The post I am going to share with you today –I wrote part of it six months ago but never published it. It turns out that was because I was meant to share it with you today.
I’ve been blogging about my healing journey from grief. In fact, this blog was born from grief.
On the one year anniversary of losing my mom I made a visit to a beach–amid stinking, rotting shells (nothing says peace and contemplation like rotting sea creatures)–and I went within and heard a small still voice that said you need to write.
Since that day I have been on an epic journey within. I figured, why not reflect on all that has unfolded in less than a year?
Would you like a recap?
- I created a flow chart. (WHO DOESN’T LOVE A GOOD VISUAL?)
- Part I–shared here–I explained how grief begets grief. My mom died, I healed, more grief surfaced, I healed some more, and then…
- Part II: life throws a curveball. Just as I emerge from healing and more healing, I lose a pregnancy. My mother (deceased) chimes in and reminds me to choose love and happiness.
Which brings me to today.
No animated GIFS today. Just tender-hearted love.
We are at Part 3: Love and Mercy.
So to set the scene: there I was, having a miscarriage. The baby whose due date was the date my mother died–this baby was not to be.
I was in so much emotional pain. So very much.
I made a choice. I could hold these cards, these unwanted cards that had been dealt to me, and I could throw them down in bitterness and defeat.
Or I could take these cards and place them gently over my heart and weep.
Weep for the child who would not be. Weep for all the losses I had sustained and survived.
I also realized something else: that I did not have to do it alone.
I could extend a hand out for another to hold. Because you see, when your hands are full of cards you don’t want dealt to you, there is someone else whose hands are free. And one day you will be that person with free hands and it will be your turn to hold another’s hand.
I will share my own words to myself written after this difficult passage:
There is so much I want to tell you, Sarah from months ago, Sarah from one, two years ago.
I want to tell you, it is ok that you could not grieve because you had to parent, because you had to manage so many life changes at one time.
I want to tell you to be gentle with yourself.
That this is so hard and heavy, and I see your pain.
I want you to know that it is so heavy for a reason.
That the pain is designed to be heavy—to become unbearable—because that is what makes us realize we were never meant to heal alone.
That the only way to release it is to join hands with others and form a circle around it. To lift it up into the sky together.
Then it will become buoyant and light. It will disintegrate before your eyes.