Stepping Into “2026” Without My Child

Last night, the countdown felt heavier than I expected. While the world welcomed a new year with excitement, my heart resisted it. I felt anxious, bracing myself for a moment I never wanted to arrive. Crossing into a year my child is not physically in.

I dreaded last night. Truly. While others stayed up to celebrate, I went to sleep before 10 p.m. I did not want to witness the moment the year changed. I wanted to stay where I was. I wanted to stay in 2025, where Mya and her memories still feels closer. The anticipation alone felt unbearable.

People really DO NOT GET IT. They expect me to be the same person I was before my loss. They expect strength, smiles, progress, and normalcy. What they do not see is how much effort it takes just to exist some days. Time moving forward does not mean my heart is ready to follow.

The feelings are real and raw, and they are present. They do not come with neat explanations. They show up all at once. Fear, longing, sadness, love, anxiety. Anticipation is supposed to feel hopeful, but this kind feels like standing at a doorway I do not want to walk through, knowing I have no choice.

Grief does not reset when the calendar changes. Midnight does not erase the ache. Fireworks do not quiet the questions. “Happy New Year” feels complicated when my heart is still asking how anything can be new without her here. That’s why I didn’t even want to HEAR IT or see it! But let’s be REAL! I have no choice! I hate this NEW me! A lot of things have no meaning and I’m sorry to those around me that aren’t use to this version of me!

This morning, I woke up and my car would not start. As small as it may seem, it felt like another test. Another moment trying to discourage me. Another reminder of how fragile I feel right now. Even the simplest things can feel heavy when grief is already weighing you down.

For seven months, I have covered up so much pain. I masked it. Not because I forgot her. Not because I wanted to hide my grief. But because facing the full reality of life without my child FEELS beyond impossible. Some days, pretending I’m okay feels safer than admitting how broken I really am. Heck, I’m tired of feeling this way!

And the truth is, I am broken. I am torn. And there are no words that fully express it.

I worry about moving forward, afraid it somehow means leaving her behind. But I am learning that she is stitched into every version of me that exists now. She is not in the past. She lives in my breath, my choices, my tears, and my love. I constantly tell myself this so I can BELIEVE!

This year, I am not making resolutions. I am making room. Room for tears. Room for joy when it dares to show up. Room for missing my child loudly and loving her endlessly.

I am scared of the firsts. I am scared of the milestones. I am scared of learning how to live in a world that keeps spinning when mine forever changed. But I am still here, carrying her with me into every hard day and every small victory. People say you have your other children, indeed I do but I don’t have 1/3! I don’t have Jahmya anymore!

Note to self! Jamara, this new year is not about moving on. It is about moving forward with Jahmya. In love. In memory. In legacy.