By Marina Burykin
One year. One whole year.
It’s been a year since I held your little lifeless body in my arms, sobbing at the thought of never getting to see you grow up.
Never getting to hear your laugh or see your smile.
A year since I looked at that beautiful little button nose that looked just like your daddy’s.
A year since a chunk of my heart was ripped out of my chest with no warning.
An entire year.
And where am I now?
I still sob thinking about the things you’ll never get to do. Thinking about how old you’d be today and what you might look like.
Would you have your daddy’s curly blonde hair? My eyes?
The tears instantly come when I see a sad quote or read a tragic post online. And before I know it, I’m sobbing again.
Deep, heart-wrenching sobs.
Some nights I lay curled up on the bathroom floor, and I can’t breathe. The gut-wrenching anguish inside is too much for my body to contain.
It’s been a year, and I still miss you more than words can explain.
Moving on is so hard, mama. I know where you are, and I’ve felt the pain you’re feeling.
Does it get better? No.
Will it ever get better? I don’t think so.
Don’t let anyone dictate how you should feel. Don’t let them tell you how to grieve.
Because that grief is yours and no one else’s.
If there are days you need to scream at the world because the pain is too much to contain, scream. Scream as loud as you can.
Listen to your body and mind. Don’t let anyone tell you how to heal. No two people heal the same way, do what’s right for you.
I did listen to everyone, and I did ignore what my heart was telling me. I tried to move on too fast for the sake of everyone else around me.
And the regrets, oh my God, the regrets.
I would have held him longer before they took his little body away from me forever.
I would have kissed him harder. That tiny innocent little face.
I would have taken all the pictures in the world so I could share his memory with everyone around me.
I would have loved him a little harder.
So, listen to yourself mama. Do what is best for you.
This is your grieving process, and no one else can do it for you.
And maybe, just maybe one day we’ll be okay.