Years ago, a former partner asked me to share my wildest dream. I looked at him, intrigued. “Are you sure you want to know?” He nodded, eager anticipation on his face. So, I leaned closer and shared my deepest desire: to hear someone tell me, with genuine conviction, that everything was going to be alright.
His expression shifted, disappointment shadowing his features, but it was the truth I held dear. “Everything will be okay” is a comforting phrase, one I have cherished throughout my life. I’ve reassured loved ones with it countless times, and once I became a parent, it became a mantra for my children: everythingisokayitsokayitsokay, a soothing rhythm for their tears and fears, whether they were sad or simply mad about not being able to wear their favorite shirt.
I’ve chanted it to myself endlessly through awkward moments, job setbacks, and even heartbreaks. Yet, when I lost my mother, those words lost their meaning. They fell flat, unable to bridge the chasm of grief that opened within me.
I tried to convince myself: “Everything is going to be okay,” I would whisper while lying on the bathroom floor, the only place I could find solitude to let my sadness flow. I repeated it to my youngest when I realized he would never know his grandmother. I even attempted to sing it to the tune of Christmas carols during that first holiday season without her. But those words felt hollow.
Grief doesn’t allow for “okay.” It leaves an emptiness shaped like the person we’ve lost. Time may dull the pain, but it doesn’t fill that void. Three years later, I still catch glimpses of her in crowded spaces or on the road, and while I hope the raw edges will eventually heal, I know that the hole remains.
This struggle to find the right words for someone in mourning is universal. What do you say when you can’t promise that everything will turn out fine? How do we comfort each other when life is undeniably tough, filled with inevitable loss and heartache?
As a parent, I sometimes worry about whether I’m doing my children a disservice by always assuring them that everything will be alright when, in reality, it may not be.
Last night, my youngest—who will never know his grandmother but has her captivating eyes—came running to me with a fresh bruise on his forehead from a playful misadventure. I scooped him up, inhaling the familiar scent of his hair, a blend of baby softness, shampoo, and remnants of yogurt. His tear-streaked face pressed against my shirt as he clutched it tightly.
“I’m here,” I said softly, trying on new words. It felt genuine. I repeated it, louder this time, and he melted against me, accepting the comfort I offered. There is indeed space in my heart for him, for his siblings, for our family and friends, and for all those I love who face their own challenges.
This space we create together helps us carry what feels too heavy to bear alone. To witness each other’s struggles is an act of love, and in love, we find enough strength to cope.
If anyone were to ask about my wildest fantasy now, my answer would be simple: Just be there for me. Make space for me in your life.
For more insights on navigating the complexities of parenthood and loss, check out our other blog posts at Intracervical Insemination. If you’re interested in home insemination, Make a Mom offers excellent resources. Additionally, WomensHealth.gov is a valuable source for information on pregnancy and infertility.
Summary
In moments of grief, the words we often cling to can feel inadequate. Instead of promising that everything will be okay, we can offer our presence, showing that we are there for one another. This support becomes a vital lifeline, providing the comfort and love we need when navigating life’s toughest challenges.