christmas not for everyone.....

The festive season is upon us, a time when joy and the Christmas spirit fill the air. However, not everyone is eager to sing carols, gather with family, or indulge in the enchanting Christmas festivities. For some, this time of year brings challenges, as they grapple with the loss of loved ones, lack the company of family, or face the financial burden that accompanies the holiday season. These few days hold immense expectations, and the pressure can be overwhelming for millions of people, myself included.

The pain of losing my uncle to suicide just two days before Christmas, three years ago, remains heart-wrenching. I vividly recall the difficult phone call to my mother, breaking the news of her brother's passing. This Christmas will mark the first without my beautiful Sophie, and navigating this season without her is an uncertain journey. Despite working in hospitality, where people come to revel in joy, as I have for the past six months, the facade of a cheerful persona takes over, concealing the lack of festive spirit within. Writing Christmas cards, signing them with names like Charles, Lindsey, Cameron, only to pause and omit Sophie's name, is something I cannot bear. Instead, I have decided to channel my efforts into charitable donations.

In the recent months, I deliberately distanced myself from shopping, knowing that I would be drawn to items that Sophie would have loved. As a mom who used to indulge her children, facing the reality of not doing so this Christmas is a challenge. Even though we lost Sophie in June, her Christmas presents were already planned. I had purchased a faux Burberry scarf from Thailand for her one year, and she wore it incessantly. This year, I had intended to gift her a genuine one along with a dreamy trench coat she had been longing for. Unfortunately, these thoughts and visions must remain confined to my mind, as Sophie will never get to see them, and I won't hear her delighted squeals of happiness and excitement. I miss her dearly!

So, as you bask in the laughter and smiles of Christmas, I implore you to take a few moments to reflect on those who may not be as fortunate. Spare a thought for those facing the holiday season with a heavy heart, coping with loss, or navigating the challenges that this time of year brings.

my angels last view

I miss Sophie so much; I can't find the words to describe the pain and hurt of not being able to talk to my child—a person you spent their whole life caring for, nurturing, loving, and just enjoying. Someone I'd talk to on a daily basis; we'd laugh almost every day. Now it's gone, just gone like that. I somehow have to understand that I'll never be able to talk with Sophie, never hug her, brush her hair, be there when she asks for advice or help. Time's a great healer, they say. Really? So why am I hurting so much? Why do I still find myself crying most days? Why do I miss her just as much as I did 5 months ago? Why do I feel guilt if I smile or laugh?

When we first lost Sophie, I would spend a lot of time in her bedroom, surrounded by her things as she had left them. Her beautiful smell lingered in the air, and for some reason, I found it easy and comforting to be in her room. Now I struggle to go in there; when I do, the smell of Sophie has left the air. I find myself apologizing to Sophie for touching her belongings, for being in her room. It feels so wrong being in there without her.

Weeks ago, I found comfort in certain songs that we shared together; now, the same songs break me. I can't listen to any of them without breaking down or turning the radio off. Why am I finding things so much harder now?

Yesterday was pretty hard, not for any real reason (still a bit shaken up and on edge over some sick phone calls). Maybe this phone call has affected me more than I thought it had. Why does anyone think they are allowed to abuse someone in their own home for no reason? I've never been scared to be in my own home. This has put me even more on edge. As the sunset yesterday evening, I needed to rearrange some things outside. Home alone, I had no choice; in the dark. I find myself scared of the dark nowadays. As soon as the sun goes down, I try to stay indoors. If I need to go outside, I ensure that someone is with me. Failing that, I now always carry my mobile phone. As night hits, all curtains are closed to block out the dark. This sounds so silly—a grown woman scared of the dark. The dark has never bothered me before. Now, it's not a place I like or enjoy anymore. 

Outside alone I’m  doing "that walk"—the walk I did in June, in the dark up the drive when I found my baby. Again, I found myself veering off the tarmac and walking across the grass; for some reason, I was drawn to the tree. At the time, I was nervous and emotional already. As soon as I got to the tree, I broke down; I cried and cried. For the first time since that night, I studied the tree; I clung to "that branch." I couldn't stop crying; this time it felt like I'd been there for ages—in fact, I'm sure it was only minutes. When I pulled myself away from the branch, I turned around and leaned into the tree as if asking for the strength to hold me up. Leaning against the tree, I lifted my head up, opened my eyes, and my mind said, "Before me is the last thing my beautiful little girl saw before her eyes closed for the last time." I stood for a long while taking in the view—the image of our home, Sophie's last vision. What must she have been thinking? How scared and alone she must have been. How much of a failure I must feel as a mom, to not be able to protect her, to not be there for her when she really needed me. I closed my eyes, as Sophie did, for some reason; my mind wanted to live out Sophie's last moments—wanting to know how she felt, what she saw, to see if I could catch any glimpse of understanding in those final moments. The darkness behind my closed eyes became a canvas for my imagination; I was painting scenarios and emotions that I can only hope differ from the harsh reality of Sophie's departure. The tears slowed down, and I knew I had to go back home. As I look towards my front door, I saw a reflection of light dancing on the door - it was heart-shaped. I looked and looked to see what could be the artifact that was giving off this dancing heart-shaped image. I couldn't find anything. As I got closer, it faded, so I stopped and watched for a while, thinking, 'Is this a little something from Sophie, something to ease my suffering a little? Is it Sophie telling me she still loves me, she still cares, and that she is watching over me?' So many things I'll never know the answer to."

The tears never stop, and the pain doesn't ease, but I'm still here, and somehow I need to find a way to carry on, to build a new life without Sophie. There are days when I feel I might wake up from this nightmare, when I might chat with Sophie again, hear her beautiful laugh, or enjoy her snuggling in bed with me while we fall asleep together, with my arms wrapped around her—a place she felt safe.

heavenly birthday ...

This week has undeniably been one of the toughest for me. It marks the time when my baby girl would have turned 20 years old on Thursday. The memories flood back to November 30th, 2003, at 9:25 am when we welcomed the most beautiful, perfect little girl into our lives. The anticipation and joy of that moment were unparalleled. At the time, the gender remained a mystery, and the surprise of discovering we had a girl was simply magical. Our family, already graced with a little boy, felt complete, we were so happy..

As a family, we shared and enjoyed numerous experiences over the years. From the first steps to school plays, each moment added a unique chapter to our story. But life's unpredictability took an unexpected turn, and now, we find ourselves navigating through the void left by Sophie's absence.

Reflecting on the first birthday of a child you no longer get to celebrate with is an emotional journey. The decision to not stay at home was deliberate. Instead, we chose to spend quality time with our son, attempting to create new memories while still holding onto the echoes of the past.

Sophie wasn't just my daughter; she was my best friend. We spent countless hours together, sharing laughter, exchanging stories, and finding comfort in our shared tastes. Losing her feels like losing an essential part of myself—an arm that can never be replaced. Her infectious smile, the music of her laughter, and her kind, caring personality are etched in my heart. The realization that I can no longer hold her, chat with her, or fulfill the plans we made together is a daily struggle.

For her birthday this year, my mind drifts to the unique gifts I would have chosen for her. Imagining the excitement on her face, I picture a surprise – a pair of hoop earrings from Renne. Sophie had an undeniable love for silver jewelry and embraced the idea of wearing multiple pieces simultaneously. There was a particular pair of earrings from Renne that she cherished, wearing them daily without fail. The significance of these accessories goes beyond mere adornments; they were a part of her, a symbol of her unique style and the joy she found in the little things. As I reminisce about Sophie's love for silver jewelry, I can't help but recall the countless shopping trips where we bonded over selecting the perfect pieces. Her passion for accessories wasn't just about fashion; it was a form of self-expression. The jingle of her bracelets, the sparkle of her necklaces—these were not just ornaments but reflections of her vibrant personality. Instead of presenting Sophie with a gift that she would have cherished, I find myself limited to offering only a bouquet of flowers—tulips, her absolute favorite.

The memories of Sophie extend far beyond her birthday celebrations. Our shared experiences formed a tapestry of love, laughter, and shared dreams. Each day brought new discoveries and small victories, from her favourite books to the moments when we explored shared interests. It was in these seemingly ordinary moments that our extraordinary bond flourished. As the time passes, the pain of loss doesn't necessarily diminish, but it transforms. Each memory, no matter how bittersweet, contributes to the intricate design of grief. The passage of time allows for reflection, healing, and the gradual understanding that life, in all its complexities, continues.

The grief journey is unique for everyone. It's about learning to coexist with the void left by a loved one's absence, finding ways to celebrate their memory, and discovering resilience in the face of profound loss. Sophie's birthday becomes an annual pilgrimage, a day to honour her life, celebrate the joy she brought, and acknowledge the impact she had on those around her.

In essence, this journey through time is not just about mourning the loss of a loved one but celebrating the enduring impact they had on our lives. Sophie's story is not confined to the moments of her birth and departure; it encompasses the rich tapestry of experiences, emotions, and connections that define a life well-lived.

Expanding on Sophie's story is not just about reaching a word count; it's about creating a tribute that reflects the depth of love and the enduring nature of the human spirit. In exploring the intricacies of grief, I hope to resonate with others who have experienced loss, offering a narrative that speaks to the universal themes of love, resilience. As I navigate the delicate terrain of words, emotions, and memories, I am acutely aware that Sophie's story is not singular. It is one among countless narratives of love and loss that unfold daily. Each story is a testament to the human capacity to endure, to find meaning in the midst of pain, and to celebrate the indelible mark left by those who have graced our lives.

In conclusion, Sophie's 20th birthday is not just a day on the calendar; it's a tapestry woven with threads of love, memories, and the enduring spirit of a young woman who left an indelible mark on the hearts she touched. As we celebrate her life, we also acknowledge the complex interplay of grief and gratitude, recognizing that, in the tapestry of existence, every thread, no matter how fleeting, contributes to the richness of the whole. And so, as we honour Sophie's memory, we also celebrate the eternal nature of love—a love that continues to shape our lives, even in her physical absence.