Shortly after loosing my son Jude, someone said to me “You have to let him go”. I can tell you now and certainly would have told you then, just a few short weeks after loosing him, that statement was not helpful – at all! At the time, my body and mind were still numb and I couldn’t even grasp at the basic intention that was behind the statement. I’m sure there was some form of pure support intention behind the statement, but the thing is, even if I was in a position to grasp the intention behind the statement, letting go of your dead child is just something that you simply can’t do.
It’s not as simple as releasing your grip on a balloon string and watch it float away into clear blue skies. There are no blue skies after loosing a child and your child is not a balloon. Being told that you “need to let them go” is not as simple as it sounds, nor is it as liberating from the darkness of grief as most of those around us want to believe. Letting go is not that simple – a truth that is once again being demonstrated by the worlds beloved Orca Killer Whale, Tahlequah, who is once again holding on to her dead calf as part of her grieving process.
This year, will mark a decade since I lost my boy and I’m still grappling with the art of letting go. I know I will never let him go and that is not what I’m grappling with. I know that he’s forever a part of me and I of him and that will never change or dissipate despite the passing years. What I am learning to let go of is the rituals that no longer serve my grieving journey, the guilt that overwhelms and consumes me, the need to share him with everyone. Letting go of those things and making room for new ways to share his light, honour the lessons and light the path for those traveling their own grief journey behind me is how I’m choosing to embrace this next part of my journey.
And like Tahlequah, the Orca Killer Whale who carried her first dead calf for 17 days (1,000 Miles) in 2018, we the bereaved parent, will only “let them go” when we are ready. Our definition of letting go is not the same as of those witnessing our grief journey from the sidelines. It is completely different and utterly unique – just like our child(ren). Grief paralyzes us, holds us hostage, changes us, moves us and expands us. We can’t let it go – it needs to let us go. And that does not happen with time, it can only happen with comprehension, appreciation and gratitude for the lessons learned and love endured.
“The black one mommy! The one that goes choo choo!” She said motioning her hand to signal the lever pull of the train sound. Her eyes were filled with excitement as she shared with me the fact that the black train we include as part of our annual Christmas Village set up tradition, was her absolute favourite. She continued on about the black train and how she couldn’t wait to see it set up for Christmas this year, as the excitement in her voice and facial expressions bounced off her bedroom walls. The lines between my living child and my dead one blurred for a second (like it usually does given how much alive he is in my heart) and my mind thought about how much she would enjoy in that moment, reading the Polar Express storybook.
And there it was. The trigger. Pulled in a split second by one single thought that immediately sent me back to the first Christmas after we lost Jude. The Christmas where we spent countless numbers of hours searching for everything and anything that could possibly serve as a fitting gift to sit under our Christmas tree for Jude. The gift that we knew would be wrapped by us, and opened by us, alone. The gift that we placed all of our hope on healing our broken hearts and help us get through the holiday season. The gift that would fill the void. We finally landed on one – the special edition of The Polar Express storybook.
As the grief slowly seeped through the crevices of my heart, it was swept up by the current of my daughter’s excitement of her new found awareness that Christmas was on the horizon, and splattered all over the room. With very little white space left in my heart to distinguish between grief and joy, I found myself breaking my own rule and asking her, “ Would you like to read a story about a Christmas train? We can borrow one of Jude’s special books to read tonight”. She immediately said yes and hopped her way over to the space in our home that we reference as Jude’s room, where a library of story books belonging to Jude are kept.
That blended current of joy and grief bouncing around in the walls of my heart is what I need to prepare myself for, get comfortable with and accept to be my reality for the next 2 months. To a bereaved parent, the Holiday Season approaches like a freight black train. We can see it coming. We know it’s beautiful. We know it’s grand. We know it’s magical. But when it finally get’s close enough for us to see inside and notice the one single empty passenger seat, the speed at which it hits your heart is enough to kill you all over again, and again, and again….
So be gentle. Be accepting. Be open. And even be ok with not wanting to participate in anything that is brought on by the black train. Your heart will tell you what it needs to be able to survive the impact.
I remember in those early grief days, hearing the statement that a bereaved mama knows exactly how old her child(ren) would have been if they were alive, even after decades had passed. I found that challenging to believe. I knew how my brain operated (and still does), where most times I couldn’t even remember what I had for breakfast earlier in the day, but now, I can confidently admit that I was wrong. A mama DOES in fact remember. In fact she remembers every single day.
Eight. You my sweet boy, would have been eight today. I remember being eight. Eight was a year of change. A hard year. A year full of newness and curiosity. Full of adventure and unfamiliarity. Full of courage and fear. I look back at my own eight year of life and see how much different it would stack up against what yours could have been or would have been if only….
We’re inching closer to a decade in this grief journey, yet somehow it still feels just like yesterday where our hearts were filled with a cocktail of joy and sorrow that we would only identify and swallow much later in our grief process.
When I speak of you, it no longer makes me feel uncomfortable – it only makes me feel proud. Proud that you are ours and we are yours, and that together, we have managed to intertwine our love into the most beautiful safe space to foster community, guidance and rest for grieving hearts. Our demonstration of unconditional love and connection to you extending beyond the living world, has allowed others on similar grief journeys to honour and share their own loss children with us and the world. And that has both humbled us and made us grateful for the unbreakable bond we have with you.
I don’t know what the journey will feel like at the decade mark, but for now, I know that my heart is filled with gratitude for the guidance, strength, love and courage you have gifted us with over the last eight years.
Even when we feel your absence everyday, we can’t imagine a life without your love present.
It slowly creeps up on you – shortly after the retailers have cast aside their Easter / Hello Spring! merchandise and shift their strategies to closing the second quarter strong with one of the hallmark holidays mid year. Mother’s Day. Ugh – just seeing the combination of letters boldly staring back at me, stirs up this unsettling cocktail of emotions that triggers mainly the flight response in my body.
Personally, I’ve never been a fan of Mother’s Day and when I lost my son Jude, it further amplified the mixed emotions I had about this seemingly innocent celebration of honour. But the fact is, for so many, Mother’s Day is a massive trigger point and it can be extremely difficult to navigate the anticipation of the day, especially when there is so much pressure (from what it feels like the entire universe) to celebrate it and acknowledge it, but only in it’s traditional form. I know I’m not alone in this sentiment (despite having a living child in my life who innocently embraces the opportunity to honour me) and I also know that it can feel extremely overwhelming to try and navigate the fast approaching Mother’s Day Tide heading straight in our direction.
Just like there’s so many facades of Motherhood that the day is intended to honour, there’s also so many dimensions to why so many of us dread and repeatedly wish the day away – year after year.
For some of us, the day is just too overwhelming to bear after the loss of a child. For others, the longing to mother a child crushed by infertility or false hope experienced through a rigorous adoption process can make us feel invisible. For those who have lost their own mother, the day can be filled with sadness and longing for our own mother’s love. For others, complicated relationships make it impossible to live up to the expectations of society’s idealism of the day, leaving us filled with shame, guilt and anger. Whatever dimension you find yourself in, the truth is, Mother’s Day is yours to honour however you feel is right for YOU.
YOU get to decide how you choose to honour your own individual motherhood on that day without having to answer to ANYONE.
It is extremely difficult to not conform to the idealism of the day, and it requires courage, intention and boundaries to protect your heart and do what feels right for you. Over the years I have navigated the tide of Mother’s Day in many different ways, but it wasn’t until after loosing my son Jude, that I unapologetically embraced the approach of honouring myself in a way that conformed to my own standards exclusively. Since embracing that approach, every year, the day is different for me. Some years the tidal wave is much stronger, loaded with grief that crashes fiercely against me, while other years, the waves are calm with the occasional undertow that pulls me under for short periods. On either end of that pendulum, I have come to recognize, be still and listen to what my heart is telling me it needs in the anticipated lead up to the day, allowing me to draw upon some strategies I’ve leveraged several times to navigate not only Mother’s Day, but other hallmark holidays that can leave a bereaved parent depleted.
This year, marks my 8th Mother’s Day since loosing my son Jude and one would think that by now, I would be a pro at this, but the truth is, every year is different and every year I rely on any one or several of these strategies to help me cope. So if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the fast approaching tidal wave of Mother’s Day, consider how some of these strategies may support you in surviving and navigating the day.
#1 “No” is a complete sentence.
Say no. No to brunch. No to Tea. No to Dinner. Just say no. It’s perfectly acceptable to say no to anything that will not bring your heart happiness and will deplete what little energy you have left just to make it through the day. We’re often pressured to just conform to what is expected of us to celebrate and mark the day in honour of all “mothers”, but if whatever you’re being pressured to be a part of doesn’t honour (or worse, acknowledge) your own motherhood, what’s the point? Respectfully bow out and say no. Period. No explanations required.
#2 Stay away from Social Media
The idealism of Mother’s Day is amplified on Social Media, with endless images and anecdotes dominating your feed. Spare yourself the heartache and stay away for the entire weekend. Turn off notifications, temporarily delete the apps from your devices, or better yet, place your phone on airplane mode or shut it off completely. Give yourself the space and time to just honour yourself in a way that is authentic to you and not invaded by what everyone around you is doing or thinks you should be doing. Even if you think you can manage without taking some of these measures — trust me. There’s always something that hits you and it’s just not worth it.
#3 Nurture in Nature
There’s something so healing and therapeutic about surrounding yourself with Nature. Decide to spend the day hiking, biking, walking or pack a picnic if you can and if the weather co operates. If the weather is not co operating, opt for a drive in the country side exploring new areas. Being outside and surrounded by nature will soothe the soul and give you the opportunity to connect – with your child(ren) and with yourself.
#4 Set Boundaries
Decide ahead of time, what your boundaries are. Even if you don’t communicate them to others, it’s good to have a clear view of what your boundaries are for the day. Decide how much time you want to dedicate to others on the day (if any) and what types of activities you want to participate in (again – if any. Staying in bed all day is perfectly fine too!). I always like to share boundaries with my husband so that he knows what I need and how he can support on the day. It’s ok to set a boundary even with respect to celebrating your own mother(s) and mother figures in your life. There’s ways that you can navigate this within a boundary parameter. On several occasions, I have opted to celebrate with my mom on a different day ahead of Mother’s Day as a way to mange my amplified emotions and sensitivity on the actual day. Although not always feasible, I have also purposely scheduled business trips over Mother’s Day as a physical boundary to protect myself and not “have to” be present on the actual day. However and whatever you decide to do, it’s important that you have those clear boundaries noted for yourself and if you choose to, share with others around you that will respect and honour them with and for you.
#5 Honour Yourself, your children and YOUR Motherhood
Whether you need to physically write one for yourself, or get someone else to write one for you, give yourself that permission slip to honour yourself, your children and your motherhood on the day. However and with whomever you want to. Whether you spend the day doing acts of kindness in honour of your children, or decide to pull out a blanket and just sit and spend the day at the resting place of your child(ren) – do it. Don’t be fussed about what other’s around you may think or say — there’s no manual that you must follow. And if there is one, please let me know because I’m yet to find it.
Attend a yoga or meditation class and dedicate the practice in honour of yourself – if you don’t think you deserve it, let me tell you, you do. Mothering a living child is hard. Mothering a dead child is heavy. Use the day as an opportunity to acknowledge yourself as a mother in whatever form it is, and give yourself permission to just for one day, place all of the heaviness, burden, anger and grief down and give your heart a place to rest. A place to be seen. A place to love the mother that you are.
Regardless of how you choose to navigate this hallmark holiday, show yourself some grace with the knowledge that motherhood is a journey. It’s unique to you, ever changing, and needs to be honoured in a way that acknowledges where you are in that journey. Don’t conform to someone else’s view of what it is and how it should be honoured. Conform to you and only you.
Be gentle with yourself and remember you are enough.
I’ve had the fortune (or misfortune – depending on the lens you look through) to be consulted a few times on how to support a newly bereaved mother. By no means do I consider myself to be a professionally qualified consultant on the matter, but I do have one credential that places me in a different segmentation of the average individual. I am a bereaved mother. And so, by default, that makes me somewhat qualified to be consulted on the topic.
During the most recent ask to consult on what to say or how to help a recently bereaved mother in what I think is an impossible situation, I found myself a little lost for words at first. To be honest, swearing was the only cohesive speech I managed to share with the friend who was so dutifully asking me for my advice on the matter, admitting that she had absolutely no experience and very aware that not everything that is intentionally helpful, helpful to a newly bereaved mother.
My mind immediately raced through all of the things not to do or say – the cliches, the religious anecdotes, the “at leasts…”. But then I paused, took a deep breath in and let myself carefully drift back to those early days of grief — early hours of grief, where the shock of loosing your precious baby(ies) is still very present and you feel nothing but numbness. The early hours of grief where you stare out beyond the world, for hours, and the world stares back through you, carrying on as if nothing had happened. The sun sets, the moon rises, the traffic flows, the stars glow, the sidewalk bustles, the emails ping, the people smile, the flowers bloom, the snow falls, the clocks run, the school day ends, the tide rises and the waves crash and it all just flows through like nothing ever happened. In those early grief days, none of that matters. It’s all just swept up into the numbness and shock of the perpetual thought of “my baby(ies) just died – does nobody give a fuck?”.
So, as an innocent (and concerned) bystander, all you see is this shell of a person who you love, is maybe just stillness and silence and not responsive to the world around them and all you want to do is fix it. Take their pain away, make them smile again. See them happy. See them live. So how do you do that? What encouraging words can you offer? What actions can you take that will help them “snap out of it” and get back to life?
Before leaping into action, what you must realize and come to terms with, is this. Your loved one, didn’t JUST loose their baby(ies). They LOST their baby(ies) AND they lost THEMSELVES. So much of themselves is lost in that moment when the realization that their baby(ies) have been lost forever. Just because that newly bereaved mother is still physically alive, does not mean that she did not also die with their baby(ies). Believe me (I guess this is the qualification factor), a large part of us as individuals, vanishes when our baby(ies) die. So the best thing you can offer any newly bereaved mother is space.
Space to grief. Space to tell you about her baby(ies). Space to share her birth story. Space to cry, be angry, be resentful, be sad, be happy, be confused, be honest. Space to just be. That gift of space, can be wrapped and gifted in so many different ways. It can be wrapped up in a walk outside. A drive along the country side road. A hot cup of coffee, tea, soup broth in a quiet, private place. It can be bundled in the shape of a colouring book and colourful pencils to give her a place to rest her mind. It can be wrapped in the form of a journal with a sharp pencil or felt tip pen to give her a place to unpack her emotions and try to answer all of the unanswered questions. It can be boxed along with some bath salts, moisturizers, essential oils and soft slippers to remind her to take care of herself. It can also be just a simple stuffed animal toy to give her empty arms something to hold.
None of those things will bring her baby(ies) back. But having the space to navigate the thick grief fog, rollercoaster of emotions and process of re defining herself is a good start. There’s no timeline and no end game for the bereaved mother. Her grief will not come to a magical finish line. Her love for her baby(ies) will not end, therefore, all she is left with is the space in between – to tread the journey. Just be there. Quietly and gracefully, treading beside her.
Seven looks a little different. The lead up to seven has sped through our lives like a gust of wind that comes quickly and with purpose – a reminder that another season is upon us. Another year has passed. Another year of your present absence.
Seven feels like a pivotal year. One that signifies change. One that enables movement forward, although we have somehow managed to keep moving without you. It hasn’t always been forward, but it’s movement; and in grief, that’s all that counts.
For seven years, we have shared you within our world. We have openly and freely said your name. We have lived and loved unapologetically in your honour. We have continued onward with our lives as best we could – living in parallel realms, with and without you.
But seven is not enough. It’s not enough to heal. Infinity is not enough, so why would seven be? Instead seven feels like a pause in a time lapse, where we assess our vantage point and reposition before continuing to record this journey we’re on with you.
At seven, we can pause and see the light that you have shone through the cracks in our hearts out into the world. We can see the brightness that you have lit our world with. We are starting to understand the purpose of your love in our lives. Understanding is not accepting – it’s simply understanding and opening ourselves to whatever else you teach us along this journey.
Such a small number for a big lesson when you put it into perspective. With every season and every year that passes, we are reminded that your love is present and purposeful. It’s a guiding force if we surrender to it and it will continue to be until our realms once again collide and our lights are no longer pouring through the cracks, but intertwined together. Once again whole.
Until then, we love you and wish you were here everyday.
I suppose champagne birthdays are only really a thing only when you’re an adult – when you can actually drink champagne! By definition, today we could have potentially be celebrating your champagne birthday. You would have been turning 6 on the 6th this year. And even though you’re not here, I’ll still raise a champagne flute to celebrate. Celebrate you. Celebrate me. Celebrate us as a collective family. Celebrate the fact that we have survived 6 years of this balancing act of grief and joy. Love and pain.
6 years in, I still hold this day sacred. And I know that in some shape or form I will continue to hold it sacred until I die. It’s the day I honour you but also honour the person that you made me. Honour the strength, the perspective and the grace that I had anticipated to be born on this day, but never did. Instead, all of those things were born much earlier, in a completely different setting, in the most unexpected way, shaping the person that I have become.
Self care is one of those phrases you hear as a bereaved parent very early on in the grief journey, but holds very little merit. It’s not much, much later in one’s grief journey that you come to recognize the critical role it plays, in not only surviving, but also living through the journey.
Today, on your would have been champagne birthday, I choose self care – even if it comes in the form of a champagne glass.
Six. It’s been six year since we’ve lost you and I wonder today how the weight of the grief that I carry compares to weight your little body would be at six. I’m sure your little body would have been 10x lighter without a doubt.
But I guess we’ll never really know.
The on again off again pandemic environment has once again made it challenging to celebrate your birthday in the way that somehow makes my heart feel like it’s enough, so this year, as we celebrate you differently (again), my heart looks for ways to fulfill that feeling of enough. But it has not been successful. In the days leading up to today, I wander in and out of stores looking for things that speak to me. That remind me of you. That make my heart happy. And every single time, I question whether it’s enough.
Many bereaved parents will identify with “signs” as a way to hold on to a glimmer of hope and light that they’re child(ren) continue to be with us in this universe despite not being physically by our side. To the non bereaved, these signs may seem ridiculous, but to us, the bereaved parent, they are all that we have.
And so, this week, as I wandered aimlessly to find what exactly would be considered enough to celebrate and honour you, I came across many of these signs that I know was your way of saying “hello! I’m here. And I’m with you’. From the tiniest white feathers I found every morning this week tangled in your sister’s hair as I brushed it in the morning, to the heart shaped planters and posters in the garden centre, even to the pillow that suggested a coping mechanism to get through yet another year without you, they were all there. Speaking to me. Telling me something — but never enough.
It’s just not enough to not have you here. Not enough to try and celebrate you in every way that I know how. Just not enough.
So, I carry you. I carry you in my heart and feel the weight of the grief against the walls of my heart and know that for now, in this space, this lifetime, that will just have to be enough.
Until we meet again my sweet boy. Happy 6th Birthday!
So 2020 is a little different. Different on the surface, but at the core, where you and I co exist, it’s the same. It feels weird that we can’t celebrate you in the same way that we always have, especially since it’s your 5th birthday. 5 years is a milestone, but one that is ironically being hit without much celebration.
This year, there’s an overwhelming, persistent numbing feeling that has not resurfaced since the early days of grief. But your love is the constant and that’s what I’m trying to stay focused on.
There will still be balloons, and cake and sunrises and we will still be surrounded by your love and those who love us, and that’s all that matters.
Every year, leading into your birthday, I dig deep into the ocean of my heart where you live and ask you “how do you want to celebrate your birthday? You always have an answer for me, but not this year. This year your silence was truly deafening and my heart finally aligned with the fact that maybe this year’s inability to celebrate you in the same way was more to do with your wishes then the rest of current life events.
Today, as I stood in the sacred silence that is only present in the morning dawn and watched the sunrise, I noticed the calm of the water on the horizon. It glistened with the orange yellow highlight of the sun coming over the horizon crest and I felt ok. I felt calm. I felt at peace. Following the path of the gentle sway of the water, I noticed that closer to the shore, the waves still hit the rocks aligning the shore with fierceness, splashing water well above the marked shoreline. That fierceness reminded me that no matter how calm and how at peace I feel about you, grief will always crash against me. And that’s what I’m ok with. That’s what I’m at peace with. That’s what I’m numb to.
The celebration planning leading up to your birthday provides me with an unhealthy dosage of distraction. This year, there was no planning, no organizing, no noise, no distraction. Stripping all of that away left me with nothing but you. And in a way, I’m grateful for that. It’s just what my bereaved mama heart needed to realize that sometimes, doing things differently may not be what you want, but what you may truly need.
Is today a good day? What constitutes as a good day? From my vantage point, today is a day. A special day. But not sure it’s a good day — but then again, what is a good day.
What I know is that today is our day. Our day to connect. To reflect on what may have been. What could have been. What should have been.
I’ve been holding this day dearly for 5 years. The entrance into this new decade starting in 2020 has abruptly reminded me that you and I have been apart for half a decade already. Half a decade. Time still flies when you’re grieving. Nothing sits still.
I claim this day every year since loosing you to honour us. To honour you, my sweet Jude on what could have been your birthday and to honour myself for surviving this journey.
I saw the words scripted in blue marker on the side of my cup as the barista handed me my comfort tea this morning and wondered if she could see through my broken exterior shell. Could she see that I need to be reminded to “have a good day”? Maybe. Maybe she was simply carrying out her perfected customer experience ritual that gets carried out with every customer.
But today, I’d like to think that message was unique to me. That it wasn’t the barista’s message at all. That the message came from you, reminding me that today is a good day. That today, is a day that we can hold in our hearts together and indulge in this non conventional love that we hold for each other in a way that only you and I understand.
#judedays 