The fifth stage of grief: acceptance

Baby girl,

Your birthday came and passed, and no one noticed. The world didn’t stop moving around me. Life went on. But my world hasn’t stopped standing still since you left. I haven’t been able to move on. There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought of you. Your laughs echo in my head. I look into my car mirror expecting to see your joyful face singing or dancing. I hear the squeals as I turn on the music. I see the focused ambition on your face to conquer the monkey bars as I walk past the park. I picture your enthusiasm as you ask every kid at the park to be your friend.

It has been nine months since we said our goodbyes. There have been stages to the grief over this time – some incredibly hard days and some days where I am filled with gratitude for the two years I was blessed to love on you – but I have yet to let myself move on. Your picture remains the wallpaper of my cell phone. I stare at your photo in my bedroom every night before I lie down. Your room remains untouched.

Nine months later, your birthday has arrived. We would be celebrating you turning eight. How is my little girl eight already? It seems you were just five, small and spunky and thrilled to be my family. You loved your birthday and wanted nothing more than a big party with everyone we knew to show up and celebrate you. We should be celebrating. Instead, I am crying. I am crying for not getting to celebrate this day that you loved.

In my heart, I know it’s time to move on, I simply don’t know how to do that while still honoring you. I am scared if I change the picture of you on my phone, or erase the message from you on the whiteboard, or begin packing up your things that I will start to forget little parts of you. I am scared that the memories will start to fade. I am scared it will start to hurt less, and the pain is a reminder of the greatest blessing I had in my life.

You don’t know this, but I reached out to your mom on your birthday. I received no response. I have always held onto some hope that one day she would let go of her grudge against me. That she would see how much I loved you and her and your entire family and allow me back in. That she would at least acknowledge a happy birthday text and allow us to have some sort of relationship, even if it was distant. But that is not where we stand. I am now faced with the reality that you are gone from my life forever. That there is not going to be a reconciliation with your mom. That I must truly say goodbye. The reality of that hurts more than I can put into words.

But it’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to let you go. You would want me to be happy and would surely be inches from my face wiping my tears and telling me that it’s okay because you still love me and will forever be in my heart. You would tell me that you will never forget me and that I will always be your family. That it’s okay to smile and move on. That I should be happy. I can imagine the little pep talk you’d give me like all the other times I became emotional. Somehow, you always had the right words to say and managed to comfort me when I couldn’t keep it together. Your joyful little heart would tell me to get up and dance it out.

Today, I am going to listen to your little voice in my head that tells me it’s okay to smile. I am going to start trying to move forward. You will forever live on in my heart, but I know I cannot continue to live in the sorrow. I will start with changing the picture on my phone, and maybe soon I’ll find the energy to begin going through your room. I will start making way for the next chapter of my life without you, as it’s the only way to move on from the grief. I will accept that the Lord will watch over you and provide the love and support that I cannot be there to give. I accept that you will change someone else’s life the way you changed mine.

Oh, little one, though I begin to move on, know that I will not forget you.

As I move forward, I will celebrate your eight years of beautiful life and the joy you brought to mine. Today marks a new chapter. A chapter of acceptance. Today, I accept the two years I had with you as joyful memories and set aside the grief. Today, I will begin to talk about you instead of ignoring the topic. Today, I will start to move forward.

I love you with my whole heart and soul. You will forever be my favorite little girl. Today, I set you free.

Love,
Miss Kayla

Lord, I hand this grief that has consumed me over to you. I have held onto a portion of it, afraid to let it go. I put it in your hands and ask you to take care of it. Watch over my baby girl. Keep her safe. Give her a good life – solid role models, good education, and a backbone of faith. I trust that you will lead her to big heights. If I’m confident of anything, it is that the heart of this little girl could truly change the world. Never allow her to lose that and help use her joy for your kingdom. Lord, as I move forward, allow me to savor her love with joy instead of grief. Remind me of the way she changed me for the better. Allow it to fuel me to serve and approach every day with the joy she brought to every stranger on the street. Give me the courage to accept this situation and trust you as I move forward. It’s in your hands.