If I seem quiet about this year's #BabyLossAwarenessWeek, it is not because I am unaware. It is not because I have forgotten. It is not because I have "moved on."
I find this week (this month) hard to handle, because I don't need reminders. My little girl is on my mind all day, every day (in exactly the same way as my living son), and she always will be. This year, somehow, her loss feels more personal, more private, and I'm not sure I want to take part in moments of shared, public grieving. That's not to say those moments don't play an important part, or that I don't support baby loss awareness (or that I don't care about all the wonderful people I've met who walk this same cruel path - a route we never chose to go down, and I send my love to all of you). I think it's crucial that anyone going through the loss of a child knows they are never alone, and there is support out there. It's equally important that those lucky enough never to have to deal with the subject first-hand maybe just try to understand, in some small way, the impact of child loss on others (not least because it's more common than you think).
But, I am an empath, and sometimes I struggle with the weight of other people's sorrow, on top of my own. My facebook feed can be hard to face at this time of year, because I relate - both personally, and empathetically - so it's draining. For this reason, this year, I'm choosing at the moment not to play a public role in baby loss awareness, and to remember Holly Rose in my own, personal way.
I am conscious that people I've met more recently (particularly through work, where I've lately been very proactive) more than likely have no idea that my daughter ever existed. As always, there's a duality of emotions that comes with that realisation. Part of me is proud that I've been able to carry on, to function, to work, and to wear a brave face. I love my career, and in this competitive industry, every minor success is a major triumph. Add to that my own internal struggles, and I'm proud to perform alongside people who probably don't know that every word I utter, every note I sing, is secretly a tribute to the existence of a little girl who was very much loved, but who never took a breath... And at the same time, I am laden with guilt that those same friends and colleagues - with whom I share amusing anecdotes of my son's latest antics - have no idea that my daughter was ever a part of this world, or that she had such a lasting impact. "A mother's instinct is to protect her child. A bereaved mother's instinct, is to protect her child's memory." In acknowledging that there are friends and colleagues who don't know her name, I feel I have failed her.
Holly Rose is not a secret I keep. She is a part of everything that I am. Some days, I am able to share her with the world. Sometimes, she is an internal smile that I cherish and keep to myself. She is the silent strength behind all that I am and everything I do, and she always will be.
I had the best of intentions to launch her website this year, but I'm still not ready. Grief doesn't conform to deadlines. However, for anyone who wants to read her story, you can always read more entries on this blog. I haven't updated it for a while, but not because she is ever forgotten. Not even for a moment.
I didn't mean to write this epic post today. I didn't set out to do it, and I've cried a lot in the process. This may, or may not be my only post for this year's #babylossawarenessweek. As always, I have to play things by ear and do whatever feels right in the moment: Grief doesn't come with a guidebook.
