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.