Grief Journal, Day 5: Lost and Found

trigger warning: child loss, grief, child death

I woke up today and realized I could leave the house with nothing but my purse and keys. No meds packed. No oxygen. No feeding pump. No diapers, syringes, backup outfits, or emergency meds.

I could just walk out the door.

And that realization gutted me.

Because for so long, my world revolved around alarms, routines, and a baby who needed me to be her everything. I had med reminders that went off like clockwork. There was no room for error, and I protected that routine like it was sacred. Because it was.

Now? There’s nothing. No one needs me the same way. And I don’t know what to do with that kind of quiet.

The shift from being a medical mom, Cassie’s mom, to suddenly… not? It’s jarring. One minute I’m fighting insurance and tracking feeds. The next, I’m standing in a silent kitchen wondering if I’ve eaten today.

My postpartum journey was already layered, PPD, PPA, PPOCD, each one leaving its own fingerprint on my heart. But there was always Cassie. Always a purpose to anchor the pain.

Now the purpose feels untethered. The structure is gone. The house feels too clean. Too quiet. Too empty.

And still…

I find myself smiling at the memory of her little pigtails and her outfits for the Sunday morning farmers market. I miss the sound of her breathing, even if it terrified me. I miss the weight of her in my arms. The tiny fingers. The way I used to obsess over the diaper bag like it was a military operation.

Now there’s no checklist.

But I still check the room anyway.

Still half expect the alarms to go off.

Grief, I’m learning, is a constant contradiction.

I feel both lost and found.

Empty and full.

Free and completely broken.

This is the duality of it all, how you can mourn the weight of the responsibility while aching for it to return. How you can crave rest and hate the silence. How you can be deeply grieving and still catching your breath at the beauty of a memory.

Today, I’m just trying to sit with both.

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June 9, 2025