I miss my little girl. It’s really that simple. I see signs of her everywhere but it’s not her. I feel like I’m trapped in this world without her. The feeling of missing her doesn’t go away, it follows me everywhere. Sometimes I actually say the words “I can’t do this,” out loud. I don’t know if I’m saying it to God or if I’m hoping someone will hear me and shake me and tell me it was all just a terrible dream. I still have days that I literally picture Eliza’s little body lying in that terrible white casket with her blanket, her favorite book and a bible in her hand. It’s those moments that I feel like I’m too far gone, that I can never get back.

Grief is such a burden, it’s so hard to carry. It’s heavy, it’s uncomfortable and it’s always there. Always.

When Eliza died, I was broken in ways that I never knew were possible. And now two years and three months later as my tired body heals, I know that the ache will never go away. It’s permanent. It’s mine.

I read other stories of loss, it’s comforting for me to know that someone else has experienced the same. I soak it in, I want every detail on how they survived, how they got up off the floor, how they got through their darkest days and what they did when life knocked them down again.

There is so much truth in walking out these days alongside of people who have experienced the same tragedy. People that know exactly what I mean when I say “I can’t do this.” People that know exactly what it’s like to get “that” bag from the funeral home, the one that stays closed until one day you think you’re brave enough to open it, only to be reminded that you really aren’t.

But there are days when the sun is out and I can stand still and feel grateful that I have made it this far.

“Time is the longest distance between two places” ~Tennessee Williams