Blake · grief


I was going through some of my mom’s pictures last night. Sometimes, I like to look at the photos my family took of Blake instead of my own. They have tons I’ve never seen (or don’t remember seeing) and I like that. This one in particular struck me. I mean, they all do, but today this one made me think a little deeper. img_1654

No one would know that’s Blakey in the picture. They may not even recognize me. They wouldn’t know this was taken at Blake’s 6 month birthday party. The party we decided to have on March 19, just 10 days after we were told our sweet baby wouldn’t make it to her first birthday. I remember that day so vividly, as I do most of the days Blake was with us. I remember waking up that morning and feeling like I wanted to die. I was trying to figure out how I would get through the day, sing happy birthday to my little girl and act like this was just what people do, have half birthday parties for their kids. I thought about canceling or just trying to get out of it somehow. I wanted to run.

I asked my sister to decorate, my mom to stay the night before and help with Kenley, and Jeff to do almost everything else. I couldn’t physically do it, yet I was determined to give her a party. She deserved at least one party. She was here, she was happy and she was so loved; all of which should be celebrated.

I think back to this day a lot. We sang happy birthday and I tried to hide my tears. I tried to hide all the fear that came along with them, too. This day is so much like many of my days now; different, of course, because I don’t get to hold my baby today. I didn’t get to hold her yesterday, and I won’t get to hold her tomorrow. It’s the same, though, because I still try to push myself to hide all the pain I feel and, still, all I want to do is run. I want to escape this world, going back to how it was before my daughter came into it. Today, just like that day,  I have so much inside of me that no one can see, so much that someone who hasn’t been where I am could never understand.

It is a constant struggle to try to celebrate that Blake was here; to try to function throughout the day when half of my heart is missing. I try to think back to March 19 and remember why we had a party. Why we smiled, laughed and celebrated.

The answer is always her. It is always Blake.

When I try to figure out how to make it through the day now, how to listen to careless comments from people (and holy shit, do those get rough), or tackle a lifetime without my daughter, the answer is always her. In this picture and others like it, all I am is Blake’s mama. I am holding her and she is comfortable, she is happy.

She is still mine, I still love her and that is no secret. It never will be. The fact that I hurt because she’s gone shouldn’t be a secret either.

I can’t run or stop trying to do everything I can for her, to live for her, because I am still her mama no matter where she is.

2 thoughts on “Running

  1. Maybe you’re not running. Maybe you’re nailing it down – it, the pain. You’re calling it out, describing it for us, who haven’t had your experience and by so doing you’re helping us and yourself. Your way with words, simple but poignant. I can’t not respond because it’s so important what you share.


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