Shapeshifting Grief

It’s been almost 3 years since Erin died.

As a Certified Grief Coach, I observe my own grief journey as if from afar; a disembodied version of myself. Watching, noticing, talking myself through the guidance and support I offer my own grief clients.

All the while, as a bereaved parent, experiencing the deep grief that comes with losing a child. A very special child. A child who was not expected to live longer than 3 years old. A child who persevered, fighting for her life every day, for 19 years.

Not fearless. Not unafraid. Courageous. A warrior.

A child who could not walk yet moved everyone around her.

A child who could not speak yet who communicated with a depth and clarity rarely seen.

As I approach the 3-year anniversary of her death this December, two days after Christmas, I cannot help but reflect on the shapeshifting of my own grief experience year over year.

The silent, aimless wandering around the house, unsure what to do next, is over.

The profound sadness of every single moment has been replaced with moments of sheer joy in remembering her, immense pride at the impact she had on the world in her short life, and a commitment to living my life fully just as she did.

The uncertainty of how to honor her life and contributions has been replaced by our family’s creation of the Erin Christine Moberly Memorial Fund, that supports people in our community with severe and profound disabilities to live life better with equipment and opportunities that fall through government funding gaps.

What remains is more like a sheer, fragile gray veil that floats ever so lightly on me from time to time rather than the thick, wool blanket that felt heavy on my shoulders for so long. In those moments, I can close my eyes, conjure up the softness of her eyes and of her cheeks. I smile; she is with me.

I know to be true that grief changes us. I know to be true that grief changes over time. I know to be true that my grief will never go away because my love for her will never end.

And yet, my grief feels somehow softer as I close on the third year without her here on Earth.

I also know to be true that the promises and commitments we made to one another, and especially those on her final weeks, help to support me right now, and provide a salve to my wounded heart.?

Holding her hand those final days, I sensed her telling me that by letting her go, allowing her to float away from her body, from her pain, that she would forever be with me. Looking in her eyes, I knew that I kept my promises to her her entire life and I would not stop now, even though it was the hardest thing I would ever do.

Last week I was driving back from a leadership offsite and the sun was peaking through a stormy sky. I could feel Erin "say" to me, “Thank you mom for keeping your promises to me. I am keeping my promise too. I am here with you always.”

I said to nobody in the car but me, “Thank you Erin. You are my angel. I am thankful for you and for having had the honor to be your mom, in this life and beyond.”

Where will my grief go next? That’s the beauty and wonder of this journey we are on called life. I know not.

Yet I know to be true that my angel will be with me every step of the way, in the warm quiet of it all.