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4 Healing Truths

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It’s been 11 years since Aubrey and Ellie died. Because I’ve spent more than a decade writing transparently about the reality of grief and healing, I am often asked to speak about my journey. I’ve done hundreds of talks ranging from sharing the details of my personal story to deeper topics like God’s goodness in pain or if everything happens for a reason. I’ll admit, I love to take on the heavy topics as the cornerstone of my healing has been to omit the cliches and misunderstandings about grief and get straight to the messy, real, honest insights about what it takes to heal – the ones no one wants to say out loud because then we have nothing to hide behind anymore.

It’s been my experience that few like to hear that healing is possible. It feels safer in the pain, even with all it’s anguish, because the pain becomes the best excuse ever. For years I didn’t want to hope because, well, my babies died. I didn’t want to dream, try, plan, laugh, hold on too tightly to anything, or see myself as a whole person BECAUSE MY BABIES DIED. They died in my arms for Godsake, each on their own day in their own way. Who could ever tell me I’d be ok? And trust me, no one did. No one was brave enough to look my grieving face in the eye and say, “It feels impossible, but you will heal if you want to.” Instead I was told I’d never get over the deaths of my sweet girls because a mother doesn’t get over the loss of her children. It was stated like truth. And I believed it…for a while.

Spoiler alert! I don’t believe it anymore. Healing is possible and my favorite topic to speak on is what it takes to cultivate healing after profound loss. I created this PDF to express the four core healing truths I teach about at every opportunity. Over the month of September, I’ll elaborate on each truth with four blog posts overflowing with deeper explanations, tender insights, practical applications, and answers to your questions. Feel free to leave questions in the comments and I’ll do my best to answer them.

What 10 Years of Grieving Have Taught Me

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Tomorrow morning, at exactly 12:01, my first baby would have turned 10. Ten years feels both like a lifetime and yesterday all at the same time.⁣⁣ Somewhere along the way, numbness and shock turned into surviving. Surviving into a dark sadness that sucked all the colour out of life. That sadness into pure unadulterated anger. I got a lot of flack for anger in grief (especially as a Christian), but I don’t regret it, and if you’re grieving I don’t recommend you conform your grief to anyone’s expectations either.⁣⁣

⁣Because we only grieve deeply because we have loved deeply.⁣⁣

⁣⁣What I didn’t understand was that all the random things that are experienced in grief are normal.⁣⁣

don't conform your grief

⁣We are human after all

⁣⁣What I feared the most would prove to be a big fat lie – I wouldn’t forget her. ⁣⁣And as long as I didn’t, neither would the world. ⁣⁣

⁣⁣I was a shadow of myself after losing her and learned that I would never be the same person as before. I quickly accepted a life of misery early on. ⁣⁣But little did I know that love would outlive the misery. Love would outlive the sadness, the anger, the mere existence of surviving.⁣⁣

Love would survive it all

So when you see me laughing, smiling, dreaming up big things, planning adventures, enjoying the tiny things in life, it isn’t because I’m not grieving, I am grieving in my own way. ⁣⁣

⁣I believe her life is honoured in my decision to embrace the gift I’ve been given to live.⁣⁣

⁣This is what ten years of being a grieving mother has taught me.⁣⁣

Thinking of so many mothers holding their babies in Heaven in their heart as Mother’s Day approaches. My heart is forever with you. 🦋🌷

Our Guest Writer

Franchesca Cox is a yoga teacher and OT student, sharing how yoga can be used to address pain, build strength & increase function for all ages. She is from Texas and has 3 children, one of which she carries in her heart always. An artist and creative at heart, she published the Facets of Grief workbook. You can find out about her here.

Guest Post by Franchesca Cox is part of the series ‘Share Your Story’.
Find out here how you can share your story.

Image: Handlettering and artwork by Nathalie Himmelrich

Loss and Longing

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My daughter, Lilly, died 11 years ago at the age of 20 months from a rare mitochondrial disease. In addition to a small trunk of her belongings, I kept several of the plants given to us at meaningful times in her short life. These plants were given to us when she was born, the first time she was hospitalized, and at her memorial service.  This February, I accidentally killed all of Lilly’s plants. It was one of those rare, gorgeous days in the midst of winter that we sometimes get here in the Mid-South. It was 60 degrees, and I thought it would be a good idea to put the plants outside for some sun. After a busy day, I forgot about the plants and the temperature dropped below freezing during the night.

my grief isn't about loss - it's about longing

Memories

It is an absolute wonder that I kept these plants alive for over 11 years. I was devastated when I realized there was no saving them. After all of these years, I still have a tendency to memorialize things and memories attached to my daughter. I still want to give and preserve meaning and moments and keep tiny fragments of this life that is so precious to me.

It’s common among bereaved parents to set up sacred spaces and start family traditions that honour the memories of our children. In the early years of my grief, hanging on to everything connected to my daughter helped me feel close to her.

My identity as a mother

Helping others through the shock of getting a terrible diagnosis and often walking with them through the death of a child helped me maintain my sanity as I figured out what my identity as a mother looked and felt like when my child was no longer living. It gave me purpose and helped me feel like I was honouring my child by remembering. It was a way of sending my love into the far reaches of heaven and parenting when there was no longer a child to parent.

Grief changes over time

At some point, some of the things I initially used to comfort myself began to feel like a burden and became a barrier to my healing. Rather than providing comfort, the traditions and memorials I had put in place began to break my heart all over again. There would be times when I simply didn’t feel up to doing a balloon release or special dinner. There were months and years when I wanted to keep my grief more private. I didn’t want to do a speaking event or write about my loss. The problem was that I couldn’t just stop doing any of the things I’d started as a way to honour my child without feeling guilty. Grief can still make me feel like a bad parent even when my child is no longer with me. It took a long time to let go of the guilt and to grieve free from constraints of my own making. I had to give myself permission to let go of so many things and to not feel bad that all these years later my grief doesn’t look or feel the same way it did in those early years.

My grief isn’t about loss – it’s about longing.

What hasn’t changed is how much I love my child. That love isn’t contingent on how many memories, objects, pictures, or events I have to mark her life.  So, I gave myself permission to be sad that after 11 years I had to say goodbye to her plants. When I was done being sad, I gave myself permission to move on. Because, after 11 years, my grief isn’t about loss; it’s about longing—longing to see Jesus, longing to see Lilly and a deep longing for all things to be made new. My focus is no longer on the things that are gone, but the things that are to come. I have hope for a future I cannot see and hope for a reunion with a babe who has gone before me.

Our Guest Writer

My name is Amy Haas. I live in Oklahoma with my husband of sixteen years and five of my children. I dedicate most of my time to educating our children at home and drinking coffee.  My second daughter died eleven years ago from a rare mitochondrial disease. I love to tell her story. I am passionate about sharing my grief journey to inspire others to grieve well and to give hope.

Guest Post by Amy Haas, as part of the series ‘Share Your Story’.
Find out here how you can share your story.

Image: Handlettering and artwork by Nathalie Himmelrich

Bereaved Mothers Day – An Open Letter

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International Bereaved Mothers Day

Dear Friend, Family Member, Professional or Personal Supporter for Bereaved Parents

Today, the first Sunday of May is International Bereaved Mothers Day. You haven’t heard of it? Then read the next paragraph explaining it. If you know about it, skip to the next heading.

Bereaved Mothers Day?

Carly Marie Dudley originally created this special day in 2010 to honour and celebrate the mothers who carry some, if not all, of their children in their hearts rather than their arms.

Just because your child died does not mean that you are not a mother anymore.

Carly Marie

This is the Support we need

You know a mother or father who has experienced child loss. You’re probably – at least to some extent – helpless at what you can or can’t say or do to make it easier or better. There isn’t anything. Yet, your presence itself helps us make it more bearable.

THIS IS THE SUPPORT WE NEED – your presence, your ongoing presence, your willingness to be there with us. You can’t resolve the pain we are going through or make it better and – hear this! – you don’t need to.

Today, on this day, all we need is your sign that you remember with us. Remember the mothers you know who are in trepidation of Mothers Day next Sunday because it stings in their heart. Today, send them a sign of acknowledgement. Here are some ideas:

  • mention my child’s name
  • remember my child with me (you can even download and send me one of the images below)
  • donate in memory of my child
  • send me a message of support
  • celebrate us as a mother (or father)
  • let me know, that you’re thinking of me
  • light a candle in memory of my child
  • I remember your child
  • I remember your children
  • I remember your baby
  • I remember your babies

You’re Important

You’re vital to me. You might think that you’re not doing enough or that what you’re doing isn’t the right thing. Trust me when I say: There isn’t much you can do wrong that trying too hard.

Trust we are doing what’s needed while grieving.

Grieving is a natural process – it is hard, but we are made to do this.

Tell us you’re here and continue to be here.

Call and leave a message, even when we don’t have the strength to return your call. We hear you.

We appreciate your presence and love.

Thank you,

Thank you,
the Bereaved Mother

Grief Mask

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Image Credit: Tina’s personal archive

My daughter in her Grief Girl mask. Her mask gives her as much solace and comfort as it does power. She takes it on and off, in need and when playing. It is a place for her, a place to create; a whole new person, a dance, images like this one. She has been grieving almost as long as I have, 3 days less. She was 4 when her life turned upside down, 4 when the mother she knew before no longer existed, 4 when the baby sibling she has been wanting for long no longer was.

We went to see the baby cemetery 3 days after he was born, we didn’t know anything about death in this country we live in. I got an address and a map upon release from the hospital. A piece of paper with an address that was not ours, with one that would forever be his. 

My son, then almost 7, thought it was strange that we were at a cemetery. My children have seen different cemeteries for different reasons and generally there was no reason he could think of why we would be there. “We don’t have anyone here”, he said. And we didn’t, not then, we were there for the purpose of a decision.

We reached the baby section, it was painfully perfect. I remember kneeling down and taking each of them into embrace when I told them about the brother they will never play with. My son moved away and my daughter cried. They both got their grief masks right there, right then. A grief mask in exchange for innocence.

We all wear them, the bereaved. Some more permanent then others, some lighter to wear, some hidden. Masks.

With Love, Tina

From Lost to Love & Hope

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It all started when my son’s father lost his dad, David. He lost his battle with lung cancer 6 weeks after being diagnosed. The day they put a port in him, he was given a dose of morphine and I watched his heart meter slowly but so fast go silent. My son Kyle, 16-years-old at the time, was devastated, I had to peel him off of his grandfather, he didn’t want to let him go. My husband couldn’t deal with this. The oxymorphine which hospice carelessly left at the home, made its way into my husbands pocket and into his body causing the numbness of grief to go away.

In Memory of Kyle

I had no idea that a storm was brewing, I had no idea he was taking them… for years.

I finally caught on to the addiction – still so unaware of the monster that it really created – about 2 years ago. When I demanded it to stop, the events that followed are too painful to write. It ultimately led to me moving out of the family home and into a condo. I could not be in the home and witness the deterioration of my husband, it broke my heart. We share two beautiful, smart, kind, well-mannered sons. We couldn’t have asked for better kids.

After I moved out, Kyle couldn’t deal with his father anymore either. His father tried to get him to move in with me, but Kyle was determined to be on his own. He was 20 years old and all I could do was support his decisions. I, of course, took groceries and his laundry and cleaned his place up often. I never saw the first sign of anything going on with my son. He wasn’t innocent, I found plenty of evidence of marijuana.

I didn’t – how could I?

As his mother I should have gotten onto him about it, I didn’t. I felt that he worked 6 days a week, attended UGA part time and never asked for anything. How could I possibly tell him to not smoke marijuana in his own home? It wasn’t like he was pawning his things or slacking in school and not making it to work, he did everything a 20-year-old young man should be doing. He met the wrong crowd and trusted them. On my birthday in 2017, August 22nd, while he was at my birthday dinner, his friends robbed him of his beloved gun collection. He’d invested 10-15k in this collection, built some, he worked hard for those guns. His father immediately grabbed his stuff up & moved him back home…

Kyle had a real peek into the cold-hearted world and it broke his heart. The pill problem seemed to be escalating with my husband and my focus was on him. I just wanted all of it to stop, I wanted my family back. I wanted my family back so bad, I cried every night.

Christmas 2017, I noticed something wrong with Kyle. I didn’t know what it was but something was just not right. I would ask his father but he was bitter about our situation, words said and fingers pointed…

What could I do?

All I could do was pray and do what I could I do for Kyle. In the meantime, Gavin, our younger son, had given us no trouble at all so I was focused on Kyle.

My parents came to my door on a Sunday morning at 7:30 am on January 21, 2018. They told me Gavin had found Kyle in the bathroom around6:45 am, not alive. I was destroyed, crushed, confused and so grief stricken. I cannot even begin to explain how very broken I was and still am…

Kyle was given pure fentanyl and it took his life!

My husband, of course, was handing this loss a whole lot better than I was as I was not numb, I felt every ache you can imagine and some you never want to imagine. I was angry at him, so angry… it got me nowhere.

I decided to love him and support him

For Kyle, Gavin and me, as well as for himself my husband has been clean for 60 days today, I am proud of him, so proud! I researched and I asked professionals, addicts, etc. and the addiction is real, it’s so real. It’s so hard for addicts to quit opiates, even with will power.

My husband is currently in a terrible state of grief, as we all are, but it’s just really sinking in both of his losses, it’s heartbreaking! 

There’s hope but the price we had to pay to gain hope of recovery was way to costly considering what we lost. We lost something so precious and so meaningful, so irreplaceable, we lost our son. If my husband did not stop I would probably of lost him, too. 

The pill epidemic is terrible, it’s ripping families apart and leaving them with broken hearts and souls. There is hope of recovery, I pray to God every night for people dealing with their loved one’s addiction, it’s so hard to watch, however, you can have one right under your nose and not even be aware of it. It’s tragic.

So to all who worry about if your child is coming back home because you know when they leave they are going to use – my heart simply breaks for you. I pray for you. I pray it doesn’t take a loss for them to get to the point of wanting help!

Blessings – A broken hearted mother💔

Our Guest Writer

My name is Jené McLaughlin, I’m 40 years old, currently write for a local magazine, have two sons, Kyle & Gavin. Kyle is my angel, who is forever 20. Gavin is 18, graduates from High School in 2019 and starts his internship with Lockheed this spring, 2019. I am currently struggling with complicated grief and anxiety, I am constantly trying to find a way to cope and writing has been my best release, I have found thus far. Thank you for reading my story.

Guest Post by Jené McLaughlin, as part of the series ‘Share Your Story’.
Find out here how you can share your story.

Image: Handlettering and artwork by Nathalie Himmelrich

Words

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Image Credit: Tina’s personal archive

Sometimes I don’t have the words. They are heavy to form, heavy to come by, heavy to express. I feel like I am under water, trying to speak and undefined sounds come out. They don’t even form in my brain.

Grief has had this effect on me. Whenever my life becomes griefheavy, I shut down on some levels. When there is additional life messiness added on, my brain shuts down completely. I cannot really explain, but in a way it feels like I get the rest from overthinking and overworking my mind. It is the time when the heart takes over and does all the heavy lifting. No words, just feelings. The last few weeks have been intense in that respect, I did not know how to express what I was feeling because the words did not form.

My life is somehow balanced out a little again. Everything is falling back into place. The place that is my life now. The place of shuffling mind and heart. The place of multiple worlds existing in one. The place where I am him and he is me. The place of now.

I want to become more intentional in certain ways and work on my focus, try to find a way so these transitions are not so heavy. In many ways this is what time does for me. Time, moving further from the fresh grief, time that has passed since my boy was still kicking, time that has been 2 years and 7 months now. Time gives me the opportunity to try new approaches, to keep finding what works for me, to adopt new ideas, to develop myself, to grow, to add on, to share more of myself, to tackle each hard thing at a time.

As the load feels lighter than it has felt for the last few weeks I find myself relaxing into life again. The tension letting go a bit and the physical pain pulling back. And this is how it goes, every single time the heavy hits hard. New lessons learned. No fighting, just surrender and new experience made. This beautiful messy life.

With Love, Tina

Captured Moments

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Image Credit: Tina’s personal archive

Moments, captured, kept, protected.

I always liked taking pictures but didn’t really take many. About 10 months after Tapio died, I learned that taking pictures eases my anxiety, so this is one of my go to activities on those days. I go out and take photos intentionally when I need a relief and I take them randomly, almost instinctively when, the now familiar, pressure and fidgeting starts to build up.

I never really thought much about it, I always felt like I was just taking pictures of what catches my eye. I am focused on beauty, beauty the way I see it, the way it looks for me.

I started thinking about the captured moments a few days ago when a familiar voice called my name in a shopping center. I wasn’t there to socialize, I had no meeting planned and it is quite unusual that I run into people in the middle of the day like that. We work together and used to spend quite a bit of time together, she was having coffee with a mutual friend. Did I see the baby yet, was the question. I don’t go just “see” babies. It takes preparation, focus, breathing exercises… and I only saw one so far in the last two and a half years. Babies make me feel I need to run and take photographs or do something else that eases my anxiety. I know it is hard for people to understand and they feel it is personal, and it is, but personal for me.

I went and I saw my beautiful friend and her second baby after my son died. See, she is especially hard for me. She was one of the first people I told I was pregnant, she was jumping up and down of excitement when I told her and didn’t stop for several weeks until she was ready to tell me, she too was pregnant and how exciting she has been all this time looking forward to tell me her news. Months later, on her birthday, I found out my boy was no longer alive. She was away, our communication was poor. Our bond broke for many reasons, we tried for a while, me pretending she was not pregnant, she pretending she was not pregnant. She had her son, a beautiful, curly, sweet two year old now. I see her at work, we ended up working in the same team this fall. We don’t really talk much, but I couldn’t miss another growing life on her.

She is now a few months old and is beautiful, I saw her sleeping in the pram, I touched her soft skin. I didn’t freak out, anxiety did not consume me, I felt calm and composed and I did not feel the need to run. I have been in contact with this friend quite a bit lately, it is strange how life connects. She is moving to my hometown and I have offered to help her with information so we have been talking a bit, never about the babies though.

I was thinking about our meeting while I was taking pictures on the weekend. Am I captured in the moment, while her life has continued? It sure looks that way. Of course my life is moving, the children are growing, I am too, but I am also captured in the world where he is a part of, where he is. With all the beauty. My captured moments are my pictures of my boy. In the the sunset, glistening snow, calm water, sunlit forest, rainy day. The beauty in life’s moments.

With Love, Tina

Lesson 10: Healing is Private, Not Secret

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Healing is Private, Not Secret

I am pretty transparent about my healing journey yet there are parts of it I choose not to make public. Privacy is an important part of the healing process. Although I keep some details private, I no longer keep anything secret. Secrets harm. I kept secrets for a long time. I didn’t want to expose my fear, the poor choices I made in my pain, how much I blamed myself, and my deep, exhausting anger. My secrets undermined my healing for years. When I couldn’t shoulder the burden any longer I found the safest people in my life and told them all my secrets. When I was done my only regret was that I didn’t do it sooner. I could have saved myself so much unnecessary pain.

His ~Magic~

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Image Credit: Tina’s personal archive

There are so many things that I don’t remember.

I don’t remember how it felt before grief took over; how relationships and life in general influenced my emotional and mental state then. Was I always happy and content? Was my mind not as occupied? I honestly don’t remember. It is probably more the idea of the life lived out that plays in my mind. It must have been different, better, happier… I mean, we had it all, nobody died yet.

I didn’t think I was ever going to reach this moment. When things would transform from the early grief days. But in a way, Now is all I know. Now is also where he exists and I don’t really remember my life before and without him in it. I remember it in chunks; the joys of two babies before him, how it felt like to grow a family, how joyful it was to anticipate again. In what I remember and keep, he has always been here. He is such a big part of my family and me, his presence always so prominent and real.

I am aware that in general, families don’t usually talk about babies that are no longer alive, that it is not a part of their conversation, but it is in our house and because he is such a big part, everyone that visits us goes home with a bit of our story, a sprinkle of his magic. His name is a beautiful melody that bounces from the walls in our home, the wish for his presence echoes everywhere, the love for this little boy is in every sentence spoken.

I wonder if it would be different, if love for him would be different if he was growing in front of my eyes. All I know is that Now and here, he is a part of every part of me, everything I do and everything I am and I wouldn’t want it any different. Still my heart, my arms and my whole being will always long to hold him.

With Love, Tina

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