writing

For Adalyn, Almost Three

Leave a comment

Adalyn, my wildflower bright,
You chase the wind, you catch the light.
With dino roars and spinning wheels,
You turn the world with how you feel.

Your smile is a spark, it’s sunbeams bursting,
It finds my heart and it quenches the thirsting.
You dance like storms and giggle like rain,
Then you hold me close through joy or through pain.

You roar like a T-Rex in the hall,
Then twirl and tumble, with your feet so small.
You lead with love, you leap with grace,
You are such a whirlwind in a tiny space.

Feral, free, and full of fire,
You climb, you jump, and you never tire.
But in your arms, the world is still,
It’s a gentle hug, such a quiet thrill.

You rally crowds for “dance mode” fun,
The party starts with just one run.
And in our group hug, squeezed in tight,
You shine with all your little might.

You’re kind, you’re strong, you’re truly you,
And every day, you’re something new.
I watch, in awe, as time moves on.
My sweet baby girl, my rising dawn.

So when the days feel far too fast,
I’ll hold these moments, make them last.
For in your eyes, I clearly see
The best the world could ever be.

Keep shining bright, my beautiful little firecracker.
I love you. Mean it. Always.
Momma 💕❤️

3 Days Before Surgery

Leave a comment

Packing for Dallas at Midnight: A Moment of Clarity in the Chaos

It’s midnight, and I’m still packing for Dallas. I started around 9 PM, and I’ve managed to get one suitcase packed—though even that feels incomplete.

I can’t help but wonder: why am I moving so slowly? Why can’t I focus on this simple task?

The answer seems to lie in the clash between my racing thoughts and my sluggish body. The louder my brain gets, the slower my hands move. It’s as though the more anxious I feel, the less capable I am of doing anything at all. I glance at the baby monitor. There she is—my sweet girl, sound asleep in her crib, as peaceful as she can be. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.

Intrusive thoughts keep flooding in. I wish there were a mute button for my brain, just something to stop the noise for a few minutes so I can breathe.

What makes it worse, though, is when people ask me how I’m doing. How do you answer when you feel like you’re barely keeping it together? I’m not eating much. I’m staying up late because my brain is too loud to sleep. When I do sleep, it’s fitful and haunted by nightmares that leave me waking up in a sweaty panic. I’m terrified of the future, of what’s to come. I can’t think straight, I can’t focus, and the simplest tasks feel impossible—like packing a bag.

Packing, in particular, feels like a painful reminder that this isn’t just some nightmare. This is real. It’s been real ever since our daughter’s diagnosis, the day we saw the pediatric orthopedic surgeon for the first time. But I’ve been able to push it to the back of my mind, to pretend for a while that it isn’t happening. It’s easier that way. I’ve been dissociating, going through the motions of day-to-day life, trying to enjoy the small moments. We took her to the zoo for the first time, and I allowed myself to believe everything was okay, if only for a few hours.

But now, with every item I fold and tuck into the suitcase, it hits me all over again. This is happening. And I don’t know how to make sense of it all.

I guess, for now, I’ll go finish packing. But I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore it much longer.

Just let me grieve.

Leave a comment

Please, Don’t Tell Her How to Grieve

She’s in the kitchen, washing dishes with her back to you. You approach her quietly, two cups in hand. Fingerprints were smudged on the glass. A few gulps of milk were still sloshing around inside. You set them beside the sink and glance at her apologetically.
She doesn’t notice.
Steam rises from the faucet as scorching water pours over her hands, scrubbing absently at an already clean pot. Her gaze isn’t on the dishes. It’s fixed out the window.
You follow her line of sight, watching a red bird flit about in a bush at the back corner of the yard. When you look back at her, her expression has clouded over. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, blink slowly as if to hold back something that can no longer be contained.
And then, a single tear escapes.
Suddenly, the dishes don’t matter anymore.
It’s back again.
You’ve been tiptoeing around it, avoiding the mess it creates each time it resurfaces. You’ve given so much of yourself to hold her up because the world feels like it crumbles whenever she falls apart.
And you’ve caught yourself wondering… When will she get over it? When will the tears stop? When will the memories stop tormenting her?
When will she finally move on?
I know you want to tell her it will be okay. That everyone loses someone they love, and time will heal her pain. You want to remind her that she’s not alone in this.
I know you want to say something. Anything.
But above all, please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
When she cries, don’t try to quell her tears. She’s not drowning in them. She’s swimming through the memories of love they shared.
When she speaks of them, don’t change the subject because you think it’s too painful. It’s more painful to bury the memories than to let them be.
And as the days pass, don’t ask her to move on. She’s not stuck. The person she’s mourning will always be a part of her, and she will always be a part of them. Death didn’t break that bond. Time won’t either.
The tears will stop for now. But they may return tomorrow, or next week, or in twenty years. And when they do, it’s because the love they shared is everlasting.
There’s nothing you can say that will change this. Nothing you can do to make it easier.
So please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
Just hold her hand. Listen to her stories. Walk beside her through the sorrow.
You may not be the one she’s missing, but you’re the one she has left.
And sometimes, your quiet presence is all she needs to get through. ♥️