I’ll always miss my daughter, Cora.
I’ll always wish she were here.
Before I lost her, I thought of grief as something I should get over. Like it was some sort of disease I was trying to cure. I was already dancing with grief–my father died when I was a child, but I didn’t get it.
Society paints loss as something that happens, we recover from. Almost like an illness. (And thanks to changes in the DSM-V, gosh, that’s possibly going to be even more true).
However, Cora’s taught me something so important.
Those people we love with every cell in our bodies that die? They never leave us.
I have something of her left. I have my grief. I have my memories. I have my love.
Grief isn’t all bad. It’s not that black and white.
Grief is crying because I missed her. Grief is smiling remembering her.
I want that to stay with me forever.
In so many ways, I feel more at peace in my life than I ever was. Cora gave me the gift of being a mother, of setting aside my selfish tendency to get caught up in feeling bad for myself, and to give and to think about others first. She gave me that. Why would I want to work toward letting that go?
I’m such a better person for have knowing her.
I can grieve and be a happy person.
I can grieve and live a happy life.
I’ll grieve forever, but don’t weep for me. Please don’t feel pity for me for a moment.
I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.
She was mine.