An Open Letter to Grieving Mothers
An Open Letter to Grieving Mothers:
Hello, there. I know you. I’ve met you before, though you’d hardly know it. I am a pioneer you see, and I am only one in a long line of silent pioneers who feel they have to walk this journey alone. I honestly couldn’t tell you why we assume we are supposed to be silent; perhaps it is just because it hurts too much to speak.
Above all else, I hope you know you’re not alone. As much as we hate it, there is comfort in knowing that someone out there, somewhere, knows the way. I honestly cannot tell you why my daughter died. I cannot explain why life is so unfair. Or why the only time I had with her was when I cradled her lifeless body in my arms for a few short days in the hospital; giving her enough love and kisses to last a lifetime, even though I knew she couldn’t feel me there. I can’t tell you why I miscarried 6 months later despite doing ‘everything right.’ What I can tell you, though, is that I know exactly how you feel.
And you know what? I am not a silent pioneer.
People need to know what I’ve been through. People need to know that my daughter’s name is Judah Katherine Rush and the baby I miscarried was given the name Taylor. People need to know we use their names often, and we speak of their lives. This is important, not because of me, but because of you.
If you, or someone you know, hears my story, it does not end in death. If my experience is to have any meaning, and if my children are to be honored through my life, I am compelled to speak up and do more.
I have walked your road. I am in your corner. I have prayed your prayers. I have cried your tears. I am angry with you. I am heartbroken and at a loss alongside you. I know your pain. I know your fear. I have felt the intense, overwhelming emotion and dark, numbing emptiness swirl around in my body as it does in yours. Our experiences bind us and our spirits are intertwined. When we are bound as we are, there is no such thing as a stranger.
I am here to show you the way, dear heart.
You are not alone.
Four.
Four is the number of friends I have walked alongside through their own silent journeys. These beloved women are braver than anyone I have ever known. Their inner strength is inspiring, and their resolve for hope is unwavering. If any good comes from the loss of my children, it is the help I can offer these women traveling after me. I am grateful they have trusted me with their tender hearts, to which I say, I love you, I know you, and you can do this- you’ll be okay.
I offer the same to you, dear friend.
I love you. I know you. You can do this, and you will be okay.
Please, don’t let yourself be alone. Let me guide you. Let me show you the way. Let me help you manage how you’ll change. Let me encourage you, and let me catch your tears. I am here for you love, because God has called me to be your pioneer.
