When I first became a bereaved parent, several people suggested I should write about my feelings and experiences. Either in a journal or publicly, like this. At the time I couldn’t handle the thought. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get through one sentence without breaking down.
It’s now 4.5 weeks out and I realize that lying in bed and watching endless Netflix and crying and feeling sorry for myself is no longer a healthy way to process my grief. I’ll get stuck in that black hole, unable to figure out which direction the light is. And for my daughter and my husband, and also for myself, I can’t let that happen.
And so this is a beginning. The start of a journey without end. A love letter to Luke. A path to peace.