Grief Resurgence.

Time has not been kind to me, lately.

Something people say when you experience a loss is to look to the future. Time heals all wounds. The thought of this is potentially comforting in early grief when every second is flooded with intense pain. The thought that things could potentially feel less terrible in the future is something to hang onto. You can’t live in that intensity forever; we just aren’t built to withstand it.

I don’t want to downplay that the intensity of the grief has lessened. There are days that go by that I don’t cry. I can talk to Evelyn and smile. I can be in groups of people sometimes and not let it completely overwhelm me. I’m finding bits and pieces of whatever “normal” now looks like.

I was optimistic that after we made it past Evie’s due date that a weight would be lifted. In a way, it has. But a new heaviness has set in that I wasn’t prepared for. Getting through the month of September was important to me. It felt once like a far off goal, something unattainable. But it came and went and I was still standing.

But I don’t feel better. The problem with looking to the future is that your child isn’t there, either.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It’s one of those things that you don’t have a full sense of until you become an unfortunate statistic.

1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss.

1 in 160 babies are stillborn.

Now we are these numbers, these statistics. Now we have days and months dedicated to loss related things. I’m truly grateful that we have things like Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I think it’s important. Our children matter, our invisible children that people don’t see us carrying around. I love the idea of bringing awareness to our particular kind of loss.

But we live pregnancy loss every day.

For us, it’s laced into our whole lives. It’s looking for signs from our baby everyday. It’s holding her keepsakes in her room. It’s looking at our daughter’s ashes in a butterfly urn that sits in our room. It’s glancing down at my tattoo of her tiny footprints. It’s also the occasional panic attack when I’m flooded with memories of the day we found out she was dying. It’s the constant worry that Evie’s sibling growing in my belly also won’t be okay.

I am constantly aware of all we’ve lost. And sometimes, the extra reminders are hard.

Obviously, it’s incredibly important to me to share our story, to share Evelyn’s story. Doing so has also brought us connection and support from so many people, and I’m incredibly grateful. But I’ve felt almost paralyzed by the (self-imposed) expectation that I share this month, this very important month for pregnancy and infant loss. I’m watching my social media feed fill up with stories of loss and wonder why I’m struggling to engage. I had hoped, apparently naively, that September passing and turning to October would bring me some greater sense of peace and possibly strength. Instead, I’m finding myself more filled up with grief than I’ve been in awhile.

No matter what, she’s still not here.

Instead of counting down how many weeks pregnant with Evie I should have been, I’m reminded that I should I now have a one month old. With every changing leaf, I’m reminded that I should be out pushing her in her stroller, showing her my favorite season. I see pictures of families out at pumpkin patches and apple orchards, and I’m reminded that this was finally supposed to be our year to do those things. October has felt so unbearably heavy. My grief combined with anxiety over our current pregnancy has rendered me almost paralyzed. I’m burnt out.

I’m choosing to pass on needing to engage this month. There’s this guilt that loss parents have, guilt over feeling like we constantly need to show up for our children in the most visible way because we’re afraid they’ll be forgotten. We wonder if we’re doing enough, thinking about them enough, carrying on their memory enough. When I allow myself to let go of all that, I know that I’m the best possible mom for Evelyn. It’s okay to rest. I’m enough for her.

So while I’ve looked to time to lessen my pain, I’m constantly reminded of something others have told me and that I’ve had to tell myself: Grief is not linear. The pain of losing Evelyn doesn’t threaten to strangle me every day, but it’s there. I’ve learned to live with it. Just because one day seems okay doesn’t mean the following day needs to be even better. It’s been almost six months without her, and there isn’t one second of any day that I don’t miss her.

I’m doing enough. I’m loving her enough. October is just another month.