Peace And The Move

We packed much of the house this weekend, and I made meaningful progress in my healing. I’ve started learning how to release things that carry sadness.

While Mike and I were in the attic, I opened the chests that hold so many memories. When I was 16, my boyfriend died by suicide. Inside one chest was a copy of the note he left me (the police kept the original), newspaper clippings from his town, letters from his parents, and his high school photo. I read through everything carefully. I let Mike read them too, and watched his eyes fill with tears. Then I chose to let them go. I placed them in a discard pile.

Next, I picked up a five-page letter my aunt had written, detailing the poor care my mother received at the hospital. She described, step by step and word for word, every mistake that was made. I could feel the fear, panic, and desperation in my family’s experience. It was written so vividly that I could picture everyone’s movements and even smell the hospital halls. Later that same night, after she was mistakenly discharged, my mother died. I placed that letter in the same pile.

I also gathered some of her personal belongings, items it was finally time to release.

I let go of yearbooks, crumbling homecoming mums, and stacks of old photos, keeping only a few precious pieces I still needed. Most of what I hold onto of Jude’s was carefully placed in storage. But his car seat is finally being donated.

The last time Jude sat in that seat, he aspirated. He was pulled from it in an instant. A parking attendant quickly took my keys at the hospital entrance, and a nurse ran down the hall with Jude in his arms. I stood there and watched as they worked to resuscitate him. It’s a memory I’m ready to step away from.

And yet, somehow, all of these tragic memories have led me to a place of peace, a place where I can smile again. I can look at the beauty of the world and feel that those I’ve lost are still with me, in the brilliance of nature, in the warmth of strangers’ smiles, and waiting for me on the other side.

They gave me the strength to walk away from years of sexual abuse by a family member. They made sure that man is where he needs to be. And they have given me the courage to speak up for other little girls, to say what happened, to stand for those who cannot, and to shout no more.

Children matter. Life matters. Love matters.

I am deeply grateful to finally feel peace. Each night I pray that God protects my family, that no more tragedy finds its way to us before I one day walk into heaven. Amen. I have also reached out to a few people I lost contact with and we will see where that goes.

We miss you, Jude. Your dad is building me an aviary at our new home, a quiet place where I can sit, watch the birds, and think of you. We hope you're happy. 

Grief Can Make You Mean

One thing I’ve come to understand about grief is that you don’t always recognize how it’s shaping your behavior toward others. It isn’t that you’re intentionally rude or unkind, but you may become distant or dismissive without realizing it. I don’t believe I ever meant to hurt anyone, but looking back, I can see that I wasn’t always acting with others’ best interests at heart. Grief has a way of narrowing your world until survival feels like the only priority.

I also know how overwhelming it can be to witness constant expressions of sadness on social media. I think, over time, this may have contributed to losing a few friendships during my ten years of grief. Add to that a difficult childhood, and it makes sense that grief became something deeply ingrained, almost familiar.

Menopause certainly hasn’t helped either, and it’s something women simply do not talk about enough. How many of us have sat in a doctor’s office, listening to them say our labs look “perfect,” while inside we feel absolutely miserable? There’s such a disconnect between what we’re told and what we actually experience. Sometimes it feels like we’re pleading with medical professionals just to help us feel normal again. Combine menopause with grief, and suddenly you’ve got a very grumpy older lady trying to hold it all together.

I’ve watched some friends quietly fade away over the years, especially online, and I want to say this: if I ever hurt you, it was never intentional. Grief changes you in ways you don’t always recognize while you’re in it.

Jude has played such a meaningful role in this recent awakening, and I’m incredibly thankful for him, and for God, for carrying me through. Lately, I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of peace. After losing you, I think I drifted into a kind of agnosticism. I wasn’t sure what came after death, but I believed something was there. Yesterday, as I looked out over the pure white snow lining our pasture, I felt my faith fully restored. I knew with certainty that Jude and all those I’ve lost before me will be there when my time comes. And I know it will be a joyful reunion.

Until then, I’m looking forward to the days ahead, watching my daughter grow, seeing her wed, and one day enjoying my grandchildren.

We’ve also been incredibly busy lately, and we now have a contract on our house. We truly believe Jude brought us here so we could grieve in the most peaceful and perfect way possible. And now, we feel ready to move on, to start a new chapter somewhere else. We will never be “over” his loss, but we are learning how to carry it in a more spiritually awakened way.