If I had to sum up the last year without Willow, the word that comes to mind is perspective.

The definition of perspective: a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.

When focusing on one part of that definition more specifically, I want to repeat the part that says “a point of view”. 

I have noticed more in the last year that the point of view of who you surround yourself with has such a great impact on the definition of how you show compassion.

The definition of compassion: sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others.

Throughout the time following Willow’s death, I can say with confidence that I have been surrounded by the most compassionate humans on this earth.

However, as time moves by so quickly, and yet so slowly at the same time, there are some days, now, that even I start to wonder …

• “How long do I keep focusing on that particular part of my life?”
• “How long do I keep talking and expressing my sorrow to others about this experience”

There are days that pass where I think to myself:

• “Do you think they are tired of hearing about her?”
• “I wonder what they do when they see my posts on social media or listen to me talk on a podcast or in person about Willow. Is that compassion still there? Or am I starting to become a broken record?”

I have allowed these intrusive thoughts to overcome and shadow the sense of goodness that I have always felt when reflecting about Willow.

However, this morning, I had a realization. A thought that truly just blew my mind. Simple, yet so powerful.

Every morning, I wake up and the very first thing I think of after thanking God that I opened my eyes, the very first thought … is about my kids … Ruby and Oscar. I go through a mental checklist of the morning: 

• What do they need packed for school?
• What is on the calendar for today?
• Do they need medicine?
• Did they brush their teeth last night?
• How quickly can we get out of the house? Will we be on time for drop off?
• Are there any spirit days today?
• Do we have car snacks for the 30 second drive to daycare?
• Are their car cups still in the car or did we take them out?

And … that is just half the checklist to tackle the first 45 minutes of our day once they wake. This process continues after I drop them off at daycare and continues to happen until I get myself into bed, thank God for the day I had, and close my eyes.

Every day … thinking about my living kids. Safe to say, thinking about them multiple minutes of every hour, even if they aren’t with me.

How does this correlate?

Well, most people would probably think that since Willow died, that I wouldn’t think about her as much as I do my other kids. But, that’s where they are wrong. As a mother, I think about her just as much. While I, unfortunately, don’t have to think about what needs packed for school, what she needs to eat and what we have planned for the night, I have a totally different checklist of what I need to … no, what I WANT, to do in her honor. My general outlook on how to love Willow solely exists around how Willow loves me and how Willow works through me.

This whole time I started to think maybe I was focusing on her too much. But, this morning, in the shower, I realized that’s not true. I realized that the reason I think of her so often, is the same reason I think of Ruby and Oscar so often. I am parenting all three of them.

In my mind, I don’t think I could equate the ability to parent all three at the same time. I had compartmentalized parenting my living children and parenting my child who died as two separate things.

It’s so simple - I talk about Willow to parent her.

To some, that may sound morbid. How can you parent a child who isn’t living? Well, you parent them by:

• Putting meaning to their name.
• Sharing with others how the experience you had with them changed you.
• Expressing compassion in a different way, with so much more grace and patience for others you could’ve never imagined was even possible..
• Showing your understanding that everyone does is different, ya know, the grief thing … and THAT is okay.

With this revelation, I took a good look at my support system and the people I surround myself with. I went down through a list of what exactly it means to me to feel supported.

The definition of support: bear all or part of the weight of; hold up.

When looking up the definition, I was speechless. I read it again “to bear all or part of the weight of”.

THAT is what my people do. I didn’t really need to sort out all the ways I feel supported because I recognized that the people I choose to surround myself with show compassion … they bear part of the weight of Willow WITH me.

They have a general understanding of what death means to me. They have an understanding of just how important this mission is. They have patience when I can’t find the words. They show up for me …. Through texts, through Willow days, through donations, through events. They bear part of the weight.

Why is this important to me?

It shows me that she is real.

It really happened.
I carried her full term.
I felt her kick.
I outgrew my clothes.
I set up a nursery.
I had a baby shower.
I washed newborn clothes.
I assembled a crib.
I did all the things.

And … it also shows me that she is not here.

I had a silent delivery.
There is scar on my stomach.
I left the hospital without a baby.
I did not breastfeed and still produced milk.
I planned a funeral.
I watched them dig a hole in the ground as her eternal resting place.
I battled the isolating feeling that life was just back to normal after recovery from surgery.
I recognized holidays like Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas without the memories of the “firsts”.
There were no first steps or first day of kindergarten and there will never be a high school graduation or wedding day.
I drive through the cemetery every day.

Let’s face it … I need my people to help bear part of the weight. Without them, all those heavy things would feel so much heavier.

I guess what I am trying to say is … thank you for continuing to be my people. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for bearing this weight. Thank you for loving Willow just as you love Ruby and Oscar. Thank you for making me feel like I’m a little less crazy on my darkest days. Thank you for validating my feelings. I cannot express how deeply that appreciation runs through my heart.

You make Willow feel like my daughter.
You make her real and I love you for that.