A Different Kind of Goodbye

To lose a child is something that stays with you forever.

The pain does lessen over time. That grief that once felt like it was strangling me eventually softened. I learned to laugh again, smile again, live again. But it changes you permanently. You see life through a different lens of gratitude and appreciation.

At least most of the time.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a season of transition that so many of you know well.

Children moving out. Launching. Starting new lives in new cities, new homes and at new schools. Taking your youngest to college and coming home to an empty nest.

So. Many. Feelings!

I can’t wait for my girls to experience what’s ahead. But there’s a part of me that wants to grab some duct tape and a strong chair and keep them exactly where they are.

What I’ve been through is deeper than sadness. It feels like grief. Gut-wrenching, throat-strangling grief. And I couldn’t figure out why.

I’m not a big crier. I cried so much when my daughter Caroline died that sometimes I think my body just ran out of tears. Or maybe it’s the Lexapro🤷‍♀️. We may never know. But lately? I’ve been crying almost daily. So I kept asking myself, what the heck is happening to me?

And then it hit me.

Sometimes it’s so obvious you miss it completely. That happens to me more than I’d like to admit. I’d love to blame chemo, but I was like this long before chemicals entered my body to heal it.

Here’s what the next 10 days have in store for me:

• Drop off my youngest at college for her freshman year (and her first day of marching band camp with 600 other band members😳).

• One week later it is the 19th anniversary of my Caroline going to heaven.

• Three days later I’m road tripping to NYC with my oldest as she realizes her dream to live there.

Well… there it is.

Put it on paper and it’s not so mysterious why my soul has felt so lost.

I’m always a little off this time of year. My soul feels Caroline’s loss even so many years later. Over time, the memories and wounds that once tortured us soften. They don’t disappear, but they stop taking up quite so much space.

But this year is different.

All of the feelings of sending my children out into the world are tangled up with the feelings of losing their sister.

Of course they are. I’m saying goodbye again. Not the same goodbye. Not even close. But my heart doesn’t always know that as quickly as my head does.

So I live in the moment. I own and feel it. And I share it in some way. It’s the foundation of ShineForward™ that’s gotten me this far. Some days I don’t know how I’ll make it. And then I look back and see that I did. And I know I always will. God’s got a pretty good handle on things!

So if you’re in a season of transition too, with a goodbye to say and a quieter home to return to, I get you and am sending a big hug and some tissues!

A friend recently shared something someone told her: “Congratulations, friend. You have done well. They are launched and not living in your basement.”

I laughed.

And she’s right. We’ve taken them as far as we can on this part of the journey. Now they get to find out who they are out there.

And us?

We get a next chapter too.

For me, that means rediscovering life with my husband. He joined a house full of teenage girls and somehow survived the last six years. I’m ready to explore a new professional adventure that lies ahead for me. Life after cancer. More on that soon!

It’s also time to exhale.

Let myself feel all of it. The pride, the sadness, the joy, the grief and probably some more random crying.

And I might still grab the duct tape.

I’m still shining forward. Just with a very full, slightly broken, incredibly grateful heart.