There are moments that never leave you. They don’t fade. They don’t dull. They just bury themselves in the bones of who you are and whisper from the marrow, “Remember me.”

I’m not writing this for sympathy.

I’m writing this because sometimes the only way to keep breathing is to give the grief somewhere to land.

My daughter died in 2016.

I don’t talk about it much…not because I’ve healed, but because grief like that doesn’t lend itself to words. It’s too big. Too holy. Too rage filled. Too still. Too confusing. Too real.

Grief doesn’t end when the funeral does.

It doesn’t end when people stop checking in, or when the world assumes you’ve moved on.

It shape shifts. It becomes a shadow that follows you through the most ordinary moments during hobbies, watching your kids play, staring at the ceiling at night.

It’s not just the grief of losing a child.

It’s the grief of still being here.

The Unspoken Grief of the “Strong” Mother

When you’ve buried a child, people put you on a kind of pedestal as the “strong one,” the “faithful one,” the “inspirational survivor.” But what they don’t see is the way you flinch when someone says “Mom,” because part of you still waits to hear the voice that never answers back.

They don’t see the guilt that hides inside every laugh, the whisper that says, “You shouldn’t get to feel joy when she’s not here.”

They don’t see the doubt that creeps in when you’re mothering your living children, the ones you love so fiercely it hurts and when they do something human, something imperfect. You correct them, you raise your voice, you get tired, and suddenly you’re swallowed by the question:

“If I was a better mom, would my baby still be alive?”

It’s a cruel thought. Irrational. But real.

Because losing a child rewires your motherhood. You start holding love and fear in the same hand. You start loving with panic in your chest, praying over every breath they take, every time they walk out the door. You live in a world where everything feels temporary..even joy.

The Grief That Time Refused to Bury

Everyone talks about how “time heals.” But what they don’t say is that time can also harden. It can press your pain into places so deep inside you that it feels like you’re carrying a ghost in your ribcage. It doesn’t speak, but it weeps.

Every day since she passed, I’ve walked this Earth with a split soul: one part trying to live, to laugh, to mother, to create, to breathe and the other trapped in a moment I didn’t choose, in a story I didn’t write.

And still I live.

I show up. I love. I create beauty. I build. I give. I dance through the ashes.

But some days? Grief pulls me back under like a tide. And the hardest part is nobody sees it. Because I got good at hiding it. I got good at laughing over it. I got good at being “strong.” That fake kind of strong, the kind that swallows grief like poison and smiles anyway.

When Grief Meets Motherhood Again

There’s a grief that sneaks in quietly when your living children grow, test limits, or disappoint you. It’s not anger, it’s heartbreak. It’s that ache of I’ve already lost one, and I’m scared of losing more even emotionally.

You look at them and think, I gave up my whole self to keep going for you.

And still, sometimes they don’t understand. They can’t.

They don’t know that every time they roll their eyes or pull away, it hits a wound that never closed.

You start to wonder, Am I doing enough? Am I failing them? Am I too broken to be the kind of mother they deserve?

That’s the hidden grief of survival.

It’s the ache of being human after you’ve been split open by loss.

It’s the guilt of knowing you’re trying so hard to be whole, but some parts of you will never fit back together the same.

The Body Keeps It. The Mind Repeats It. The Soul Still Screams.

People don’t talk enough about how grief rewires you. It reshapes your DNA. The loss of a child is not a chapter. It’s not a season.

It is a second birth. Of a darker self.

Your body aches in ways that have no name. Your heart beats in echo. You can’t rest the same. You can’t trust joy the same.

And the worst part? You become a master of pretending you’re okay when you’re still bleeding inside.

Even now, all these years later, the grief has evolved, not disappeared. It wears different clothes. Sometimes it looks like exhaustion. Sometimes it’s anger. Sometimes it’s numbness. Sometimes it’s a craving to disappear altogether.

But mostly, it shows up as this quiet question:

“Would she be proud of me?”

The Double Grief Nobody Talks About

There’s a kind of madness that comes with living for your children after losing one.

You love them with a desperation that scares you.

You hover between wanting to protect them from everything and needing to let them live.

You cry in silence when they make mistakes because your mind doesn’t see “a mistake” it sees danger, risk, loss.

And when they hurt you, when they talk back, or disappoint you, or pull away, it’s not just sadness.

It’s grief on top of grief.

It’s that thought that slips in: I’ve already lost one child. I can’t bear to lose another, not even emotionally.

So you carry it. You carry all of it, the guilt, the exhaustion, the prayers whispered through gritted teeth. You hold space for children both on this side of heaven and the next.

You mother in two realms.

You live with one foot in memory and the other in survival.

And that alone is divine labor.

The Life I Thought I’d Have vs. The Life I’m Fighting to Love

My grief isn’t just about death. It’s also about the life I thought I was building. The one I was promised. The ease I believed would come if I just stayed good, stayed loving, stayed hopeful.

But grief laughs at timelines. It snatches your plans and tosses you into survival mode. And I’ve been surviving ever since.

There are days I grieve her.

Days I grieve me.

And days I grieve the version of myself that had no idea what was coming.

And you know what’s cruel? The world doesn’t pause for mothers like me. We lose everything, and still get asked to give more.

When Grief Feels Like Madness

There are moments where grief feels like madness. Not just sadness, madness.

The kind where your soul starts screaming behind your smile.

The kind where your body carries trauma that nobody touches.

The kind where you start wondering if you’re just broken for good.

That’s the part nobody says out loud.

Grief will almost convince you to give up.

It will whisper, “What’s the point?”

It will make you question your own worth, your own mind, your own memories.

And unless you’ve buried a child, you will never, ever understand the silence we carry.

The Weight and the Holiness

No one tells you that grief can drive you close to insanity.

That it makes you see yourself through cracked glass, mother, woman, survivor, sinner, saint all tangled together.

But there’s holiness in that too. Because grief didn’t make you weak. It made you aware.

Aware of how fragile life is.

Aware of how sacred love is.

Aware that every breath your children take is both a blessing and a battle cry.

You are still mothering through heartbreak.

You are still loving through loss.

You are still showing up for children who get to live the life their sister could not and that is the most sacred work a woman can do.

And Still, I Rise From It

But this is also truth: I am still here.

And somehow, through the madness and ache, I create.

I mother.

I dance.

I tell the truth.

I make beauty from pain.

Grief never leaves. But I’ve made room for it. I give it a corner to sit in. I let it speak. I let it scream. I let it cry. But I don’t let it drive anymore.

Some days, it still tries to. But I fight back.

And that’s what this blog is. Not a cry for help.

But a crown made from my scars.

To the Other Mothers Reading This

If you’ve buried a child, I see you.

If you’ve buried a dream, a version of yourself, or a life that no longer fits you’re not crazy.

You’re just grieving.

And grief is sacred.

Your tears are holy.

Your silence is a language.

Your rage is not a sin.

Let it out.

Let it move.

Let it breathe.

You are not broken. You are becoming.

📍 Note 2 Self:

You don’t have to smile through what almost killed you.

You don’t have to explain your sorrow to people who never sat in it.

And you don’t have to be okay to be divine.

Your grief didn’t disqualify you.

It refined you.

You are still worthy of joy.

Still worthy of love.

Still worthy of peace.

And when the world forgets what you carry, may this post remind you:

You are a walking miracle.

I’ll never stop writing my way through it.

Because healing isn’t linear.

But truth is holy.

And this is mine.