Jun 29 • General discussion
Honey
Honey
I didn't know how loud silence could be until Honey wasn't there. No cries. No heartbeat. Just stillness stretching through every breath I took.
There was peace too, strangely. A quiet presence. A companion. As if she had only come to open a door inside me, then slipped out quietly, without needing to say a word.
Grief for a baby is a strange kind of grief. There are no years of memories to hold onto, no firsts, no stories, it's the future that doesn't come, the what-might-have-been.
I would have loved to mother a daughter. And in some ways, I still do. Just not in the way most people can see. I mother her in the way I carry her presence. In the softness she left behind. In the way I speak her name. In the way I live more awake to the fragile, miraculous life in front of me.
I mother her when I light a candle.When I tell her story.When I let her shape the way I love her brothers,and the way I meet the world with a little more tenderness.
Honey changed everything.
Now, when I look at my boys, I see walking miracles. Because they are. She gave me that sight, to see life more clearly, more tenderly, more fully.
Since she came and went,my understanding of death has softened.I'm not afraid anymore.I've touched something infinite,a knowing that life doesn't end, it changes form.Our bond didn't end; it only changed shape.
Grief changed me. She mothered me as much as I mothered her. And in the hollow she left behind, I found a steadier love, a wilder softness. A love that doesn't need to be seen to be real. A bond that doesn't end just because a heartbeat does.
Honey didn't stay.But she gave me everything.
If you feel called, tell us about your person - the one who died, or the one you're still carrying. Or simply what's brought you here. There's no right way to say it.
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Honey
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