It’s 4:30 am, and the house is silent. I don’t know how long I’ve been awake, but sleep has long abandoned me. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in my favorite spotted dressing gown, staring into the stillness. I’ve been asked to share my story as a bereaved mother, and I find myself wishing I didn’t have a story to tell—wishing my life had unfolded as planned. That my husband and I hadn’t lost our beautiful 7-year-old daughter. That my other daughter still had her sister.

A Mother’s Intuition

It’s been nearly three years, yet the weight of that day still crushes me. My daughter’s story is a long one, but the simplest version is this: we didn’t know she was sick. For seven weeks, she battled what seemed like ordinary childhood ailments—vomiting, constipation, a virus here, and a fever there. But I knew deep down they weren’t ordinary.

How could a mouth full of ulcers be normal? Or the noticeable weight loss that left her elbows bigger than her arms? And how could day after day of relentless high fevers be dismissed as nothing? The worst part was seeing her hunched forward, locked in pain, begging me to call an ambulance because she couldn’t move.

A mother’s instinct screamed that something was wrong, but I didn’t push hard enough. I didn’t demand someone listen. And now, she’s gone.

The Day Everything Changed

She died in front of us—her family, her safe space. For that, I am grateful. She left this world surrounded by love, by the people who cherished her. She wasn’t just my daughter; she was extraordinary. She was kind, forgiving, and full of a light that drew people to her.

When guilt overwhelms me, I hear her voice in my heart. “It’s OK, Mom. I forgive you.” But forgiving myself feels impossible.

What Grief Feels Like

Grief is unpredictable. Sometimes it’s a wave that drowns me, tears flowing uncontrollably, my heart feeling like it’s caught in a vice. Other times, it’s numbness, a hollow emptiness that makes everything feel meaningless.

I’ve been hit by jealousy, too—watching friends with multiple children and wishing that was still my reality. And then there are the moments when I find joy in something, only for it to be snatched away by a crushing reminder: “What are you doing? How can you laugh? Your daughter is gone.”

Grief is a constant companion. Some days, it’s like a small pebble, rattling in my chest but manageable. Other days, it’s a massive boulder, pinning me down, making it hard to move.

Learning to Live with the Pebble and the Rock

I’ve come to accept that this weight will never truly leave me. The pebble will always be there, reminding me of what I’ve lost. But I can live with it. It doesn’t stop me from finding moments of joy, even if they’re fleeting.

On the days when it’s a rock—the heaviest, most unbearable weight—I let myself stop. I cry in her bed. I retreat to the photocopy room at work, unable to face the world. But I remind myself that the rock will shrink again, in time, back to a pebble.

Lessons from Loss

Losing my daughter has changed me in ways I never expected. It has made me stronger, more empathetic, and deeply grateful for the incredible people I’ve met on this journey. It has taught me to cherish every moment, even the hard ones.

This loss is a part of me now, but it doesn’t define me. I can live with the pebble. I can live with the rock. And somehow, I can live after losing a child. If you’re walking this path too, know this: you can, too.

– Written with love and remembrance by a mother who continues to carry her daughter's light