As I sit here this morning watching a beautiful sunrise in the mountains, I can’t help but remember my beautiful Brittany. She died 20 years ago this morning. This quiet place offers a kind of solace, but it also brings me close to a memory I do not often allow myself to revisit.

The pain from that traumatic morning has been quietly tucked into a place in my heart that is rarely accessed. It is too painful to relive, even these many years later. I can only go there once a year, and even then, most years it is too much. The sorrow that shoves its way out of my throat is traumatic all by itself. I honestly don’t want to experience that level of grief anymore. It’s exhausting. I’m tired. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. I just don’t want to speak it.

The ability to remember and honor her, measured against the sorrow and heartbreak that follows, is often too much to bear. One quarter of my old life is scarred over in my heart and left there to remind me what a blessing it is to bring life into this world, and also what heartbreak can come from death too soon. That part of me will forever remain, regardless of the future I have built.

In order to survive my daughter’s death, I focused on creating a new life. One where I could have purpose. One that showed me love and joy could coexist with sorrow and grief. I have built that life, and it is filled with love, relationships, and laughter. There are few people in my circle today who met Brittany. My family, of course, and a few long-time friends, but most people know of her because they ask. Knowing about her is knowing about me.

I’m different now in many ways. I’m stronger and more resilient, but also more reserved. I was, for the most part, an extrovert up until Brittany’s passing. Her death took the very wind from my sails and left me wanting to retreat, to be alone with my grief. I’m more of an introvert than an extrovert now. It seems more natural for me. The circle around me is very small. I let few people into my world, not because I don’t want to, but because it’s hard to let people in. It’s a fear, not based in fact, but in experiences that have made love feel tied to loss. Rationally, I know that is not true, but having lost so many people in my family has created a narrative in my head and heart where it feels true.

So many of you have been following my story for all these years, and I’m so humbled by that. I know many of you have your own stories of loss, along with similar thoughts and feelings. Thank you for making space for mine.

Until next time,

Mal