My baby passed away 112 days ago.
People told me time would make it easier.
That the sharpness of the pain would fade.
That I would slowly “learn to live again.”
But they were wrong.
If anything… the silence has only grown louder.
The first few days after he died were a blur.
There were people everywhere.
Voices. Hugs. Food I couldn’t eat.
Words I couldn’t hear.
“I’m so sorry.”
“He’s in a better place.”
“You’re strong.”
I nodded. I thanked them. I survived those days somehow.
But then… everyone went back to their lives.
And I was left alone in a world that no longer made sense.
His room is still there.
I haven’t touched it.
The tiny clothes folded in drawers.
The blanket that still smells like him.
The little socks that never stayed on his feet.
Sometimes I sit on the floor in that room and just… breathe.
As if somehow, if I stay long enough, I’ll feel him again.
I miss holding my son in my arms.
Not just the big moments.
Not just the milestones he’ll never reach.
I miss the small things.
The weight of him on my chest.
The way his fingers curled around mine.
The quiet sounds he made when he slept.
Those moments didn’t feel important at the time.
Now… they are everything.
He was sick.
The seizures came without warning.
Every day was a fight. Every moment was fear.
I remember nights sitting awake, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified it might stop.
And here’s the part that breaks me the most—
A part of me would take him back exactly as he was.
The hospital visits.
The exhaustion.
The fear.
All of it.
Just to hold him again.
Just to hear him breathe.
I’ve told God everything.
The anger.
The confusion.
The heartbreak.
I’ve asked questions I never thought I would ask.
“Why him?”
“Why me?”
“What did I do to deserve this?”
Some days, I feel like He’s listening.
Other days… it feels like I’m shouting into nothing.
But deep down, somewhere beneath the pain, I feel this quiet whisper:
“It’s okay to feel this way… just don’t let go of Me.”
So I try.
I really try.
But grief isn’t something you “handle.”
It’s something you carry.
It shows up in unexpected moments—
In grocery stores when I see baby food.
In parks when I hear laughter.
In the middle of the night when I wake up reaching for him.
And then reality hits again.
He’s gone.
People don’t talk about what comes after the funeral.
They don’t talk about the emptiness.
The identity you lose.
The version of yourself that no longer exists.
I was a mother.
I still am.
But my arms are empty.
And that’s a kind of pain no one can prepare you for.
Some days, I feel angry.
Angry at the world for continuing.
Angry at people for smiling.
Angry at myself for still being here.
Other days… I feel nothing at all.
Just numb.
Like I’m moving through life, but not really living it.
I don’t know what this is supposed to look like.
I don’t know how to move forward without leaving him behind.
I don’t know how to be okay again.
But I do know this:
He was real.
He mattered.
He was loved more than words can ever describe.
And maybe… that love doesn’t disappear.
Maybe it changes.
Maybe it becomes something I carry inside me, instead of something I hold.
112 days.
It feels like a lifetime.
And also like it just happened yesterday.
I still talk to him sometimes.
Quietly.
In the dark.
When no one else can hear.
I tell him I love him.
I tell him I miss him.
I tell him I’m trying.
Because that’s all I can do.
Try to wake up.
Try to breathe.
Try to take one more step forward.
Even when my heart is still broken.
And maybe one day…
The pain won’t disappear.
But it will soften.
Just enough for me to remember him…
Without completely falling apart.
