Grief.

It comes in waves.
Sometimes, the waves are 100 feet tall.
Sometimes, less.
Sometimes, I can see it coming.
Sometimes, without any warning, I’m engulfed in the wave and I’m caught under the water.

I can’t breathe.

Nobody is there to save me.

How isolating.

I come back up for air eventually.
It’s calm for now.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Grief is all-encompassing, all the time.

I’m so f*cking angry.

I miss my baby boy.

Why aren’t you here?

I will never hold you.
I will never sing to you at night.
I will never embarrass you as I drop you off at school.
I will never see the man you would have become.

Grief is not linear.
Time helps.
But then, I’m there in the moment I lost you as if it’s happening right now—all over again.

And yet, grieving you is a gift. I love you. Therefore, I grieve you. Therefore, I love you and grieve you and love you until the day I die.

You are my gift. Thank you, grief. Thank you, Walt. Thank you. I will ride these waves of grief—not gracefully, perhaps, but gratefully.

I write this with a heavy and grateful heart for my baby boy who never made it to this earth. I’ve never felt this magnitude of love. How beautiful to love in this capacity. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This hurts. I’m alive and I feel this hurt so I can feel the love.

But, my word, does my heart ache.