I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

It took me a while to figure out how I could write this in a way that wouldn’t sound too angry or offend anyone. Rightfully though, I don’t think it should offend anyone. Let me start from the beginning of my train of thoughts. The previous letter I wrote you was about contentment and how from another person’s perspective, it might seem as though I am very happy with life. Obviously, that isn’t the case. But really, I can’t blame anyone for thinking that (not that I was blaming anyone) because I really mask it pretty well (not to toot my own horn).

But just because I mask it well, doesn’t mean I’m not in pain. Pain is too simple a word to describe grief. I’m in absolute agony. A lot of the times I don’t think anyone really gets it. I know everyone who loves you is grieving too, and your family has been such a strong support system for me, but grief is different for everyone. Like how I can never understand what it’s like for your mum or your sister, they won’t understand grief for me too. But that’s what makes the support I receive even more beautiful – if that’s the word to use – because they offer support even though they don’t fully understand my grief. I hope I do the same for them.

I went on a walk with your mum and the boys again yesterday and it was really nice. I often underestimate the effects of a good walk. Sometimes it feels a little surreal because I was walking in this same park on my dates with you, and now I’m walking with your mum (and the boys). I am pretty sure you’re walking with us too and maybe keeping an extra eye out for the boys. I think you’d be shaking your head at the times we let them sniff the ground for a little too long, or when Knight ate a bone off the grass (You’d have screamed at us. Trust me I thought about the germs too, sorry Josh! He was too fast!).

Your mum and I were talking about my previous post – about putting a mask on and how others may not realize we are grieving. I actually think it’s worse for her. I know I said all that about grief being different for everyone and that we’ll never truly understand our losses because it’s all different, but I think it’s the worst for your mum. I don’t think it’s as bad for anyone else. I mean, I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt for us. It does hurt, a lot. Your sister lost her brother. Your grandparents lost their grandson. And I lost my partner. But your mother literally formed you with her own body. I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t think there is any way any of us will hurt more than she does. We’re all hurt, and we’re all in pain. I’m not downplaying our pain. But I truly do not believe that our pain overpowers hers. I’m not a mum and even I know that there is no pain greater than losing a child.

That made me think about perspective. On the outside, we’re functioning! We go to school. We go to work. We do more than just go, we put in a huge amount of effort at what we do and we do well. We laugh at funny jokes with our friends. We eat at restaurants. We take walks at the park with the dogs. We do so many things, but do not mistake coping for forgetting. We do all of these things, but we have not forgotten. We have not forgotten our grief. There is no way we can ever forget our grief. We don’t do these things because we’re all okay and happy now. We haven’t moved on. We are doing all of these because there is no other way.

We can’t not do anything. We can’t stay in bed and cry (although God knows there are days we can’t think of doing anything else). We can’t cease to exist, even though we would love to. We’re functioning not because we have moved on, even if that might be the perspective of an outsider. We’re functioning because we have to. Sometimes I think if I stop moving, if I pause for even a second, I’ll lose my mind.

The typical outsider might mistake our functionality for forgetting or moving on. I’d like to tell them not to. The perspective of an outsider is often flawed. They don’t get to see the nights where we cry ourselves to sleep. They don’t see the mornings we can’t get out of bed. They see us when we’ve gathered enough courage to be presentable – the makeup, cute clothes, pretty shoes, wide smiles – and they think we’re alright. I think their perspective, though valid, is highly flawed.

I don’t blame them, we mask things pretty well. But I’d just like to make it as clear as day – there is no “moving on”. There is hardly any “feeling better”. We’re all just coping. We laugh, we eat, we talk. But we’re all just coping with the grief, because if we stop, we won’t be able to keep going.

I can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha