Two months. Time is such a tricky thing. The first month seemed to drag on so slowly. Month two flew by in what seems like a blink and I can’t even wrap my head around that thought. The undeniable truth is that time just keeps moving. Another second, minute, hour, day, week, without Andelyn. It’s easy for outsiders to “see” me being strong, because I have been vulnerable with my feelings from day 1, but I’m learning that that comes with a price. The price of people moving on and me feeling stuck. The price of the constant check ins to come to a halt. The price of people thinking I am okay because I have chosen to speak about her and share. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for sympathy, and this isn’t a cry for help. It’s just the hard truth of it all. We were surrounded by so much love and support in those early weeks and we will forever be thankful for that. But the truth is that life goes on. For everyone else, life keeps moving. I know the words “you’re so strong”, “I could never imagine”, “I could never be as strong as you” are meant with good intentions, but the fact of the matter is that I didn’t choose to be strong.. I have no other choice. I do not want to be strong; what I want is my baby. I have no choice but to keep breathing through this. I have no choice, but to get up every morning and try to turn the darkness off for my beautiful living boys. I have no choice, but to keep living in this space of aching for my daughter who isn’t here and being grateful for my sons that are. It’s a really hard thing to parent your living children and your angel simultaneously. It’s the feeling that every fiber of my being is being pulled in two directions. I am a mom and I am a loss mom. I have good days and I have bad days. Most of my days lately have been filled with anger. On those days that my grief is so loud, that it can’t be tuned out, I may be impatient, distracted, and frustrated easily. But even on the days when my grief is quietly tucked away, when it isn't standing loudly in the foreground, even on days when I am able to smile again, the pain is just beneath the surface. There are days when I still feel paralyzed. When just remembering to breathe is a feat in itself. So yes, the strength I show is beautiful. But each and every day I need to dig down deep to find that strength. It isn’t something that just happens because I can handle this better than anyone else. My daughter wasn’t taken from me because I am strong enough to live without her. She wasn’t taken from me so that I could be an inspiration to others. I am sure I could have found ways to inspire people with her living in my arms. So yes, I want to believe that there’s a purpose and a bigger reason, because what else would I have if I didn’t have that hope, but that isn’t an answer that will come to light soon. I am surviving, and more than this perceived strength, THAT is the true beauty in this. Surviving this pain, and still breathing when my daughter never got the chance. Grieving mothers, fathers, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, won’t just wake up one day with life back to normal. For our family, this is our new normal. This is our new life, after Andelyn. Surviving, one day at a time.
Andi - there isn’t a second of any minute of any hour of any day that passes me by where I don’t remember that you aren’t here. I would give up anything in this world to hold you in my arms again. I love you, I miss you, I need you.
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