Grief Hits Differently When You Have to Still Mom

I am not injured, yet I am in pain. The more I attempt to simplify my life, the more it descends into chaos. I continue to advance with a smile because that's what I've always done. I don't show anger, upset, or madness—at least, not for anyone to see. I hear about the struggles of others, and though I've faced many challenges, I am relieved their troubles are not mine. I immerse myself in project after project to avoid confronting the specters of my past. Boxes of belongings remain untouched in closets, the living room, the garage, and the barn, as I cannot face them without feeling ill. Roaming the halls of our house, I now understand that a woman in mourning, even in denial, should not choose paint colors; the home has become an extension of the sorrow. Unjustly, my children live amidst my grief. The confusion of being a high-functioning person with depression is profound; the spirit signals sickness and the need for aid, while the mind and body fiercely protest, "You're fine."

As someone who perseveres, it's easy for others to hitch a ride on my strength, using it to pull themselves along. Some days, this resilience feels like a gift, holding me together so well I scarcely notice the wounds. Other days, it's a curse, as I slowly bleed out, unaware that I require assistance. All I know is that I am trying. Daily, I set my intentions and goals, striving to become the best next version of myself. We've all been scarred by life's trials; none are spared from its harms. We must discover how to best endure our experiences so that we all evolve into better versions of ourselves.