It’s important for mother’s who have outlived their children to say “I’m not OK”. What’s tricky is that we, I, look OK. If you peep my Instagram, see me at work or run in to me buying wine at Harris Teeter, I look OK. Unless it’s 9 pm and I’ve run in to our favorite spot for take out in my PJs and house shoes and always manage to see at minimum two families we know then maybe not so OK.
I suppose it’s the age old, don’t judge a book by its cover but kind of the opposite. Just because I’ve brushed my hair and am smiling with my toddler upon my hip does not mean I don’t cry when Bird asks for a sister or when I forget just for an instant when I go to text Taylor, that he’s died.
Like most mental illnesses, grief is often unseen unless that person feels safe enough to share it. It lurks beneath the surface and could have ruined my life. It feels like it will ruin your life. I am fascinated with and can better understand cultures that mourn for extended periods of time. Widowers wearing black the rest of their lives. Where the heck is my scarlet G.
I read something from another mom who lost her son, saying how there is something about the ‘togetherness’ of the holiday season that highlights those missing from our lives. It’s the festive air and twinkling lights that yell be merry and bright, but for most also whisper reminders of our grief.
This holiday season. Try to look past the polished holiday cards and remember someone is always missing someone. That it’s OK not to be OK. Let’s all take heed to be kind and gentle with all the people.
Rest easy, Pipes and T.