If you've ever had major surgery, you know the outside wounds heal faster than the inside ones. Grief is much the same. As someone who has lost a child, I may seem strong on the outside – I have to be because life doesn't pause, not even for the heartbreak of burying a child. The world keeps turning, responsibilities pile up, and people expect us to keep going as if everything is normal, even when our hearts are broken.
No matter how tightly I strap on my armor, grief finds its way through the tiniest cracks and pierces my heart. There is no defense against the sound, the smell, the fleeting memory that sends me back to when Texa was alive and with me. And once there, being dragged forward to today—where she is not—is torture. The journey back and forth between the past and the present is a relentless and painful reminder of what I have lost.
Sometimes, this process takes only seconds; the only sign is a blank stare or a tear. Other times, the memories and the forceful return to the present unleash a flood of tears, making me useless for the rest of the day. Either way, it's exhausting. Grief is an uninvited guest that takes up space in my mind and heart, using my energy and emotions. It's a relentless force that comes and goes, often without warning, leaving me tired and worn out.
One of the most surprising parts of grief for me is how it robs me of energy and the desire to do anything when it hits hard (as it still does sometimes). I am a "get-it-done" kind of person. I have always prided myself on my ability to tackle challenges head-on, to push through obstacles, and to keep moving forward. But there's no way to get grief "done." It works itself out in its own time and in its own way. It is not a task to be completed or a problem to be solved. It is a deep and personal journey that cannot be rushed or controlled.
But even with this hope, the pain of her absence is always with me. And healing, when it comes, will always be incomplete on this side of heaven. The scars of loss remain, a reminder of the love that once filled the now-empty spaces.
Please don't mistake my ability to stand straight and look strong as proof that I have recovered. I have learned to navigate the world with my pain, to wear a mask of strength that hides the depth of my suffering. I am often scared, and sometimes I want to hide. There are moments when the weight of my grief feels unbearable when I long to escape from the constant ache in my heart. But vulnerable and wounded, I remain until God calls me home.
In the meantime, I strive to honor my daughter's memory, to find moments of joy amidst the sorrow, and to support others who walk this path of grief. I share my story not for sympathy but to offer understanding and hope to those who feel alone in their pain. Together, we can navigate this journey, finding strength in our shared experiences and comfort in the promise of eternal reunion.
"In His feathers, He shall deliver you, and under His wings, you shall have refuge; His truth shall surround you as a supply of armor." Psalm 91:4