For my friends

Dear Friends,

When I was a little girl, I struggled to make friends. I could make the connection, sure, but I had to build up the confidence to talk to people first and this was kind of my kryptonite. 

My grandmother said that if I could fill up my fingers with the number of real friends I had in my lifetime I would be lucky. She wanted me to understand that though I struggled to make friends it wasn't a big deal. Quality verses quantity and all that.

Making friends never became particularly easy for me, as much as I do love people I have never stopped dreading the small talk that happens between the introduction and the moment that friendship begins to form. Maybe because it wasn’t easy, I understood the message and I deeply valued the folks in my life that I was blessed enough to call my friend.

No matter how much I thought that I appreciated my friends, though, it wasn't until tragedy struck that I realized how very blessed I was. 

This year as the anniversary of my daughters death passed a friend reached out to remind me of my strength and her faith that I would come out the other side of that awful day.  I wanted to tell her that that strength was greatly owed to her, and to all of the friends that have proven that the value of true friendship is immeasurable.

When our lives broke, you held us up. All of you.

You cleaned her room and packed her things, because I couldn't.

You fed me, because I couldn't.

You put on my lipstick, because I couldn't.

You made sure we talked, because you were afraid I wouldn't.

You gave me an outlet for my pain and made sure my voice was heard.

You listened to me scream.

You picked the flowers and understood everything.

You carried her to her final resting place.

You made me laugh again.

You made sure there was always someone watching, in case I couldn't bear it.

You did so much I don't even remember because I was broken.

You demonstrated a level of friendship that I would bet many people don't even realize exists and maybe I hope they never do.

I do feel strong now, and I believe that much of that is because you let me borrow it from you for such a long time.

Thank you. 

6 years, 16 days

I was accused, this past year, of talking about my daughter to get attention. In my weaker moments I've wondered if that's really what people think? Could I be that person and not know it?

How can you understand the devotion and joy that comes from being a mother and think that? But it's one of the factors that has kept me from writing.  Because, as painful as this whole process has been, do I really want to open myself up to continued criticism?

I was already overthinking every post. There was a constant internal dialogue...

• Do I want this out there?
• Do I want people to google me and see this?
• I should change it back to an anonymous profile.
• No, I'll leave it.
• I'll delete the blog.
• I just won't post anymore.

And then my job changed and instead of working with the same old safe people who knew my history I had thousands of new coworkers and a new chain of command.

• Do I want them to know? 
• What if I have to look for a new job. Do I want them to know?
• Will people see me differently when they see me wearing my emotions on the internet? Will they think I'm broken and skip me over for opportunities?

Well, everyone I know knows eventually. There is still an awkward moment when the truth comes out. When someone asks how old my oldest daughter is and if she's off at college.

"Oh... well my oldest would have been 26 this year, but she's no longer with us."

Yes, I still refuse to say that I only have two children. It feels like a lie. So even when it's exhausting or I really don't want to explain it, I do.

I got to be the mother of this amazing little sprite who doesn't live here anymore. She's still my firstborn. Nothing can take that away.

And what if I can help someone?

I thought... who is going to google me anyway?

So I discarded any notions of removing the blog or making it anonymous again. But I let the anniversary pass in relative silence, at least publicly. I didn't write a letter to my daughter. And I felt guilty for skipping it. I don't miss her any less, and I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to acknowledge her.

And then someone at my new company stumbled upon my blog. I felt my heart sputter when I realized what had happened.

Why do I care? Because I have to pay my bills. How we expose ourselves to the world has an impact. That's a lesson I try to instill upon my kids, I'm not going to ignore it.

I'm not ashamed, but I still asked... Is it weird that it's out there?

It's weird for me anyway. I'm not an exhibitionist, I'm trying to do something good. And sometimes that something good is as small as having an outlet for my grief.  Sometimes I really do believe that I can find a way to help some other parent, or even help save a life. 

And this gracious person said "Don't ever think it's weird. It's beautiful. And what if you help someone?"

And the world didn't end.

And here I am writing about this and realizing that the weird thing is that my grief should cause me any doubt or shame. Because what if I help someone? What if my baby girl has the chance to help someone? Even if it's just me.