A few weeks ago I finally held the print copy of my book, Invisible Mothers, in my hands, this beautiful book that I have worked so hard to write and create over the last 2 years. I was excited, nervous, giddy with anticipation, and painfully sad.
I am so deeply proud of this book. I am proud of all the love and heart and energy that went into creating it, of the beautiful connections I made with mothers and babies, and of the commitment and devotion that went into the creation of it.
Nine months of connecting with and interviewing other mothers like me. I heard their stories, learned about their gone-too-soon babies, and felt the love they continue to carry with them.
Nine months of writing. Nine months of pen to paper, of crying in coffee shops as I sorted through all the feelings of love and loss, of feeling my two tiny daughters’ presence beside me as I wrote, and of opening my own heart in a way I hadn’t in a very long time.
It is here, in my hands.
My book is here because they are not.
This book would not exist had my daughters not died before birth. Even as I am excited and joy-filled to have created this book and be sharing it with the world, I cannot help but also feel a shadow of pain and sadness for the reasons that this book came to be.
Also with this shadow of sadness, shimmered a bit of fear.
For all those months of preparing and writing, I felt so connected to my daughters. With every interview, every post to Facebook, and every word I wrote in this book, I felt them with me. I could feel their presence beside me as I remembered those early years of grief and pain and as I sought to give voice to the experience of saying good-bye and of a motherhood that so often goes unseen.
In a way, the completion and release of this book felt like having to say good-bye to them all over again.
As this book came into life, I worried at times that I would lose that connection with them. That because the words are now written and printed and the book beginning to fly into others’ hands around the world, this sense of them here with me will fade away as their tiny bodies once did.
But it hasn’t. Even as I write these worlds, I can feel them with me.
The truth is that everything I do is either because of them or for them. This book was because of them, because they made me a mother. I am so proud to be their mother. I do the work I do with others because of them and all that they taught me. I live my life for them. I fight hard for happiness and joy, for love and connection because of them. I work to live my life to it’s fullest for them.
Who I am is because of them. Their lives made me a mother. Their deaths gave me a fierce commitment to living wholeheartedly.
So, yes, it hurts deeply that I don’t get to share these joys and successes of my life with them. It is achingly painful that I cannot hold or touch or kiss their physical bodies or hear the sound of their laughter. With every event of life that happens without them here to share in it, I have to say good-bye again.
But I also get to say thank you.
Thank you for choosing me to be your mother.
Thank you for making me the woman that I am today.
Thank you for the light you bring to the world.
Thank you for making me the conduit of that light through this book, through my work, and through my life.
My sweet daughters, I may not get to touch or hold you until the day I leave this physical world to join you in the light. But you are touching thousands.
With everything I do, you are here. I am grateful.
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.
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- Stolen Memories - March 8, 2017
- Receiving Support - October 14, 2016