In some ways, it feels like just yesterday I got the phone call from Emily’s dad.
“Emily’s OD. I think she’s dead.”
Those words still haunt me.
And yet, in other ways, it feels like seven years have stretched into seventeen… or twenty-seven. Like a lifetime has passed since I last hugged my daughter or saw her smile.
As I reach the seven-year mark of Emily’s death, I’m tired. Tired of the dates that stack up each spring: her birthday, then Mother’s Day, the last day I saw her alive, and then… May 16. I’m exhausted. I’m sick and tired of grief. I want to be done with it.
If you’ve never lost someone suddenly, someone you love more than life itself, it might be hard to understand why I haven’t just “moved on.”
Believe me—I want to. I want to leave the pain behind. But I can’t leave her behind.
She was my firstborn. I loved her with everything in me. I was her mother. I was supposed to protect her. And the truth is, I couldn’t.
I watched her slip into addiction, trying everything I could to pull her back. I didn’t think it would end in death. But maybe I should have.
Every year, from March 23 to May 16, the calendar turns into a slow, painful countdown. Nature wakes up with springtime beauty—blooming trees, golden sunshine—and all I feel is the ache of death. It’s a jarring contrast. The world celebrates renewal while I relive my greatest loss.
And this year, I just want it all to stop.
Not the advocacy. Not the work I do in her name.
But the grief? Enough already.
When Emily first died, I remember looking ahead—thinking of how many more years I might live—and wondering how I could possibly survive all that time carrying this pain. But seven years have passed. I’m still here. I’m still standing.
I find myself wanting to skip over these anniversary dates entirely. Erase them from the calendar. Pretend they don’t matter. That instinct to avoid is new for me. But it’s real.
They say you know your heart is healing when you think of your loved one and smile before the tears come. That’s true for me now. Sometimes I just smile. I picture Emily being goofy or making me laugh, and I keep going.
But May 16 still looms. It always will.
I never know quite what to do on that day. I never will.
And yet, life moves forward.
Grief has linked me to others in ways I never expected. There’s something profoundly human about suffering. When I look into the eyes of someone who’s been shattered by loss, I recognize it. It connects us.
I’ve changed. I see it in old photos—my face from before. The innocence in not knowing how deep pain can go. That kind of innocence doesn’t come back. But I like who I am now. And suffering, as much as I hate it, helped shape me.
Still, I wish it hadn’t taken losing my daughter to get here.
I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. But I do believe we can become something meaningful in the aftermath.
As for grief?
It can take a hike—and it can take these dates with it.
Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela
Leave a Reply