What I wish she knew about me now: A note in grief and motherhood

There is no guide for raising little ones while your own heart is breaking.

Motherhood is already a delicate balance of love, selflessness, and exhaustion -  but when grief enters the picture, everything shifts. The days blur, the weight feels heavier, and yet, somehow, we still show up - because we have to. Not because we're strong, but because they need us. And maybe, in some way, we need them too. This is a note to the quiet grief that walks beside me in motherhood.

Ella knew me first as a best friend, then as a new mum -  tired, teary (so teary!), full of self doubt -  and she showed up for me in that season the way only she could. Coffees at 3pm, whilst her own kids were with her mum. 'Shhh-es' and rocking when I had exhausted myself, and silent hugs that said more than words ever could.

Now nearly 3 years on, I think of her regularly, wondering what she saw of me then... and what I wish she could see now.

Before babies, Ella and I were already best friends. She knew the me before I was a mum. She was the person I told everything too, and the person who held all of my secrets. I remember so distinctly the day I told her I was pregnant with Miller. We had been talking at her house for hours, and then I manage to say the words aloud. We sobbed on her couch - overwhelmed with joy that we would be raising babies together (she had recently given birth to her second boy!).

When Miller was born, she was there in every way. She showed up like only a best friend can. Present, kind, encouraging and unwaveringly supportive. She talked me down from spirals, dropped care packs at my door when sickness kept her away, and stood beside me in the dark, rocking my baby and offering words of comfort as I struggled through those early postpartum days. 
She walked the hard roads with me in finding Miller's allergies and intolerances and through all the uncertainty, she was always there, ready to help in a heartbeat (which she did, time and time again).

Our catchups shifted from weekly drinks and late night dancing, to bi-weekly strolls through Target, buying baby clothes and chatting through half-hearted nap attempts. We constantly reflected on how lucky we were to be on this journey together, but then the unthinkable happened and we lost her in the blink of an eye.

She saw the beginning of my motherhood story. But she didn't get to see the wild, curious toddler Miller has become. She never got to meet Briar, or hear Miller say her name and call her his best friend.

The milestones I won't get to excitedly share with her or the toddler tantrums we don't get to vent about. These are the moments that catch me off guard, the ordinary ones that make me ache for her presence.

And behind my own experience, is a grief even bigger than mine. A family -  her family- navigating their own unimaginable loss. I carry them in my heart, always. Especially her babies. The ache of our children not growing up together as we had hoped and dreamed of, is one I don't often have words for.

My world is so much quieter in a way I can't really articulate. I know I lost a part of me when Ella died, and I know my life will never be the same. But she is still here, in ways. 

In the way I comfort my kids. In the music I play. In the way I talk about friendship and family. She made me braver than I ever imagined. Softer. More grounded. She taught me so much in the time we had.
I keep her present in my home. Her picture is scattered throughout and we speak of her often. Miller knows she lives in the sky, watching over us. Briar carries her name as her middle name. My children will grow up knowing exactly who she was - to me, and to everyone who loved her.
She was pure sunshine.

And I miss her more than I can put in to words.

So if you know grief, I'm sorry. It's a road I wish no one ever had to walk. Some days it hits you like a freight train, others it quietly chips away.
But please know - you don't have to do it alone.
My inbox is always open.

A note to Ella

Ella, 
The version of me you knew was just beginning. I wish you could see who I am today. Its a work in progress, but I think you would be so proud. I miss you, more than you could ever know. I miss what we were still supposed to have, what we should be experiencing together. I'm not sure I will ever get over that.

I promise to keep saying your name.

ILY

jordan xo

And still, through the fog of loss, I mother on. Grief is the co-parent I never expected. Grief and love - now forever intertwined.

For my tips on surviving through grief or helping a loved one, please read this blog piece, written as a supplement this piece.