As I write this, it has been 608 days since I held my daughter’s tiny body. I have spent the better part of two years trying to figure out how to navigate this new life without her. When I reached the anniversary of her death, it felt similar to how I would imagine it feels like to finish a marathon. I had made it through a grueling year of firsts. That year included the anniversary of our pregnancy milestones with her, my first holidays as a bereaved mother, her first birthday, and finally, the anniversary of her death.
The best description I can give of my first year of grieving was pure survival mode. I was medically alive, but not truly living. I was going through the motions and functioning on the outside, but in reality I was just doing what I needed to do to survive. My grief felt turbulent, with each milestone knocking me off my feet. Little by little, I learned how to keep getting up again. I don’t think that I would’ve been able to articulate this expectation at the time, but I was hoping to find reprieve on the other side of all those firsts without her. I think a small part of me even believed that if I could just make it through one year, maybe she would come back to me. But then, the calendar kept going past November 28, 2021. Whether I wanted it to or not, my second year without Eden began.
In year two, survival mode ended and the permanence of her absence began to sink in.
This shift happened concurrently with bringing home a new baby. I seemed to reach a point where others generally expected me to be okay. With the exception of a select group of people, the check-ins stopped. Many people stopped bringing up Eden or asking me how I was doing in my grief.
Passing the one-year mark felt like passing an imaginary finish line in which my grief went from being acceptable in the eyes of others to being burdensome or even pathological.
Jude gave everyone something happier to focus on, and conversations revolved around him. To some extent, I expected this to happen… but my heart ached to talk about my firstborn child too. I began to internalize the silent expectations from others to be okay, and it only left me feeling even more misunderstood and alone in my grief. Because I wasn’t okay. In fact, the start of my second year of grief felt raw and all-consuming, just as it did right after Eden’s death.
In the early days, I incorporated grief rituals into my life in a way that made sense. These rituals became a big part of my identity as a mother. Things like scrolling through videos and pictures of her every night before bed, getting her clothes out of her chest, listening to her favorite music, or talking to her urn. As I entered year two of grief, I felt a diminishing desire to continue doing these things. I began to feel like they were doing more harm than good, and sometimes rendering me unable to function. The things that felt right to me in my grief started to shift. I now spend much less time scrolling through pictures and videos of Eden, because I’ve found that my emotional response to them is much stronger. I’ve learned to limit myself as a way of protecting my heart. But since my grief rituals have been so deeply tied to my sense of identity as Eden’s mother, it brought me guilt when I found that some of those things were no longer comforting. Talking to other bereaved mothers has helped me give myself permission to grow and change in my grief. I have realized that just because the way I grieve looks different, does not mean that my identity as her mother is any less secure.
My relationship with Eden continues to grow and change, even with us being separated by death.
While I wouldn’t say that the second year of grieving was harder than the first, it also wasn’t any easier. It was just different. In some ways, it’s been even harder. It’s been more complex. In other ways, I’ve seen tremendous growth. I can now say with confidence that I am living and not just surviving. By the grace of God and through my husband and son, I have learned how to find joy in the present moments. The grief is always with me, but I still enjoy my life and the many blessings in it. Joy and grief are not at odds with one another.
I no longer feel like I have to live only in the past to keep Eden as a part of my story. I carry her with me.
I live with a constant awareness of her absence, but also a better understanding of her continued role in my life.
I am continuously on the lookout for hedgehogs and roses, because those are my winks from her. I always include her when I am asked about my children. I may not bring her up as often as I used to, but I continue to talk about her with the people who loved her most. I show her pictures on the walls in our home to Jude. I look forward to the days where I can share more of her with him. I think of her every hour of every day. These are just some of the ways that Eden is woven into my daily life. I am still learning to give myself grace as I notice my grief change and evolve. I recognize that next year, it may change yet again. As much as I will try to prepare for what year three may bring, grief is continuously surprising me.
With Eden in my heart,
Lauren
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