For several years after my first daughter died, every time I looked in the mirror it was like looking at a stranger.
I would look at my reflection and think, “I don’t know you. Who are you?”
Even now, twelve years Grace’s stillbirth, I still occasionally look at my reflection and miss the woman I was before she died.
What I miss the most is my fearlessness.
The woman I was didn’t carry the anxiety and worry, the second-guessing and fear that I often find myself caught up in now. That old me knew she was capable and resourceful. She blazed ahead confident that she would work everything out. She rarely doubted her ability to just handle whatever came.
Then Grace died. And so did the woman I was.
I’ve regained some of that woman over the years. I’m generally a happy and optimistic person again. I can once again find pleasure and beauty in life. I’ve rediscovered my feisty and fiery nature. I am more grateful and express that gratitude more openly. It took a long time, but eventually I learned to love again – fully, deeply, and wholeheartedly.
However, I also worry a lot more now. I have a high need for things to be planned out – and those plans kept. Last minute cancellations or changes bring up wave of anxiety and a reminder of how life can change so drastically in a moment. I get stressed more easily than I used to. I still dive head-first into new ideas and new adventures, but with a lot more anxiety and nervousness. I feel this urgency to do everything, experience everything, and accomplish as much as possible as soon as possible – because I am acutely aware that life can end in a split second.
As I grieved so intensely for my daughter in those early years, I also grieved for that fearless woman that I used to be. I miss her innocence, her easy trust in the world, and her confidence that everything would work out as desired. I grieved, too, for the woman I was supposed to be and never was, for the woman I would have been had Grace or Lily lived and stayed here on earth with me. It’s hard to picture who that might have been and what life might have been like as her.
At this point, I’ve grown comfortable in the skin of this new woman that I am. Most of the time, I can look in the mirror and not feel so disconnected from the person I see reflected back. She just is who I am now. I’ve learned to accept the changes to who I was and to embrace the woman I have become:
- Fiercely committed to being happy even after not-so-happy-endings.
- Determined to see and experience the beauty of life even in it’s messiness.
- A little more anxious than I would like.
- Impatient to experience more of life now, in case the bottom drops out again.
- Grateful.
- Highly aware that there is so much I cannot control despite my repeated attempts.
- Feisty, fiery, and ambitious.
This is who I am now, carved and created out of love and loss. I’m not who I was and I’m not who I would have been.
No matter what happens in life, however, I am Grace and Lily’s mother. This is the one piece of who I am that not even death can change.
Emily works hard to increase education and improve care for bereaved mothers with medical professionals and other counselors. She also works with clients individually to provide support for grieving mothers and fathers. She writes and educates through her website, Emily Long: Archaeologist of the Living.
- I Should Know Them Now - May 29, 2017
- Stolen Memories - March 8, 2017
- Receiving Support - October 14, 2016
Emily reading your blog was like looking in the mirror. I have lost two baby girls.
Nia who would of been seven years old was born asleep. I lost her when she was 34 weeks. Her name means purposes which I’m now gaining a lot of strength from. I walked in horridous pain in this pregency, because when I got pregnant her dad wasn’t interested. Then at my 20 weeks scan it showed that she had Edwards syndrome (also known as Trisomy 18 [T18]) is a genetic disorder caused by the presence of all or part of an extra 18th chromosome. My consultant informed me that she would die, and gave me the option to abort her. I refused and loved her even more, then she died 14 weeks later. Through this devastating journey I lost my identity, my spirit for life.
Hannah meaning “favour” or “grace” is my heartbeat, She died two years ago, her dad was supportive and loving. During this pregency I was petrified, four years previous I had a miscarriage I was 7 weeks. Hannah died, and I nearly died too at 22 weeks. This time it was me I had severe pre eclampsia. My life was under threat because my placenta had broken away so she wasn’t being fed, and it was poisoning me, my organs were shutting down. Again I was told I had to abort, I refused and two days later she died.
Today I look in the mirror and I don’t know who I am. I use to be a passionate confident amazing woman. I was fearless. However, I am regaining hope again day by day. Nia and Hannah are holding my hand and helping me to discover an authentic identity.
Thank you for your inspiration.
Many thanks Nia and Hannah’s mummy xxx
Emily, thank you for writing this. I am so very sorry for the losses you have suffered. As I read your blog, I saw myself. I didn’t really realize the full extent of my grief until now. My firstborn daughter passed away after 8 days of life, during her corrective heart surgery. Her main arteries were reversed and she had a hole in her heart. Honestly, I don’t know how I made it through. Having been traumatized in the past, her passing was nearly more than I could handle. I live with PTSD because of the past and her passing. I completely relate to what you said about the woman you’d been before died with your daughter. My daughter’s death was 20 years ago. Yet it still seems like yesterday at times. Only recently have I let myself truly begin to grieve for her and to celebrate her life. But I didn’t realize that I was also grieving for the person I was, as well. Thank you for opening my eyes. Now maybe, I can finally begin to get both feet onto the path of healing.