The Ugly Truth About Grief

Letter to Heaven

Today, the tears won.

Last night, while standing in the shower, something happened that I still cannot fully explain. I want to call it a panic attack, but honestly, I do not know what it was. It felt as though grief swallowed me whole. My chest became heavy, my thoughts began racing, and my body felt trapped. The darkness became so overwhelming that I questioned whether I would make it through the night.

Despite everything I felt, I still got up this morning. I got dressed, went to work, and tried to do what was expected of me. That is what grieving people often do. We continue showing up while silently falling apart.

When I arrived at my office, it felt like the walls were closing in around me. I struggled to breathe. I could not focus, and I could not escape the weight pressing against my chest. The emotions were far too heavy to put into words, and even now, I find myself searching for language that does not exist.

When I say I am not okay, I need people to believe me. I am not saying it because I want sympathy, and I am certainly not saying it for attention. I am saying it because it is the truth.

There is so much expected of me. People see me smiling. They see me speaking, serving others, growing my foundation, and encouraging grieving mothers. What they do not see is the mother who is still completely broken. They do not see the woman who lost one of her children.

I did not lose a dream or a chapter of my life. I lost my daughter.

My first pregnancy blessed me with two miracles, and Jahmya was my baby girl, Twin B. For fourteen years, every decision I made included her. Every routine revolved around her. I was not only her mother; I was her caregiver, advocate, nurse, protector, and safe place. I would not have wanted it any other way.

Jahmya taught me what strength truly looked like. She smiled through pain because pain had become her normal. She fought battles that many adults could never imagine and somehow continued to laugh through them. She beat the odds time after time, which is why I still struggle to understand why she could not beat them one more time.

One moment continues to replay in my mind. While I was at work that Tuesday, my phone lit up with a message from her that simply read, “Mommy, I’m having a hard time breathing.”

Those words have never left me.

At the time, I did not realize what they would come to mean. Within forty-eight hours, everything changed. We went from living our normal lives to fighting for hers. I have replayed that message thousands of times, asking myself if I should have left work immediately or recognized the urgency sooner. Those questions have become some of grief’s cruelest companions.

As her mother, I know those thoughts may never completely leave me. Love has a way of searching endlessly for another ending, even when there isn’t one.

People often tell parents of medically complex children that when their child transitions, they are finally free. They are free from surgeries, hospital rooms, medications, and pain. While I understand the comfort behind those words, I still wanted my thriving teenager. I wanted the girl who had already beaten the odds so many times. I wanted another miracle.

Jahmya survived forty days after Good Friday.

Sometimes I wonder if those forty days were God’s way of giving us more time to love her, hold her, and prepare our hearts for what was coming. Then another question rises within me. Why save her only for me to lose her anyway?

Those are the questions I continue to carry before Heaven. Not because my faith is gone, but because grief is honest.

Today, my prayer is simple.

Dear God,

I am angry. I am broken. I am exhausted, and I feel like I am battling spiritual warfare that I cannot even explain.

I still believe You, and I still trust You. However, today my faith and my heartbreak are wrestling with one another. I do not understand why my daughter had to leave. I do not understand why miracles sometimes end differently than we pray. I do not understand why You allowed me forty days of hope before asking me to let her go.

I know You are still God, and I know You are still good. Even so, I am struggling to understand Your goodness through the deepest pain I have ever known.

Until I can see clearly again, please carry me. Today I simply do not have the strength to carry myself.

And to my sweet Jahmya,

Mommy misses you every second of every day. You taught me courage long before I realized how desperately I would need it. Your life changed mine forever, and your legacy continues to bloom through every family we serve, every grieving mother we embrace, and every child who is reminded that they are seen, valued, and loved.

I love you. I always will.

Forever 14.

Forever my baby.

Love,

Mommy