Grief Journal

It’s 3:50 AM and I’m just staring at the ceiling.

I have enough medication to put a horse to sleep, but they don’t work on me anymore.

I can hear everything. The creaks in the floorboards when the cats walk across them. The wind pushing up against the bedroom window. The occasional sigh from the dogs as they shift in their sleep. The sound of the world carrying on, even when I can’t.

This week has been a lot.

We had our egg retrieval on Wednesday, something I’ve been working toward for months, counting shots, tracking follicles, living by clinic calls and medication timers. It’s supposed to be a moment of hope, a step forward. And it was. But it was also the same day as the Wave of Light, the worldwide remembrance for babies gone too soon.

Wednesday night, I lit Cassie’s candle. The same tiny flame that has burned for her so many times before.

And I cried, because even in the middle of creating new life, I still ache for the one I lost.

It’s strange, how joy and grief can coexist in the same heartbeat. How you can feel excited and hollow at the same time.

I miss her so much.

And lately, I’ve been struggling to be present, because every time I move forward, it feels like I’m leaving her behind. Like the more I live, the farther away I get from the last time I held her. The last time I kissed her cheeks. The last time she looked at me with those knowing eyes.

People say time heals. But sometimes, time just stretches the distance between then and now.

Between her and me.

Maybe healing isn’t about moving on. Maybe it’s about carrying both truths:

That I can long for what was, while still hoping for what’s to come.

That I can hold grief in one hand and possibility in the other.

Tonight, I’m just here. Awake. Listening to the house breathe.

Letting my heart remember.

Because some nights, that’s all I can do.