She once believed death belonged to other people.
It lived in distant stories, in dramatic hospital scenes on television, in conversations that lowered their voices before quickly moving on.
Death was something that happened elsewhere, to someone else, at another time. She believed it arrived gently. Quietly. That it came wrapped in meaning, already explained, already softened by peace before it ever reached you. She did not know then that death can arrive like an open wound—raw, sudden, and devastating in its truth.
For years, she wished people spoke more honestly about death. She believed it was hidden too carefully behind polite language and comforting phrases. She never imagined that understanding would come through her own child.
When Brielle died, people searched for words that might ease the pain. They spoke of passing. Of rest. Of going home.
None of those words prepared her for the moment she had to say goodbye.
Saying goodbye to a child is not beautiful.
It is not poetic.
It is not peaceful.
It is violent in its silence and merciless in its finality. There is no language wide enough to hold the sound a mother’s heart makes when it shatters.
She had known fear long before that day. Like most people, she feared death deeply. The unknown terrified her. She worried she would not be ready when it came—that she would not have prayed enough, believed enough, or done enough to face it.
Death felt like a test she would fail. A door she never wanted to open.
Everything changed on December 11.
On that day, something inside her died with Brielle. Not symbolically. Not figuratively. But in a way so profound her body felt it before her mind could understand it.
And the world kept going.
The sun rose. People laughed. Cars passed by. Life continued as if nothing had changed—and that felt like the deepest betrayal of all.
Brielle’s absence was louder than any sound. The room where she once slept felt unbearably empty. Toys became unbearable reminders. Memories cut deeper than she thought possible.
She learned quickly that grief does not come in waves.
It comes like gravity.
It presses against the chest and lungs. It pulls at the future. It makes breathing feel like effort instead of instinct.
Knowing Brielle was healed did not soften the pain. Faith did not erase longing. Hope did not quiet the ache.
Even with certainty that Brielle was no longer suffering—even with the promise of heaven—the pain of now was overwhelming.
She missed the weight of her child in her arms. She missed the sound of her breathing. She missed the ordinary moments that once passed unnoticed and now felt sacred beyond measure.
Grief taught her something she never expected.
Love does not end when a child dies.
It expands. It stretches into places where language cannot follow. It becomes heavier because it has nowhere left to go.
Before December 11, death was her greatest fear.
After December 11, death lost its power over her.
It had already taken what she loved most—and she was still here. Changed. Broken. But standing.
Barely, some days. But standing.
Death no longer felt like an enemy hiding in darkness. It felt like a doorway.
A painful one. A terrifying one.
But not meaningless.
For the first time in her life, she found herself praying not for time—but for reunion.
She had never prayed for heaven to feel close until Brielle left. Now those prayers came quietly, whispered into empty rooms.
Not out of despair—but out of longing.
She longed for the day when the broken pieces would finally make sense. The day grief would loosen its grip. The day her heart would feel whole again.
She imagined it often.
Standing somewhere brighter than memory. Opening her arms.
She imagined Brielle running toward her—free, whole, laughing without pain. She imagined holding her not briefly, not fearfully, but forever.
That image became her anchor. Her reason to keep breathing on days she did not want to wake up.
She learned that grief and faith can exist together. That doubt and hope can share the same breath.
Belief does not remove pain. It teaches you how to carry it.
Some days she felt strong. Other days she felt hollow.
Some days she spoke Brielle’s name with a smile. Other days the name alone stole her breath.
She learned there is no correct way to grieve a child. There is only survival.
There is only love learning how to exist without a body to hold.
She wishes people spoke honestly about death. She wishes they admitted it is not gentle.
She wishes they stopped demanding beauty from loss.
Because not every goodbye is peaceful.
Not every ending is kind.
Some endings tear the soul open and leave it exposed to the world.
But she learned this too:
Love is stronger than fear. And death, once faced, loses its sharpest edge.
When you have already buried a piece of your heart, you are no longer afraid of the ground.
Brielle did not just change her life. She changed her understanding of eternity.
Through loss, she learned how to wait.
Not passively—but faithfully.
She waits now with arms open wide. With a heart that aches and hopes at the same time.
She waits for the day when goodbye will finally become hello.