I miss being able to find simple happiness in events like this; these national days that are developed around the recognition of life’s milestones, and aspects of life often taken for granted. Days made complicated by out-of-order loss. What seems to be a simple way for others to connect and share joy on social media has become a grief trigger for me, and can still really cause me to spiral if I’m not careful.
In years prior, I avoided National Daughter’s Day entirely. It seemed wrong somehow to post about my only daughter when she was deceased. Like I was trying to stifle other people’s joy, when all I wanted was to be seen, and for Maria to be remembered, since she is missing out on so much else.
There is added complexity for me now that I also have a living daughter. How will sharing about Maria for this kind of holiday impact her? By the time she’s old enough to understand, will she even know about, or see, or care about a social media post I made years ago?
I wrote what I felt was an authentic post for National Daughter’s Day, acknowledging both of my daughters. One living, and one in heaven. I slept on it for two days before I posted it. I wanted to be sure that I was sharing it for the right reasons. Not to get attention, not to make anyone else uncomfortable, and not to take away from anyone else’s joy.
I wanted to share that post because it represented my motherhood journey. If I had only shared about my living daughter, that would not have been authentic. Nor would it have been authentic to not share at all. My motherhood journey is messy, and devastating, and beautiful; full of love, and grief. The easier path might have been to avoid posting, but…easier for who? For me? It would have forced me to hide my story for the perceived comfort of others. Easier for others? How can I know what others truly think? Maybe my authentic story would actually bring some comfort to others, too.
Right after posting, finally posting, I immediately felt peace, followed by an intense wave of sorrow. These acts of sharing hurt, they bring forward my grief, but they also feel somehow like setting a tiny piece of myself free.
I imagine my grief like a boulder, sitting on my chest as I lie on the ground. It’s heavy, immobile. But sharing pieces of my story is like feeling pieces of that boulder suddenly lift, taking flight, like little shimmering butterflies.
Each time I share, I am able to breathe just a little bit easier.
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