It’s almost been one year since your diagnosis. So much has happened this past year. I could talk about all the procedures, doctor appointments, surgeries and treatments. I could talk about all of the devastation, pain and exhaustion. But I won’t. I’ll remember how you rose up, faced reality and stood in your power. I’ll remember how you stood tall and beat the odds...
Last night, you came to our room. You had woken up and couldn’t go back to sleep. Daddy invited you into bed with us. You climbed in and found your spot between us. A spot you had not used in longer than I can remember. You quickly drifted off to sleep. As did I. I woke up several times to check on you. I couldn’t help but smile when I opened my eyes. Your precious face so close to...
When my kids grow up and start their own life… when they have their own kids… What will they remember? Who will they remember? Will they remember the mornings with a cranky mom who needed more sleep? Or the nights she was there for them when they woke up from a bad dream? Will they remember the mom who constantly nagged about all the things? Or the mom who cared enough to worry about...
You said we couldn’t fix this. You hung up on me. You blocked my number. You’ve put up your walls. You’ve shut the door. You’ve sealed up your windows. There’s no way in to you now. I can’t text you. I can’t call you. I can’t see you. I can’t explain. I can’t question. I can’t reason with you. You’ve pushed me away...
I hate that you left me. I hate that I’m questioning my worthiness now. I hate that just as I am starting to truly love myself, you have me questioning if I’m lovable. If I’m enough. I hate that you’ve gotten into my head. I hate that your choices, your actions, your mistakes are making me think less of myself. I hate that I ironically feel the need to protect you. That...
You sit there high up on your throne. In your room of darkness. Picking my life apart. Creating lists of choices not good enough. Negativity taking over. You shape your words into bullets. Stacking up your ammo. Guilt creeps in. You push it down. You turn it around. You look to me to blame. Ammo surrounds you. Animosity dripping from your brow. You pick up a word – a bullet. You aim it at...
