She sits next to you on a plane while you cradle your infant. She smiles politely and attempts, depending on the day to be kind and ask you how old?
She takes a little bit too long in the cereal aisle because the formula display across the aisle is distracting.
She is the lady you muted on social media because her posts were just “too sad.”
She is the woman dismissed because talking about your deceased infant is just “impolite.”
She is the lady who muted you back when you announced your third, unplanned baby.
She is the mother who said nothing when you continually complained about being “stuck at home” with your kids.
She doesn’t quite know how to balance all the ugly emotions of grief with even an ounce of joy.
Still mothers walk among you every day.
She is the mother who picked up the pace when she saw you pulling your 3-month-old in a wagon down the street in our neighborhood.
Her baby should be three months old, too. And today, her still mother’s heart is just too weary.
She is the mother who saw your post about stretch marks, weight gain, and sleepless nights, how they were all worth it.
She didn’t comment even though she can relate.
She doesn’t have a bouncing baby to justify any of it.
She is the lady at the checkout who stood in silence, biting her tongue as your toddler threw a tantrum.
It bothered her on a deep level. But not for reasons you think.
She is the mother who faces each new day with the strength of a thousand suns.
She is the mother who sometimes feels left out, forgotten, and dismissed.
She is the mother who tucks away her motherhood instincts. Instincts that all mothers have. Instincts that look cute when they come out as overprotective “first-time Moms” but look irrational when those instincts are mothering a baby that did not live.
She is the mother who does any things possible to make sure you knew, you remember, and you don’t forget that her baby mattered, too.
She is still a mother.
She is the woman you don’t know at the grocery store. She is the woman that says nothing when phrases like “You’ll understand when you have kids” are spoken to her casually.
She is still a mother.
And she feels these phrases sear through every fiber of her entire body.
She feels that accidental judgment from a stranger that indicated she was “less than” because her motherhood is invisible.
It isn’t swaddled up with a cute bow and matching car seat cover.
There is no in-style diaper bag hanging from her shoulder: just a wristlet wallet and car keys.
She is still a mother.
She is your friend, nurse, neighbor, delivery driver, and professor. But she is not the woman you once knew.
She isn’t the woman she once knew herself to be, either.
She is the woman who noticed when you said nothing in the worst season of her life.
The woman who will always remember the most painful, shocking things you did say or do. Or that you didn’t.
The woman grappling with who she is becoming in the afterlife of losing her child.
She is the mother who feels as if her identity was stolen.
She is a still mother.
She is the mother who still has nightmares sometimes. She is the mother who never has a day pass that she does not think about what her life should look like now. Now with an infant, toddler, two teenagers, or four adult children with grandchildren.
She is the mother who has her private rituals of remembering her child. She is still a mother.
She is the woman who feels like she failed. Who is consumed with guilt. She is the mother who cries alone in the shower when no one can hear her.
She is the fiercest of mothers.
The woman who felt the weight of starting each day after the loss of her baby with the heavy reminder that it was true.
She is the mother who spent those first five waking minutes of each day with the soul-crushing reminder that it wasn’t a dream; it is reality.
Her reality.
She is the woman.
She is the mother.
A Still Mother.
Thank you for sharing this truth! You never truly understand until it happens to someone you love….Charley Ruth and her mother, I love you always
You hit on SO many good points. Thank you for writing this