Earlier today I was talking to another mother who’s lost a child. Like me, she lost her daughter. Our time living this grief journey is almost the same.
At the moment, she’s in the middle of some very big changes. Some she saw coming, a few she didn’t. The ones that show up unannounced send us into a panic. She’s panicking. Her water is starting to churn.
In truth, we generally live on the edge of anxiety. We are always waiting for the next big thing to fall into the center of our lives and blow it apart. Can you imagine living with such intense fear all time? A call late at night must be bad news. Or a call that doesn’t come when it should means something horrible happened. It’s exhausting. We know it’s exhausting for you to watch us live this way. We are sorry.
There are times when the water threatens to drown us. The waves of grief pound us toward the bottom of the sea. Large swells loom in the distance as far as we can see. Nearly drowning, we fight to survive.
When it seems we just can’t keep our heads above the water and we’re ready to give up, another grieving mother appears as a light to give us direct .
Sometimes I’m the lighthouse, other times I’m the swimmer. It isn’t always turbulent, though.
Every so often we have a calm day. The water’s surface is smooth as glass. Laying back, we watch the sky as the currents carry us along peacefully. We have to learn to be in that moment and accept its beauty. Soon enough, another storm will blow in.
I know this: we grow stronger with each thunderous wave we struggle through. Every time we break the surface of water, and take a breath, we remember why we are fighting to live. We know the shore is there. And someday, we’ll reach it.
If you get there before me, please wait, I will need your light. If I make it before you, I’ll shine bright and help guide you in safely.
I hope you all are waiting for us on the shore, as well.