Today marks 259 days since Kenz left us; it is indescribable to know that in about 100 days, she will have been gone a year. As I was talking with my grief counselor this week and processing the many emotions that come with grief and the holidays, I came to the realization that even though Christmas is HARD, I am actually more dreading 11:59pm on December 31st. When it turns 12:01am and is officially 2022, it will be the first year that Mackenzie is not alive; I will have to say my child died “last year.” I will no longer have that tangible hold on the final year that she lived on Earth with us.

As time goes on, I am working on settling into this new life; a life where I walk hand-in-hand with grief. I don’t know that it is like this for every bereaved parent, because grief is unique to every person, but for myself, I wake up every day knowing I am one step closer to seeing Kenz. That sounds perhaps morbid, and I can understand why, but it’s somewhat similar to any parent who is separated from their child(ren) for an extended period of time. When you take a vacation for a week, by day five or so you are ready to see your child(ren); see what games they have played and art they created, listen to what fun they had, set your eyes on them and hear their voice in person. Grief is like that longing, but multiplied by a million and semi-permanently prolonged. I still have the yearning to “parent” from this side. I wonder what Mackenzie is doing each day… what Uno game she is playing with my mom, has she created more paintings with Cade, has she done another Build-A-Bear with Isaiah, has she ate another Cinnabon with Jordan? What new friends has she made? How long is her hair and what fun earrings is she wearing? That is one of the hard parts about grief: there are so many questions and only silence as the response.

And that is where much where my pain currently lies: the silence that accompanies the gaping hole her death left. And yet, ironically, it is also in the quiet that I often feel the most grounded and connected to Kenz. For the first couple of months when she died, I was afraid to acknowledge the pain, I was terrified to feel the agony, for I was certain it would overwhelm me, and I held the tears in as much as humanly possible. But as I have previously wrote about, I am learning grief really is love transformed; my love for Kenz that I can no longer physically give to her is manifested into the rivers of tears that flow in the silence. Now it can feel good to surrender to the grief, because then I also surrender to the feelings of how much I love her and being her mom.

So each day I wake up and know: another day closer. And every day I listen to this song: The Head and the Heart’s “Rivers and Roads”. (Linked below if you have never heard it; scroll to 0:49 seconds to start) The lyrics poetically describe separation from those we love, and the rivers and roads we must travel until we see them again. And for me, my grief journey feels much like that… navigating the turbulent, lonely paths that child loss forces you to walk. Towards the end of the song, there is this moment that the female vocalist belts out “…rivers til I reach you,” and every time it speaks directly to my broken-momma-heart. Rivers are complex, flowing downhill based on forces of gravity. At moments they can be turbulent, and you must brace down as the rapid current propels you forward. At other times the water can be like a lullaby, gently rocking you as you smoothly glide along with the current. Grief can be just as complex. Some days I can smile, look at pictures of Kenz and have these almost supernatural moments of peace remembering something good. Other times, my grief can be so tempestuous; for example, thinking about “what to do” with her room sends me tumbling down a spiral of brokenness.

But I know that ultimately, no matter which tributary of grief I experience in a given day (and some days I ride multiple), I know I am headed towards Kenz. The thing is, some rivers and roads are long to travel before reaching the final destination. And so I am working out what I am supposed to do in my time before reaching her. Kenz was all about being kind, helping others, being thankful for what she did have, not focused on what cancer took away from her. Whenever I think about how many lives she touched through her bravery and courage, I immediately know in my soul she heard those beautiful words, “Well done, thy good and faithful servant.” We all have finite time here, some more limited than others. Each of us have gifts to give to others. Kenz gave us the gift of faith; she was unafraid of death, knowing her time was short used it to spread love and gentleness, as He called us to do. My mom and her sisters (my aunts) would continually tell me that I was put on this Earth to be Mackenzie’s mom and the rock she would need during treatment; my gift for a long time was the gift of caregiving. My hope with the blog, with writing, is to find my continued purpose, so that when I leave these rivers and roads in the forest of grief and see Kenz, I know I made her proud.