A parent lives with persistent grief nearly three years after losing a daughter. Absence appears in quiet moments, between tasks, and in the hush of evening. Grief often whispers rather than roars, gradually becoming an overwhelming force. Attempts at conventional healing—meditation, journaling, productivity—were done inconsistently and sometimes as checkmarks without feeling. An inner child resurfaced, manifesting as tight shoulders, shallow breath, scattered thoughts, and restless sleep. Busyness and obligations masked the pain but failed to heal it. Unresolved earlier wounds surfaced, showing that compassionate attention to pain is needed for deeper healing.
Her absence lingers in the stillness of early mornings, in the moments between tasks, in the hush of evening when the day exhales. I've gotten good at moving. At staying busy. At producing. But sometimes, especially lately, the quiet catches me-and I fall in. Grief doesn't always roar. Sometimes it's a whisper, one you barely hear until it's grown into a wind that bends your bones.
It's been nearly three years since my daughter passed. People told me time would help. That the firsts-first holidays, first birthday without her-would be the hardest. And maybe that was true. But what no one prepared me for was how her absence would echo into the years that followed. How grief would evolve, shape-shift, and sometimes grow heavier-not lighter-with time. How her loss would uncover older wounds. Ones that predate her birth.
I'd like to say I've spent the past few years healing. Meditating. Journaling. Growing. And I did-sort of. Inconsistently. Mostly as a checkmark, doing what a healthy, mindful person is supposed to do, but without much feeling. I went through the motions, hoping healing would somehow catch up. What I found instead was a voice I hadn't truly listened to in years-my inner child, angry and waiting.
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