Originally written April 28, 2020

Another day of heavy grief. 

I had counseling today. 

Hard feelings, old memories, trauma and more trauma.

Trauma that led to trauma that touched old trauma.

Old trauma that laid the groundwork for new trauma.

Domestic violence, rape.

All of the icky parts of life that many of us experience, but most of us don’t want to talk about.

Questioning what all of it means.

How it affected me.

The choices I’ve made — before, after and during.

The regrets.

The wondering.

If things had happened differently, would they have turned out differently?

Would Josiah still be alive? 

What if I could’ve been more than just a good mom?

What if I could’ve been a perfect picker?

What if the men who came into our lives could’ve tried a little harder, loved a little louder and treated us a little more gently?

What would’ve happened then?

Maybe things would’ve turned out differently.

Maybe Josiah would still be alive.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been tragedy built upon tragedy.

Maybe we’d both be alive.

Instead I’m here dying — dying and trying — trying just to survive. 

So the tears, they still flow.

And earlier, they flowed and flowed and flowed.

While my dogs kissed me and licked me and cleaned me.

Washing my tears away.

And then, I continued on with my day.

I shopped breathlessly.

Moving through life and stores quietly, face hidden behind my mask, my life hidden behind dried tears.

And then the time came that I needed to find my breath again, so I called a friend who often helps me breathe.

And again, I cried, I sobbed, I confessed, I surrendered.

And just as I admitted my wonder about my part in Josiah’s life which might have led to his death,

A lost quail cried out with its unmistakable call.

The same call Josiah and I always used when we were lost and could not find one another.

And just like that, I knew it was him calling me back.

Back in my body, back in my breath.

Back in my grief, out of regret.

Out of the shame I still carry for hard choices, failed relationships and lost faith.

I am back in this day — without him, with you — and with memories that fade.

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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.