A Grieving Mother’s Holiday

If you have never lost a child, you don’t understand.

There is no comparison to this kind of loss. None.

I’m not saying that to discredit anyone else’s pain. Grief is grief. Loss is loss. But losing a child is different. This is my truth.

I didn’t just lose my daughter.

I lost my mind.

I lost the version of me that existed before her death.

Fourteen years.

That’s how long I loved her. That’s how long my life revolved around protecting her, advocating for her, worrying about her, celebrating her, and fighting for her. She wasn’t just my child. She was my purpose, my heartbeat, my why.

When she died, Jamara died too.

I am not the same woman I was before, and I never will be.

I grieve her every single day. I hurt in ways I don’t have words for. And yes, I am angry. I’m angry that life could be this unfair. I’m angry that my daughter had to endure so much. I’m angry that the future I dreamed of for her no longer exists. I’m angry that the world keeps moving while my heart feels frozen in the moment she left.

The holidays make it louder.

Just this Wednesday, I carried her with me into the post office. The doors weren’t even open yet. A woman and I were standing there waiting, making small talk like strangers do. Somehow, without thinking, I shared my loss. I shared my daughter. And instead of awkward silence or discomfort, she held space for me. She encouraged me. She saw me.

I’m noticing it’s often strangers who do that. Strangers who don’t know my history, who aren’t tired of my grief, who don’t flinch when I speak her name. They listen. They sit with it. They allow me to exist as I am.

And sometimes I feel like my family and friends are tired of me. Tired of hearing about her. Tired of my sadness. Tired of my tears. Tired of the same story. So I speak anyway. I over share anyway. I say her name anyway.

With no care.

Because silence feels heavier than judgment. Because holding it in hurts more than letting it out. Because my daughter deserves to be spoken about, even if it makes people uncomfortable.

This grief is not just sadness.

It is rage.

It is shock.

It is guilt.

It is exhaustion.

It is love with nowhere to go.

People say things like, “She’s in a better place,” or “At least you had her for fourteen years,” or “Thank God for the memories.” But there is no reason that justifies burying your child. There is no comfort in logic when your arms are empty.

I carry my daughter everywhere. In my body. In my spirit. In my silence. In my tears. In the way I show up and in the way I fall apart. Some days I function. Some days I barely survive. Both are real.

This is not something you get over.

This is something you learn to live inside of.

I am hurting.

I am broken.

I am angry.

And I am still here, not because I’m healed, not because I’m strong, but because my daughter’s love lives in me. Because even in the middle of this unbearable pain, I breathe for her.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Psalm 34:18

To every grieving mother reading this, especially during the holidays, know that you are seen here. If your heart feels heavy, if joy feels distant, if survival is all you can manage, this space is for you. You don’t have to explain your grief or soften it for anyone.

Sit here as long as you need. Say your child’s name. Cry if you need to. Rest if you must. You are not alone, and your grief is honored here.

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