Grief is love
Today was not my best mental health day. Not the worst, either, but definitely more of a day you get through than a day you cherish.
Except.
After dinner I took my son to the playground—mostly to kill time, if I’m being honest, and aren’t I always? I stood watching him fumble his way around the equipment; I resisted interfering when he kept trailing two older kids who were playing rough—though at least one did tell the other that “the baby’s right there.” (Oh, so he IS still a baby, I thought with relief.) And I did intervene when he tried to step off a climbing wall without looking down at his feet.
And then at some point I sat down on a swing. I pushed off gently with my feet, and a few moments later, my son looked over and saw me.
A grin stretched across his round little face as he broke into a toddling trot, and as I watched him zoom closer, it felt like I was seeing footage from a movie, most surely a memory in the making. And my heart was breaking.
I believe grief is love. I used to think grief was love’s consequence; proof that love was real—you wouldn’t be sad if it hadn’t meant something.
And I guess that reasoning still makes a sort of sense, just, I’m not sure anymore that grief and love are separate things. One of my friends says they’re two sides of the same coin; another says they’re the interwoven threads of a friendship bracelet.
I just know that to love my child fully is to be certain I will lose him, and I am so grateful I’m able to be present for this pain. Because whether I acknowledge it or not, this small human is getting bigger. He will not stay the way he is now, no matter how tightly I cling, and so I choose to let go, even as I hold him close.
I hope we have more times like tonight, when I scooped his eager body onto my lap and launched us into the air, swinging back and forth to the soundtrack of his giggles and mine. I believe there is so much goodness yet to come, and when it does, I won’t mind (too much) that today’s goodness is gone.
After all, I can remember feeling the ache of certain loss (aka change) at other times too, like in the first days of his life when I realized his toes would never be this tiny again, or right before he got his first tooth. And I don’t wish he had infant toes or toothless gums. I’d much rather keep discovering who he’ll become.
Still, I’m a highly sensitive person who’s had a highly sensitive day, and I wanted to tell you that sometimes I feel love so intensely that it tears at my heart. And that’s okay.
Love > fear,
(M)om
—
Did you read this in your inbox? Congrats, you received a First Edition! Note that this post is largely unedited and may later be updated on the (M)othering site, but your email version is a one-of-a-kind snapshot in time.