The five stages of grief have been on repeat that last couple of days.
It looks something like this:
This isn’t my life.
Are you kidding me that this is my life? There’s nothing fair or right about it!
Well, God, let’s just bring her back. I promise to not unlearn all that I’ve learned.
She’s not coming back. I’m going to live the rest of my life without my daughter. Why am I still living?
It’s going to be okay. Keep stepping. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got your boys to get through all this.
Over and over again. I don’t always hit every step. But the range of emotions are just all day long.
I consider myself quite the expert on playing mind games. Resetting my brain when it gets into an unhealthy pattern.
These last few days, it’s just felt impossible. I could say it’s lack of sleep, conflict, hormones, or politics.
But the truth is: Rory should be turning 12 in a little over a week. I’m staring down another birthday without her.
My baby would be twelve on February 6th.
Every birthday without her guts me. But this one, we would have had a fun year of celebrating new things with her. Moving up into the youth program at church, graduating elementary school, and embracing her true preteen drama.
My body physically aches for those experiences with her.
Then I go through the stages again. Luckily for me, the last step ends with hope and propels me into action.
My life has a purpose and it’s to love. And I recognize that purpose because Rory was born. And she was mine.