This is My Marathon

On protecting your peace and learning to carry grief on your own terms

When someone asks “how are you?” I’m immediately calculating just how much I want to share. Do I feel like going into detail? Or do I just want to say “alright,” “meh,” or some other generic response?

I told someone recently I was “pretty alright” and they said “I like pretty alright!” and smiled like that was some great benchmark. Whereas for me, in reality, it’s my way of acknowledging I’m not okay but I don’t want to discuss it further. It is not some trendy new way of expressing emotions or being vulnerable.

Then there are the different responses, or lack thereof, when people check in. Some days I’m more willing to share how I’m feeling when someone reaches out. But what hurts more than not hearing from someone at all is the silence after I tell you my truth.

When I say “today is hard, this week, this day, this hour is hard,” and I get no response. I harbor more resentment toward those people than toward those I haven’t seen or heard from in general. A simple “I’m sorry.” A simple hug emoji. But the silence, it’s deafening.

Then there are others who just know what to ask. Who will say “how are you really,” and I know that’s a safe space for me to share whatever I’m feeling. I also know those people aren’t trying to fix this.

There is no fixing this. It will never make sense and it defies the natural progression of life.

There are certain metaphors and analogies I refuse to use to describe how grief changes over time. I refuse to believe that my shoulders become stronger or the boulder in my chest becomes lighter and I’m somehow able to carry it better. I refuse to accept that this was supposed to happen or that there’s a bigger reason for losing Kensleigh.

Something happened and Kensleigh passed. That is the truth. What that something is, I may never know.

And while I live every day knowing this is my reality, I’m not going to accept it as if this is okay. There is nothing normal or acceptable about losing my daughter. What I choose to believe is that I’m learning to carry grief and Kensleigh differently.

Some days my skin and my heart are brighter and glowing. Other days the bags under my eyes and the hole in my heart are winning out. Both are okay. Both are a part of living with grief.

Here is what I am learning: no matter what, I will protect my peace and protect my space. My circle is tight and small and that is okay for me. I have to protect myself and I cannot worry about how that affects someone else.

This is my marathon to run, so I need to refuel and nourish my soul. The only person I need to check in with is me. And every day I am learning more about what this version of me likes, dislikes, and cares about.

Because after losing your daughter, your child, the minuscule no longer matters.