Updated: a day ago
I’m not sure where my place is in the world right now.
I’ve spent the past 10 weeks grieving the loss of Raya; wondering if I’m grieving correctly, grieving too much, or not grieving enough.
I booked countless massages & nail appointments & drank every venti coffee I could get my hands on.
I purchased new clothes, cut my hair, and started an Etsy shop.
I moved my home office from downstairs to upstairs and back downstairs again.
I (temporarily) quit physically training others to focus on mentally training myself.
I stayed up until 3am writing and I’ve gone to bed at 7pm just so the day would end.
I screamed at God and I poured over my devotional, begging for assistance & clarity.
I have no idea what this process is supposed to look like.
All I wanted when Raya left was to be pregnant again.
As if immediately being pregnant again would give me something to focus on; to continue a journey I didn’t get to finish.
To give my husband the child I promised him back in June.
To have a reason to move forward and fill the void that she left.
But voids aren’t meant to be filled when a loved one leaves.
That’s their space; and just like any living individual that made their place in this world, so did she.
And it would be a disgrace to try to fill a space that she earned, just for the sake of having someone there.
So when I woke up Christmas morning to confirmation that I wasn’t pregnant again, I felt an unusual sigh of relief escape.
As if, much like with Raya’s quick escape from this world, I didn’t have a choice.
As if something much larger than myself knew that it wasn’t my void to try and fill.
That it’s ok, necessary even, to acknowledge and grieve the loss of Raya before preparing to bring another individual into this world.
To take the time to spend with my husband and go out on dates & spend some of the money we were saving for Raya on ourselves.
To lay on the couch and watch movies and acknowledge that, while our initial blessing didn’t get a life to fight for, my doctor had cleared us and claimed the experience a “shitty stroke of luck; an unfortunate anomaly”.
Something that, if the diagnoses and medical records say anything, should never happen again.
Which means that when we do have another child, they will know all about Raya and her magic, and how she will be watching over them from her spot in Heaven where she probably spends her days eating Cheetos and McDonald’s chicken nuggets and rapping inappropriate music that her mom always listened to at the gym and never thought she could hear.
Which means she won’t know fear or hatred or pain.
Which means she is exactly where she is supposed to be.