We just got back from our trip to Hawaii. We started out at Turtle Bay on Oahu, then continued on to Honolulu, and then flew to Maui. The whole trip was ten days. While it’s been rough adjusting to the 5 hour time difference, it was great to get away. A little too great.

I learned something about myself in Hawaii. I’m a master at the art of escape. The trip was everything I hoped it would be. For ten days, I sunned, I swam, I felt like I was someone else. Ryan and I were able to laugh together again. Really laugh. And it felt great. Hawaii brought me temporary respite from the grief of losing our son in May. If you haven’t read my blog post on this, you can find it here. Throughout the trip, I was hopeful Hawaii had healed me in a big way. Then, as the trip came to an end, I could feel my eyes welling up. In the final days of the trip, I started to get upset out of the blue. Intuitively, I knew this trip was like putting a bandaid on a deep wound. When you escape, you always have to go home and face the music. I wish we could have stayed in Hawaii forever. Ryan and I “joked” many times about not coming home. It felt easier to stay in Hawaii, then to go home and face our pain again. Sure enough, one of the first nights we were back, I had a major meltdown. Almost like all the grief I’d held back in Hawaii burst out at once. I’ve learned that if you don’t let the grief out, it always catches up with you.

Right before Hawaii, I had my six week doctor’s appointment which confirmed I’d healed physically from delivering our son. It’s hard to believe, since my spirit still feels so broken. I have to admit, there has been relief in not experiencing physical symptoms anymore. There aren’t many articles that tell you how to handle lactating when you don’t have a baby. Or how to handle the hair loss that comes after that. Physically, I could care less about these symptoms. However, every drop of milk or strand of hair lost felt like a reminder that our son was no longer with us. Brushing my hair daily felt like being stabbed in the heart over and over again.

And how do you know what is postpartum depression and what is grief? There aren’t many articles on that either. If moms who have healthy, happy babies are depressed, where does that leave me? Of course I’m depressed. I’m a mother without a child. Has anyone who’s lost a baby not experienced postpartum depression? And when is it too much depression? As I’ve been processing my grief, it’s been hard to distinguish what’s me and what’s my hormones. I’ve been putting all of my emotions under a magnifying glass, and it’s difficult to tell the difference. As my hormones have started to level out again, I’ve felt clearer and more like myself.

You were all so supportive when I shared our story about Michael on my blog. I can’t thank you enough for your kind words. I feel so loved and supported from people I’ve never even met face-to-face. The love you’ve shown this complete stranger shows me that the world is still beautiful place - something I really need to remember right now. The common theme from all your comments, especially from those of you who have lost a child, is that I will eventually want to make art again. Many of you said that my art will actually be the thing that heals me. Just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t see how that was possible. Now I see you were right. While we were in Hawaii, I did start making art again, though not in the way I used to. My art used to feel like an expression of joy, similar to dancing. Now it feels like a respite from pain, or a way of zoning out, similar to meditating. In Hawaii, I found relief in simply focusing on something and painting it. There are no more creative juices flowing, sparks, or bursts of inspiration. I’m not coming up with big ideas. I’m just looking around me, and capturing my surroundings with my paintbrush. To use a really bad analogy, I used to feel like a photographer, and now I feel like a camera. There’s minimal emotion behind my creating. I’m just recording moments, focusing on anything that doesn’t make me sad. Similarly, writing has been therapeutic too. It’s been a great way to distract my mind and pass the time.

This method of creating has slowly allowed me to discover beauty in the world again. It’s made me feel more connected to a life that felt foreign a few weeks ago. When Michael died, it was like all the lights had gone out on my world. These little moments of beauty are like fireflies dancing around me in the darkness. They’re fleeting, and always moving, but they’re there. Unfortunately, these glimpses of light always come with a side of guilt. Our son will never get to experience beauty in the world, so why should I?

I hate hearing that anyone else has been through what we’re going through right now. At first, I thought hearing similar stories would make the pain worse, but they’ve actually given me hope. I still can’t listen to another story of loss without bursting into tears. My pain is too fresh. However, hearing how people are healing post-trauma has helped me see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s amazing how much I can relate to how others respond to loss, almost as if they’re taking the words out of my mouth. As humans, we’re all so different. Despite that, it seems we handle these situations similarly. Hearing other stories makes my emotions feel validated. I always wonder if I’m handling my grief the right way. I know there’s no right way to handle loss. However, other stories have made me less afraid of what my sadness might do to me. It makes me feel like I’m going to be okay. This is how I know it’s important to share my story of loss. Another creative who recently lost her baby girl shared with me that she knows her daughter Penny wouldn’t want her to be sad. I know she’s right, so I’m trying to put myself back together again for Michael. I know he would want me to be okay, and to rediscover the deep joy I used get out of life. I owe it to him to live my life to the fullest, since he will never get the chance.

I’ve heard from others that holidays and big events are extremely difficult. I’ve found this to especially be true, as we struggled through my 35th birthday and Father’s Day. My birthday came with major guilt, that I’ve been blessed to celebrate so many birthdays, and my son only got the one. However, there was a lot of light on that day too, emanating from our friends and family. From homemade birthday cards to funny video messages, Ryan did his best to keep me smiling all day long. It’s these glimpses of light I’m clinging onto, like a life raft in the middle of the ocean.

Others have expressed they feel most connected to their lost loved ones in nature. Nature makes me feel closest to Michael too. When we first came home from the hospital, it was the most beautiful day and the magnolia trees were in bloom. I’d been on bedrest for weeks, so we went on a short walk to stretch my legs. That’s the first time since he died where I really felt his presence. In Hawaii, the rainbows are abundant, and each one felt like a sign from him. Like he was telling me that everything would maybe be okay. He was in every sunset, cloud, wave, and mountain too. In Maui, we went to Haleakala National Park. It’s the quickest way to 10,000 feet in the United States. By the time you drive to the top of the summit, you are high above the clouds. Up there, you can hear a pin drop. The air is fresh, and everything feels at peace. It’s physically the closest to heaven I’ve ever felt. I especially knew Michael was there with us, high above the clouds.

I wish I could say I know what’s next for me on this healing journey. While others have told me what to expect, it seems like the timing and order of things is different for everyone. I’m surprised at how good I’m getting at not crying in public situations so as not to make others feel uncomfortable (I pretty much just glaze over, and pretend I’m somewhere else until the tears pass). Then, I go home and let the tears out later. This has me spending a lot of time at home, or at my parents’ house, since it’s a pretty painful charade. I’m surprised by how much everything still hurts two months later. I thought I’d be further along by now. On really tough days, I imagine the loved ones we’ve lost taking care of our son in heaven - especially Ryan’s older brother Eric. Michael was born on May 7th, but died on May 8th, Eric’s birthday. It felt like Eric sending us a sign that he would take care of him always. I also picture Michael with my grandpa a lot. These are the only images that bring me peace when I’m spiraling.

What I am starting to feel, which is new, is a responsibility to Michael to live life better. He’s made me want to be a better person, and to really appreciate my loved ones. I’ve even felt inspired to make a bucket list, something I used to find cheesy. For him, I want to soak it all in, and keep searching for light in the darkness. Right now, I don’t feel much of a zest for life, but I do have the intention of finding it again. This intention is what gives me hope. Losing him destroyed me, but loving him might just be what puts me back together again, and hopefully as a better version of myself.