So much changes in a decade. The trees grow, people come and go, plans are made, then destroyed, winters come and summers flow, all while time just keeps on ticking by. It’s strange to me that so much can change over the course of a decade, but yet, the day you came into our lives stays etched in my memory so vividly even after a decade has passed. For that, I am grateful. I am grateful that I still remember what you looked like, how still the world felt to me and how heavy it all felt.
Today, it doesn’t feel heavy, the world does not feel still and I still recognize you in every way. I have come to learn how to hold the sorrow and joy in perfect balance and harmony. I have come to appreciate the beauty that was beneath all of the rubble. I continue to uncover the lessons you teach. It all seems so fragmented yet united in this quilt of love that covers us – protecting us from the passage of time and the expectations of others that just don’t understand.
A decade is not a lifetime and there is much more adventure to uncover, woven into the days, months and years – however many more I may have here on this side of the universe, without you.
This year, the joy supersedes the sorrow and peace has nestled in somehow, tucking our love for you tightly underneath it’s coverage. It’s surreal to be here – to be feeling this way. To marvel at all that you have taught us, have morphed us into, have contributed to our evolution as human beings, as a unit, as a family. Today’s version of me was never a version I could have imagined on the night you were born. I would have never imagined today’s version of me being here – with you – at peace. With the only visible scars of your presence being how we love, how we embrace your infinite presence in our lives and how we share you and your lessons with others around us.
This journey, that you have taken us on, has been life changing. A journey through a Kaleidoscope of ever shifting patterns of lightness and darkness, hard edged shapes and circular patterns, which all focus in on one thing. Your love. Our love. Our purpose together.
From this place, we continue to honour you and the evolution of our journey together. I have learned to trust the journey. Trust in the love and in the purpose. Trust that in the next decade, you will reveal greater lessons that will once again twist and shift the Kaleidoscope, bringing greater joy then any of us could have ever imagined.
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.
It’s as much about the output as it is about the time spent.
The time I allow myself to immerse in something that is truly just for him. It’s the equivalent of bedtime stories, bath giggles and dinner time conversation. Time I spend just with him. For him. Where my hands and my heart are in rhythm and my mind is somehow tricked into believing he is present. I allow myself the indulgence of the process itself. In selecting the design, materials and decorative pieces that speak to me and connect me to him leading into the holiday season.
The output is never picture perfect and it will never make it to someone’s Pinterest board. Instead it will face the wind, rain and snow that comes with the season year in and year out. It will be carefully and proudly displayed at his garden for the holiday season as a badge of love – a token of remembrance that we miss him and that we remember him – always.
My heart will flinch when I see it covered in inches of snow loosing its pristine newness look. I will feel the disappointment as I watch it slowly break apart, trying to find ways to mend it year after year until it can no longer be. The scabs of my mended heart will itch reminding me as to why it needs me to continue this simple tradition of creating holiday wreaths. An unlabeled act, initially forced upon me as a coping mechanism to bring back meaning to the holidays, remembrance assurance to my worried mind and a place of rest for my grieving mama heart. It has now become labelled as a tradition, but it’s one of purpose and not transmission.
For now, I will give my heart permission to silence my mind and indulge in the act of placing this brand new wreath at his resting place as it braces itself for the most triggering time of the year. For that is what my heart needs to gently invite the season in and embrace the tricky balance between sadness and joy that only a bereaved mama can gracefully do everyday, but especially during the holiday season.
So if you’re a grieving mama navigating this ever so tricky season, I invite you to join me in finding ways to bring comfort to your heart and meaning back to the season. Traditions start somewhere – start a new one this season that opens up space for your grief to flow through, your heart to rest, your child to be included and remembered. Grace and deep breaths will get us through this – together.
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.
#judedays 