when your grief is still fresh

It’s happened. The thing you were most afraid of. Your baby has disappeared.

The only thing you have to do right now? Breathe. That’s it. Everything else can wait. Nothing is more important than this.

Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat. 

Grief will have its way with you. Let it. 

Let the tears fall, let the sobs escape, let the plaintive wails stream from your mouth unrestrained. 

Let your body rock. Let it shake, seize up, double over. Let it go numb. Let the icy clutch of your heart and the burning ache of your gut expand. Let the rage rise from below your feet. Let the toxic guilt lift from your chest.

Keep breathing. 

Keep breathing even though your world as you know it has ended. Keep breathing even though the pain feels so much bigger than you. Keep breathing even though you can’t bear it. Keep breathing even though you don’t want to. 

This isn’t the time to stay positive. To force meaning. To blanket your reality with clichés or hollow fantasies. To deny you’re hurting.

Someday, words will have meaning again. Someday, you can look back on this time and find the beauty and the grace and the gratitude. Someday, you’ll know what this time was for.

But that’s not today. Right now, you’re just breathing. Letting yourself feel this. Letting grief happen. Because it will, anyway. It will swallow you whole.

Breathe. And if you can, if you want, if you remember to, put your hand on your heart. Feel the weight, the warmth of it. Notice.

You’ve lost your best friend. There’s no going back, no undoing what’s been done. This is what’s true. 

You’re still here. This is also what’s true. 

Your love hasn’t gone anywhere. This is what’s most true.

Keep breathing.

Let us hold space for your grief when you’re ready.