19d (edited) • General discussion
I’m Still Here Because Love Keeps Me Here
Christmas morning came heavy.
Before I even opened my eyes, the first thought in my head was my son. It always is, but some mornings it hits in a way that steals the air right out of my chest. It’s the quiet moments that get me — the ones where the world hasn’t fully woken up yet and it’s just me, my thoughts, and the empty space where he should still be.
I think about where he is now.
I wonder what it looks like there.
I wonder who he’s met, what he knows now that I don’t.
Sometimes I catch myself smiling through tears, thinking, I hope he got to meet Johnny Gaudreau, his favorite Calgary Flames hockey player. I hope he’s around my Nanny and Gramp — the ones he loved and looked up to. I really hope he was reunited with his best furry friend, Azzee. I hope he’s not alone for even one second. I don’t have all the answers, and I won’t pretend that I do, but there are so many stories from people who say they’ve seen or felt the afterlife, and I hold on to those stories. Not because I need proof, but because I need hope. Hope that he’s okay. Hope that he can see me. Hope that love really does go somewhere.
This may be a little off topic, but today I read an article about AI saying horrible things to someone who was already hurting. It honestly shook me. The idea of someone reaching out in pain and being met with words that push them closer to the edge… that’s terrifying. When you’re grieving, you’re already cracked open. Words matter. The wrong words can wound, and the right ones can be the thin thread you hold onto.
So I’m going to say this clearly, for myself and for anyone else who needs it:
Please don’t harm yourself. Please don’t go anywhere. There are people here who need you.
Trust me, I know that it’s not easy. I understand. Some days it feels like walking with broken glass in my chest.
Not because I’m “strong” in the way people like to say. Half the time I don’t feel strong at all.
I stay because of love.
I stay because my son might be able to see me, and I care too deeply about that. I don’t want to disappoint him. I want him to look at me — wherever he is — and see his mom still trying. Not perfect. Not always okay. But still here. Still loving him out loud. Still getting back up even when I don’t want to.
And I think of my mom. She has already lost her precious grandson. I will not make her live through losing her daughter too. I know what grief does. I know how it burns and steals and lingers. I could never hand that pain to her on top of everything else she already carries. I love her too much for that.
Grief has changed me. It’s made me softer in some ways and harder in others. It’s made me question everything and hang on to faith at the same time. I talk to my son. I ask for signs. Sometimes I feel him close; sometimes I don’t, and it hurts. But I still believe — or maybe I just hope stubbornly — that this isn’t the end. That love doesn’t just vanish. That he is somewhere, somehow, still my boy, still watching, still knowing how deeply he is loved.
I won’t pretend I’ve got it all together. I don’t. I break down. I get angry. I miss him in ways that feel physical. I would give anything — absolutely anything — to have him back here with me.
But I’m still here.
I’m here because he made me a mom, and that doesn’t end.
I’m here because my story didn’t stop when his did.
I’m here because even on the ugliest days, there are tiny sparks of something — love, memories, a whisper of hope — that remind me to breathe again.
I don’t always know how to do this. Some days, “staying” is the only thing I manage.
But today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, my choice is the same:
I’m still here because love keeps me here.
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I’m Still Here Because Love Keeps Me Here
