Every year around this time I start to think about you, we're really gonna have another Christmas Eve without you... I can't believe it's been so long. Everyday finds a way to make me think about you, like today when we were picking out the tree without you, I can't believe it's been so long...

How do any of us move on from tragedy? How do we pick ourselves up and move forward when it feels like we can't? 

Every year I've written a post on the anniversary of my mother's death. Each of these posts shows the stages of grief that I was in during that time. Here at year 5, I am very much in the place of acceptance. I still miss her like hell... but I'm in a more peaceful place than I once was.

Over the last 5 years, I spent significant time in isolation in anger, and I think even if I allowed myself to admit it, depression. For me, depression is a hard word. I'm such an optimist; as my mom would say-I have a 'sunny disposition' and I try to look for the positive in most things. For a long stretch there though, I really couldn't. On the inside- my world was dark. I went through the motions of the day and outwardly appeared fine. If anyone asked I was doing well... but then I would go into the shower, blare the saddest songs I could find and sob. I flipped over to autopilot; checked the boxes of the day and then I cried myself to sleep most nights. I kept all of this to myself, Jason didn't even know the silent war I was waging.

Weston was born 6 weeks after my mom died, and sadly I barely remember the first year or so of his life. A few bright spots here and there, but the darkness consumed me. I'm the strong one that many look to in their own dark moments- in my mind, I couldn't have my own darkness.

Healing required that I talk about my mom- and for a while there, I didn't want to. I didn't want to feel the pain of that. I felt the weight of my guilt laden with shame every time I thought about the signs that were there in the weeks leading up to her death. "You knew something was wrong, Steph. Why didn't you go up and stage an intervention?" I felt the weight of my guilt when I went back and read our final text exchange, just 12 hours before she died- I should have said 'I love you', I should have said 'Let me help you.' And, I continued to feel the weight of my guilt every time I went to pick up the phone to call her, only to realize she would never answer again.

I could not forgive myself.

Until one day, I could.

Friends asked about my mom, and encouraged me to open up. They helped validate my feelings, and made it clear that her death wasn't my fault. I shared my heart and my story through this blog- cathartic and freeing for me, and also meaningful to others based on messages I received. I reached out to support groups dealing with significant loss. I learned that depression is not a sign of weakness, and I can still be a source of strength. And I gave myself the freedom and the space to feel my feelings- whatever they may be and not sweep them under the rug.

And slowly, I started to forgive myself. And little by little, small sparks lit up the darkness... and in time, I've come back- well for the most part anyway. There is a piece of me that died the day that she did. I've come to accept that... but I do miss that piece.

All of that is to say though that grief is messy. Grief is painful. Grief is dark.

Grief doesn't have to be the loss of a person, it can be the loss of something that never was. The loss of pregnancy that never was, the loss of a big promotion at work that you thought you were a shoe-in for, the loss of a dream home for you and your family, the ending of a relationship or even an unexpected diagnosis.

Each of these things can be devastating in their own way. So check on your people, even if they look ok from the outside. Validate their feelings of loss. Never try to minimize, and absolutely don't default to the cop outs like "At least she's in a better place" or "At least you already have a child" or "At least you're still employed", "There will be other houses", "It just wasn't meant to be" or "You will be alright." These things are not helpful when you're fumbling through the dark trying to find a light.

Being the light isn't easy... vulnerability, empathy, having the tough conversations- definitely not easy. But, to your loved one who is struggling in the dark, it will mean more than you ever know.

Thank you to all of my bright lights.