Trigger warning: child loss
I’ve found a sense of acceptance regarding the loss of my daughter. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine saying that, a time when I resisted it with every fiber of my being, but the truth is, it’s where I am now.
Experiencing something as devastating as losing a child is a journey into a realm of unimaginable pain and helplessness. Eventually, your spirit becomes weary of fighting and denying reality; all that’s left is to accept what has happened.
This acceptance is delicate. It’s not something you can achieve in a day or a month, nor is it always consistent. Significant days can arise years later, pulling you back to the initial struggle of coming to terms with your child’s absence.
One of those significant days is what should have been my daughter’s first day of kindergarten.
As I scroll through social media and see friends sharing pictures of their back-to-school shopping with their soon-to-be kindergartners, it hits me hard—what I am missing out on, what she is missing out on, and the harsh reality of life.
I remember my daughter vividly for who she was in life, and I always will. However, I seldom allow myself to envision who she might have been today, as it brings a wave of sorrow that feels insurmountable. But recently, I find it challenging to suppress those thoughts. I see glimpses of her in every kindergartner I encounter, and it becomes a bittersweet reminder of the endless possibilities that will never unfold.
I wish I could know her as a five-year-old preparing for school. I wish I could marvel at her little quirks and interests. I wish I could tell her to slow down, to stay my forever-baby. I long to fill out one of those “about me” boards and capture photos with her, just like all the other parents will be doing. I wish she were here so that the love I hold for her could be directed towards her.
All the dreams and hopes I had for her have faded into mere wishes, and I didn’t expect to feel this way. I didn’t anticipate the pang of jealousy every time I see friends posting about their kids’ meet-the-teacher nights. I didn’t expect to wonder so deeply about how life would be if she were still here.
The fleeting joy I feel when imagining who she could be is almost instantly overshadowed by the heartbreaking reality of who she will never become. I feel sadness, anger, and a sense of injustice. A parent should never have to outlive their child; that’s not how life is supposed to work.
I understand that these feelings are ones you never fully overcome. Instead, you learn to coexist with them. You adapt, not out of bravery or strength, but because life doesn’t pause for your grief.
Witnessing other children embark on their school year is further confirmation of that truth for me.
I’m realizing that this is a new milestone—a first I didn’t expect. I’ve navigated through countless holidays, celebrated five of her birthdays, and endured 1,801 ordinary days without her. But this is the first time she’s not here for what should be her first day of school, a significant moment we are both missing.
This milestone signifies how much time has actually passed. It highlights the countless memories we never had the chance to create; it underscores how much of her potential went unexplored.
Just over four months. 124 days. A blink of an eye. A lifetime. It’s never enough when you’re meant to have forever.
These are the hard truths I must grapple with again: my baby will always be my baby, no new memories will be made, and who she was is eternally who she will remain. She won’t be starting kindergarten this year.
Yet, there’s a certain comfort in knowing I’ve faced these feelings before. They are no strangers to me. They are woven into my grief, and I carry them with me.
I carry them because I’ve witnessed hard times coexist with joyful ones. Grief is not a black-and-white experience. Sometimes, you learn to appreciate the goodness this life still offers a little more deeply when you’ve endured so much hardship.
Even though she’s not here for her first day of kindergarten and it hurts tremendously, I’ve found a measure of peace with her death.
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