one another.

He climbed out of the depths of poverty with me, cheered me on when I went back to school, supported me in every business venture I ever undertook.

He forgave my imperfections, my failures, my mistakes and loved me unconditionally.

He loved me in a way that no one else ever has and maybe ever will.

I lost my only child, the only one to ever call me mom. I will never be addressed that way again.

I lost my life partner, the one who shared all of my memories with me. There is no one left to say, “Remember when?” to anymore. 

I am hurting so deeply, so incredibly, and my understanding of what I have lost deepens everyday.

I see no bottom and am losing sight of the top.

I’m trapped in the middle of grief somewhere – with wind chimes singing and dogs barking and hints of sunlight coming through the windows. 

My silence, and the silence of his absence, feels like it is crushing me at times. 

So, I say my prayers.

For him and for me.

And prayers of gratitude for all of you.

And I light another candle.

And I get up and do what needs to be done. 

---

When Grief Speaks is a selection of writings that originated as journal entries and Facebook posts when I was in early grief after my son, Josiah, was killed. They speak straight from the heart, from the depths of despair that many bereaved find themselves in. I offer them here to not only openly share myself with you, but also to connect with those who may feel as I once did. As grief unfolds and matures, it changes. We grow grief muscles that we never wanted. At some point, we find that we can carry what we once thought would crush us and in that, we find hope.