Here’s where my 13-year-old son should have stood this morning for his obligatory back-to-school picture. Today he should have started 8th grade. Instead he never will. Instead I have an aching heart, an empty porch, and one less "normal" back-to-school picture.
Today I should have taken three back-to-school pictures, not just two.
To every grieving parent with an aching heart, and an empty porch...
To every parent with ONE LESS child...
To every parent who should have sent off ONE MORE to school...
To every parent aching today, and trying to act as normal as possible...
We see you. We feel you. And our hearts ache with yours.
Milestones like back-to-school can feel like a swift punch in the gut. Milestones like these require the art of holding infinite space for BOTH/AND. We need to give ourselves permission and space to honor *ALL* that is true for us today. Even if it feels like we're the only ones feeling this way.
After I dropped off my other two boys at school today I realized I could take the third picture, even though it wasn't how I wanted it to be. So I came home and took this picture. Noah's back-to-school picture. An empty porch, an empty space where he should be. I needed to give myself permission to honor him and hold space for what should have/could have been his first day of school, too. I needed to let myself feel the ache, feel the empty space the size and shape of him.
After I took the picture, I sobbed. I sobbed because I don't want to be a grieving mom. A mom eternally missing one. A mom with a hole in her heart. A mom that feels so vastly unlike all the *other* school moms. I sobbed for all the what-ifs. All the could have/should have beens. I sobbed for everything I'm missing and everything I will miss. I sobbed for my precious firstborn son who never even got one first day of school. I sobbed for every first day of school Noah was robbed of experiencing— an entire childhood of 1st Days of School— gone. I sobbed for every milestone I've missed with him so far, and every milestone I will miss for the rest of my life. An entire lifetime of milestones.
This is grief. This is love. This is parenting after loss.
Read more:
A Bed For My Heart