There are no fewer than 6 draft posts in here since the last one I published.
Somehow it seems hard to write anything after Daniel's story.
I read through every post on this blog a while back - during a dark night of desperate grief. I read every word and tried so hard to feel a connection to my children again - all three of their stories are represented here, though sometimes indirectly.
I got the first urge to write a blog after we lost Michael 13 weeks into pregnancy. It took a few months to get started, and I wasn't sure why I was doing it. But I started writing.
Then we used it to tell our social circles that Aubrey had been born and died in the same week.
A year and a bit later it became a place where we posted live updates about Daniel's journey in the NICU, and received support from loved ones in the comments.
I have mixed feelings about this blog. It is a holy space for me - how can I add to or change a single thing about it?
The woman who wrote here had not yet spent nights on the floor, too miserable and worn with grief to lift herself up. She hadn't writhed in agony as her insides convulsed with the rawness of her son's dead body and the sudden end of everything she had lived, breathed, and pumped milk for in the NICU.
She hadn't yet tasted Aubrey's sixth birthday, watched other children grow older while hers remained but memories, or faced the world spinning carelessly on as if nothing had changed. Like she was expected to just keep living.
The woman who wrote here had faith, yes. But she was also running on trauma and adrenaline.
Back then, I couldn't fathom five years down the road. I'm pretty certain it never crossed my mind.
Trauma is a complex critter.
So is grief.
So are we humans.
The woman who wrote here had also not known the sweetness of heavenly presence in a sacred moment. She hadn't felt the hand of Heaven teaching her about the things that really matter, and really are. She hadn't yet met the mentors, therapists, and friends who would help her reintegrate with life and learn to see goodness again in a much deeper way than she ever had before.
She also had no idea that she could be a speech-language pathologist - that a whole new world of wonder and meaning would be opened to her and allow her to serve others in unique and meaningful ways.
I am learning to see life in new ways. To love. To embrace. To trust. To rebuild. To see both sides of the paradox and hold them in awe. To let go.
A few months ago I got the bug to blog again. I deliberated for a long time whether I would keep writing here, or in a separate space. In the end, I chose to start a new blog. Sometimes I wonder if that was the most courageous decision.
But here we are, and I am writing this bridge post to link to my "other" blog.
I am striving to write courageously - to share my story with its complexities and beauties alike.
You're welcome to join me there if you like.
May this remain a holy space for the memories of Michael, Aubrey, and Daniel.
