I have kept a journal since I was 13. My first journal was a 3-ring binder that I duct taped the outside of, then wrote BRITT in block letters on the cover. I would write a full loose-leaf page or two every day of grade 9. It is beyond embarrassing to read back on those entries. I managed to write nearly 200 pages all about my crush, Mitchell Foster, then my boyfriend, Mitchell Foster, and finally the guy who broke my heart, Mitchell Foster. Lol. If nothing else, I created a habit. A strong one. I have dozens of journals that cover a 20 year span.

Since 2001 I have had a journaling song. (By the way, this is all very embarrassing and I never thought I would tell anyone these things.) At the front of every journal I would write the lyrics to the song Places You Have Come to Fear the Most, by Dashboard Confessional. For some reason, at 16 years old that song just resonated with me. My journal was a safe place to be vulnerable. I unloaded everything in it. Because of that, it became a place I feared. Seeing the rawest version of yourself is scary. Seventeen years later I resonate with this more than ever, and I am shocked I had that insight as a teenager.

Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself

And covered with a perfect shell

Such a charming, beautiful exterior

Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes

Perfect posture, but you’re barely scraping by

But you’re barely scraping by

This is one time, this is one time

That you can’t fake it hard enough to please everyone

Or anyone at all…or anyone at all

And the grave that you refuse to leave

The refuge that you’ve built to flee,

The places that you’ve come to fear the most,

It’s the place that you have come to fear the most.

Greatest Fears

Perspectives change after the death of a child, on so many levels. But how I parent my children is a big one. It is my desire to parent through my greatest hopes, not out of my worst fears. I want to respond to this tragedy, not react. This paragraph out of Brené Brown’s book, Rising Strong really spoke to me in this matter.

What gets in the way of reckoning with emotions is exactly what gets in the way of engaging in any courageous behaviors: fear. We don’t like how difficult emotions feel. We dont know what to do with the discomfort and vulnerability. Emotions can feel terrible, even physically overwhelming. We can feel exposed, at risk, and uncertain in the midst of emotions. Our instinct is to run from pain. In fact, most of us were never taught how to hold discomfort, sit with it, or communicate it, only how to discharge it or pretend it isn’t happening. Pg 51

Getting down and dirty in this mess of emotions I am left with is scary, easily the scarriest thing I have done. Indeed, I am left with uncertainties, and part of me does want to run from the discomfort of it all. But Eden’s life and death is a huge part of who I am. The second she died, Nathan and I were forever changed. This is part of our story. We must sit with the pain and discomfort. We must own our story.

I chose the following statement to be my manifesto, years ago. It is suitable now, more than ever.

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” -Brené Brown

Ambivalent

I have found that while I try to make sense of my feelings I am experiencing two completely conflicting emotions at the same time.

For example, I have often found myself telling family and friends that I don’t want anyone to tiptoe around me. I’ve already lost Eden, I don’t want to lose my relationships too. I don’t want people thinking I’m too sensitive for a certain topic, or to keep me in the dark on certain matters. On the other hand when people go on like business as usual with me, they don’t mention Eden or they joke with me as if nothing has ever happened I feel like shouting, “have you forgotten what I’m going through!? I am a grieving mother! How dare you treat me so casually!”

I feel both of those perspectives, 100%. My counselor tells me that’s normal for this type of trauma. At least she thinks I’m normal.

Compassion

Another Paradox I found has to do with compassion. Something I read this week, again, in Rising Strong by Brené Brown is that compassion has no limitations. It’s not like 8 pieces of a pizza, once it’s gone it’s gone. If you save all of your compassion for the widows and orphans you are doing them no greater service, just everyone else a disservice. Just because I might be going through something unimaginable for most, doesn’t mean I have to limit my compassion for others.

People often preface their conversations with me with, ‘I know it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through but…” I always have to clarify that I can still listen to their misfortunes, hurts and struggles. I am still able to practice compassion in the midst of my owned Journey.

That being said, when I overhear particular conversations, where people are making their lives seem so trivial I want to grab them and shake them and tell them they don’t realize how good they have it, and how blessed they are!!!! Or if speaking directly to me, lamenting about something mildly unfortunate, sometimes I think, “choose your audience wisely, what makes you think that I care about that in the midst of this grief?!”

See, completely conflicting perspectives. And I feel them both at the same time, even right now. I can easily justify both sides of the coin.

Vacation

My family is currently in Mexico for a Vacation. We booked this trip a year ago when I was 3 months pregnant with Eden. I’ve had months of picturing how this trip would look. If the girls would be able to sleep in the same room. How Eden would do on the flight. Introducing her to a tropical climate.

I can’t help but think of how different this vacation would look with her here. Almost every time we have visited this resort we have brought a new baby with us. It feels very incomplete having to return as a family of four again.

I’m noticing all the shady spots where she would have loved to catch a mid-day siesta. Eden was a champion sleeper and the fairest out of all my daughters. I know that I would be forever obsessing over her SPF, sun hat and keeping her in the shade. Infact, when we chose where she would lay to rest, we chose a plot directly under a massive cedar tree. She still gets the morning sunlight, but come afternoon she is appropriately shaded. Snug as a bug.