When I was new in my grief, I often didn’t have words. My brain wasn’t ready yet; I was struggling with living.
Almost four years out now, and I’m finally feeling ready to share.
But now, somehow, when I talk about my child, people make assumptions.
They assume I am hurting.
They assume I need help.
They assume I am not “over” his death. (As if death is something that can be “gotten over”).
Related: Graphics Blog: “Healing” from the death of my child is about as likely as regrowing a missing limb
They assume, most of all, that I am sharing as a means of outcry; that my words mean I need advice or love or hugs. (And please know, I appreciate these things! If not for themselves, then for the proof they provide of your love. I am always thankful for your love).
I also need to ask you to listen—
Because often, when I share about my deceased child, that’s all I’m looking for: An ear. A person to open their heart to experience. Someone to take a moment in their day to read and acknowledge, without trying to analyze me.
I am a bereaved mother.
I am also a writer, and this is how I process and communicate.
None of this means I’m broken; not in the way you mean.
Please stop trying to fix me.
Often when I share about my deceased child, people rush to give advice or hugs. I don’t always need that, though.
Often, all I really need is for you to listen.