As a child, I never knew of the pains she carried.
The lives she lost.
The beings she fought to create.
Not only had she lost life inside of her, but life outside of her as well.
The discussions of miscarriage and complications were not acceptable in her generation and are barely acceptable in mine.
She lost three children to miscarriage and one to a tragic car accident 7 years ago today.
She has lost children.
My brothers and I struggle to understand this depth.
My mother has known loss that is unimaginable to me.
My father has as well.
When my son was born, I took several photos of her with him.
I had not known about her miscarriages until after he was born.
I had only known the loss of my brother.
Seeing her hold Bravery, brought out a howling grief inside of me that didn't require a full moon.
A howl that has yet to take a breath and now that I am a mother, I don't think it will ever inhale.
My mother was not longer just my mother.
In front of my eyes she had become an ally in womanhood.
In motherhood.
She was able to extend yet another piece of her heart to another person.
She didn't have to yet she did.
Something clicked.
I used to think it was shame that brought our silence.
That brought evasive gazes.
Uncomfortable positioning shifts.
I was wrong.
Women know loss on a scale that cannot possibly be justifiably explained. How can we advocate for someone we knew yet did not yet know?
How can we describe loss, let alone intimate loss?
The loss of unborn children?
The loss of born children?
I never thought this made women weak but I was righteous in my anger that women were overlooked in this subject.
There may be some truth to it but it seems to be more than that.
I've only recently realized that this grief can only be shared by bond.
How can a love that is only shared by two people be disclosed?
No one else was involved.
No one else was invited into those beautiful years, months, weeks, hours or minutes of bonding as intimately as they were.
To the women who lose their children, I honestly do not feel that I have anything worthy to say to you other than, I see you.
To say you are strong would be an insult because you are so much more than that.
There isn't a word created to exemplify how us women who do not understand, revere you.
You've carried the pains of your blood and still found a way to love life outside of you.
Our howls that do not require full moons, honor you.
Seven years ago today, my mother lost her son to a car accident.
On this day, she graciously shares her pain of child loss in all forms so other women can know that they are not alone.
To all of my siblings I knew and didn't know, you are not forgotten.
Our mother still gives life to your existence.