Monthly Archives: November 2016

Sunday Night Reflection

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Just taking a few minutes here and there for reflection is helping me tremendously. Sadness is still my companion through nearly every moment of the day, but when I try to focus on something good, it’s more tolerable. I am trying to be mindful about where my thoughts lead, and if they’re going to a dark, negative place, I can at least be aware and try to divert my brain to something more positive. This isn’t always an easy or even possible task, but it helps a little. I know that the next month or so is going to be difficult… Christmas is going to be absolutely heart-wrenching without Lucy, and I am going to struggle with staying positive. But- I will continue to try and do my best not to sink into a black hole for too long. I am trying to let my hope stay afloat; clinging to that hope is the only thing that’s going to get me through.

I’m trying to gear up and feel mentally ready for the week ahead. Sunday nights usually seem daunting because let’s face it, I’m a teacher, and often, this job is damn hard. I am doing everything in my power while at work to be a positive role model for my students, but it is absolutely exhausting. I really feel like I have to psyche myself up in order to even believe that I can pull off the act for another five days in a row. It’s so tough to do that while feeling the absence of Lucy at the same time. But, like everything else in this grief journey, I somehow manage to do it. I’m thankful for my resiliency and ability to keep moving when so often I just want to crumble. I am also SO very thankful that I have an understanding, compassionate partner in Chris. He lifts me up and keeps me going, holds me when I need to cry, and for that I am grateful beyond measure. Without him, it would be insanely hard to find motivation or purpose of any kind.

I feel so much better after having been able to spend time in reflection this weekend. It was necessary, and now I think that I can make it through another week of obstacles. I feel a little closer to Lucy, which makes my heart feel much less lonely. I am choosing love this week… I am choosing hope.

I miss you, sweet Lucy girl… I will keep trying to set a good example for you this week. I will focus on how much I love you; I love you to the moon and back, and back again.

A Quiet Place to Land

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Yesterday morning, I was truly in a funk. If you read yesterday’s post, it was obvious. At times I feel ashamed that I can be so angry and pessimistic… those are the times in which I feel like I’m failing miserably at the task of trying to live well for Lucy’s sake, of trying to be a good example to others. I will not apologize for feeling that way, because I know that those feelings are perfectly valid and normal. But I also believe that stewing for too long in the anger and pessimism is toxic. I don’t think I’ve sat with those emotions for such a lengthy duration as I did over the past few days, and I was feeling the impact for sure. I needed to straighten myself out, because I knew I was walking down a very negative path. I don’t want to be the person rendered bitter and jaded forever over my loss. I don’t want to be stuck sitting with my grief in only negative ways. As hard as it is to keep going, I know that I must. I need to keep hope alive in my mind and heart, or I’ll never find true happiness or joy. Yes, that potential happiness and joy will coexist with my grief, but I believe that Chris and I deserve to have some happy again. It is a choice I have to make, hard as it can be to choose sometimes. I know that the bitterness will resurface with my sadness sometimes, and that’s okay, but I have to keep moving and trying. If not for me, for Chris. For Lucy.

I feel better today because I was able to find a quiet place to land. I recognize the importance now of spending time with Lucy and with my grief for her in quiet reflection. The past three weeks have shown me that without it, I find myself in dark places and that hope is a hard thing to grasp in that darkness. I can do this. I’ve been doing this, for 108 days. I can do it better though when I give myself those reflection breaks. So it’s settled in my mind, I need to attempt to spend time daily, even if only for five minutes, in the peacefulness of the nursery with no interruptions. To write, to reflect, to talk to Lucy, to cry, to do what I need to do to keep that connection alive. I did all of those things today with the house to myself, and I feel like I can breathe again. I feel a little peace of mind now. It’s comforting.

My quiet place to land. I lit Lucy's candle, brought in her urn, and spent some time with her... peace of mind for a few moments.

My quiet place to land. I lit Lucy’s candle, brought in her urn, and spent some time with her… peace of mind for a few moments.

Black Friday Indeed

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The holiday season has opened up an entirely new dimension of grief. I find myself in more moments now, maybe even more so than in the earliest days of this hell, in which I am either numb or just completely inconsolable. Sometimes both. How can you feel numb yet ache and HURT in every fiber of your being at the same time? I am very convinced that this is worse than death on many levels. It feels as though my body and my soul are filled with rough, jagged edges, dark corners, shards of shattered glass… I inhale the ache of needing to have our child here and exhale the pins and needles of the pain of knowing that she won’t ever be here. It seems as if it’s never, ever going to be okay. That I am never going to be okay. Part of me wants so badly to keep searching for the light, the love… another part of me just wants to cave to the darkness and blackness. Sometimes, I. just. want. to. QUIT. Give up. Stay in bed all day like I really want to. But I feel like I can’t, that quitting is not my thing (*eye roll*), so I’ll keep trudging my miserable shell of a self along. Thinking about that somehow makes me even more tired. I’m so tired. My strength is failing me. I’ve cried more this week than I have in a long time. The silent sobs are the ones that really take it out of me, and that’s how it usually begins, my whole body wracked with violent gulps for air while hot tears sting their way down my cheeks, blurring my vision, making it so hard to breathe (sometimes I’d rather not anyway)… those are the times when the hopelessness doesn’t just creep into the corners, it sweeps in instead like a vengeful tidal wave and knocks me right off my feet, willing me to simply drown in the blackness. I feel so bad for Chris when he finds me like that (it’s happened more frequently these days). I think it’s getting harder to deal with me… I’m irritable, cranky, sarcastic, and overall just plain *^%$#@! miserable. And likely miserable to be around. More and more lately, I just want to be left alone. I can no longer find time to just ‘be’, and it’s especially tough when I keep getting interrupted when I do find some time to write or reflect. I haven’t had the house to myself once since my return to work, and I’ve realized I’m having a hard time with that. I feel so guilty just thinking that, because all Chris wants to do is help and make it better. I’m feeling very stubborn about having to give up some of my ‘Lucy time’, and am starting to get really pissed and outright cranky about it. I do my best to be careful of what I say though, because none of this is anyone’s fault, the interruptions are done with good intentions, and you can’t take back what you say. Even though anger, overwhelming sadness, and jaded bitterness are becoming my predominant emotions lately, I know I still need to be as kind and loving to Chris as I can be, because that’s what he unfailingly does for me. I don’t know if I deserve that all the time, but he’s always done that for me. I’m a little frightened of the ugly turn my grief has abruptly taken, and I’m going to do my best to push through it, but I do need quiet time to do that on occasion. I worry that to Chris, it looks like I’m just wallowing, refusing to move forward. And maybe I am.

Yesterday, I found myself fixating on a moment from the night Lucy was born. It was right after Chris had dropped me off in the maternity wing of the hospital and left to go park the car. There was no one else in the giant lobby, except for a man at the main desk, and a custodial worker waxing the floors. The sound of the waxer was like a white noise, drowning everything else out, oddly soothing. I remember sitting on one of the plush chairs, perched on the edge of it, holding my daughter in my belly. With a mixture of fear and pure excitement, I thought, “Everything is about to change.” Time seemed to stop for a long moment as I smiled nervously to myself, willing my thoughts to center on meeting our baby girl at the moment of her arrival. Then the sliding doors opened, and in walked Chris. Time began to tick again. We moved through the lobby and forward to a time that would indeed be different. My heart breaks for us when I think of that moment. I know self-pity isn’t something I should focus on, but I can’t help it. I feel so bad for that happy, innocent couple (and that beautiful, innocent baby) who stepped on to that elevator and toward the most painful destiny one can imagine. We couldn’t have known.

Today, I am simply beside myself in my grief. I want to be thankful, I want to be grateful, I want to be ‘inspiring’, but today, I just can’t be. Today, a blackness resides within me. Today, I feel bleak and hopeless. My heart is heavy and aching. Today, I don’t want to pretend that I’m okay. Today I want to focus on what we should have and not what we do have. Today I want to be pissed off. Today I want to be selfish and simply be alone with my grief.

I Am Thankful For You

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My dear sweet Lucy,

Happy Thanksgiving, little one. It’s been so hard without you, especially today. I’ve just been so sad, missing you. I keep imagining what our first real family holiday would have been like with all of us together, and I know we would have had a wonderful day, with you, our greatest blessing of all. You still are the greatest blessing of all. Even though my heart aches for you with every beat, and I wish more than anything that we could just have you here with us, I am so thankful that you chose me to be your Mommy. I would do everything all over again just to be with you for a few more moments. Meeting you was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me and your Daddy; we both love you more than words could ever measure. I miss you so much, but I’m thankful for the little signs you leave around to let me know you’re here in some way. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I love you more each day. And even though it hurts to not physically be with you, I will carry you with me for the rest of my life. You will always be treasured, loved, and remembered. I will be thinking of you all day, sweetheart… I love you, and I am so thankful for you.

Love,
Mommy

Juggling

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This past week has been a jumbled, emotional rollercoaster. I have found all too quickly that juggling work and feeling the full weight of grief is some pretty strenuous work. I leave work feeling absolutely exhausted (and often a little discouraged about life in general); all I want to do is go home, climb in bed, and shut out the rest of the world. The constant interaction with others all day long is so very tiresome. I haven’t been able to set aside any exclusive time to spend with grief and thoughts of Lucy, which seems to be making my emotional state weaker and much more vulnerable. It’s already always bubbling beneath the surface and now not having a convenient way to release it is taking its toll.

After seeing my therapist yesterday, I realize how important it is to carve out some time, even if only in very short intervals, to spend with Lucy somehow. Balancing all of the demands of teaching is hard already, but to add on top of that the missing of Lucy and having few ways to express that, and no private place to retreat to during the day, is so trying. It even feels like the time at home, in my safe zone, hasn’t allowed for me to do what I need to do to continue processing. The days are so short now, and are only growing shorter (it’s dark at an impossibly early time now- sigh), so a rushed walk with the dog is actually a luxury. By the time I get back from that, if I haven’t stayed too late at work, Chris is often working on some house project, so I like to try to compensate by getting dinner ready. As soon as we finish dinner, get things cleaned up, and get stuff ready for work the next day, it’s time to crash into bed and I’ve had no time to do anything healing in the least bit. I have felt so truly depressed lately, and it doesn’t show many signs of getting better in the immediate future. The sudden cold snap, new fallen snow, and holiday season are NOT helping. My students and so many others around me are getting excited about the holidays, and all I want to do is press a fast forward button so they’ll be over with.

I should be proud of myself though, as I’ve only had one emotional meltdown at work, and at least it was on my planning hour. I think my greatest fear is having a meltdown I can’t bounce back from right away while at school, or worse, one in the middle of class. I don’t think it’s going to happen, but my threshold for stress isn’t where it used to be, and when I get flustered, I have a tough time coming back down and I start screwing things up. I do have a great group of students, and mostly things are fine, but there’s just. so. much. to. do. In my head, I feel like I’m failing at every turn. I know this is not true, and that it really does look like I have a handle on things, but inside I’m in a screaming panic the majority of the time I’m in the classroom. I am working on deep breathing when things get to be too heavy or I start feeling the panic of impending failure, or emotional meltdown. It seems to be helping me get a grip. I keep telling myself that I’m getting through one minute at a time… and that a lot of little things just don’t matter. I’m doing my best to leave work at work when I can, and I keep trying to remember that no matter what, I always get it all done. And that it’s going to be okay.

Yesterday was Lucy’s alleged conception date, one year ago. She has existed for one year. And, today marks 101 days that she’s been gone. One year of loving her with my whole being, and over 100 days of aching for her with my shattered heart. I found myself in a moment of hurt on Friday at school, and randomly grabbed a file from a folder attached to my bulletin board, and stuck to the bottom of it was a photograph of a butterfly. I remember having received the photo from our former custodian like two years ago, but I definitely don’t remember how on earth it ended up there. It was exactly what I needed right at that moment though, and I thanked my sweet Lucy out loud and couldn’t help but feel a little better. She shows up every now and again in the sweetest, most unexpected ways. At least I have that.

The butterfly photo that just happened to appear at just the right moment...

The butterfly photo that just happened to appear at just the right moment…

A Hint of a Shadow

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We had our first hard frost last night, the leaves have almost all fallen from the trees… suddenly, it’s mid-November. It’s been three months of navigating through grief. Things have their way of moving on whether you want them to or not. There is a large part of me that will never move on, and I don’t want it to. The love I feel for Lucy continues to grow and because of that, she will always be with me. That’s something you don’t ever move on from.

I know my previous post was bleak, but I guess that’s what two twelve hour days in a classroom will do to pretty much anyone. I’m not saying that to dismiss my feelings from the other day- everything I wrote was totally what I feel rather often now. Much of the shine in my life does feel like it’s gone, but it isn’t like that every moment. I am good at playing the parts required of me, and I even smile a lot again, but most of that is just me returning to old habits again. It’s exhausting to be weighted down by the effects of grief and interact with so many people for such a long stretch of time each day. Not much of a choice though and I need a paycheck. I know joy will enter my life again sometime, I do have faith in that, but it might be a long stretch to wait. Until then, I guess I’ll keep going through the motions. Sidenote: I was back in the classroom for only four days before I caught the cold that is running rampant around there! I know that is NOT helping my mood or perspective.

I keep having random flashbacks to my pregnancy with Lucy. This morning I was sitting in our front room and I suddenly remembered the ridiculous frustration I had felt when all of the mountains of baby stuff was just sitting in there, waiting for what seemed like an eternity to be put away. Chris had been working diligently (and stressfully!) to finish the two bedrooms (ours and Lucy’s) with enough time to spare for everything to be put away. I wish now I hadn’t stressed out so much. I remember trying to picture myself sitting on the couch with a newborn, wondering (and stressing over) if I’d get the hang of breastfeeding… I remember having been so worried about that. I miss the excitement and anticipation we felt as we envisioned life with our baby girl that we just couldn’t wait to meet. It truly is the happiest story with the saddest ending. (I borrowed that line from McCracken’s An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination) So much lost. We won’t ever be able to go back to that innocence we once had; I think there will always be a hint of a shadow cast over everything.

Lack of Sparkle

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I’ve lost my sparkle. It’s been extinguished. I have never felt so apathetic in my life… I don’t care about much of anything. I guess I thought my return to work would bring some kind of happy feeling back into my life, and it turns out, I’m coming up short. It’s been good to see my students and a few of my colleagues, but really, all I find myself doing is faking smiles and feeling tired. I’m going through the motions; it’s like I never left. It’s only day four and I feel like I’ve been here since the first day of school. I’m cynical, sad, and unmotivated. I’ve become a very talented actress this week and I think people even believe me when I say, “It’s good to be back.” The wind has simply gone out of my sails. I feel a weariness in my bones and I ache all over. I hope I can keep up the charade, especially for the rest of this evening, since I’m technically at parent teacher conferences. Shame on me right, I’m blogging while on duty and I don’t even feel remotely guilty. It’s a slow afternoon so far anyway.

One of the things that has snuck up on me is the despair I’ve been feeling after interacting with some of my students… some of them are truly awesome young people, and the realization hits me continuously that we will never get to know our daughter in that stage of life, or ANY stage. It hurts. Do their parents know how lucky they are? It isn’t fair.

Added to all of that is the fact that Lucy would be three months old today. Another milestone never met. I think it’s safe to say I’m depressed. Once again, I marvel at how the world just continues turning and time keeps moving forward in spite of the fact that Lucy isn’t here.

“Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on.”

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I had a quote that kept rolling around my head this afternoon, and for some reason I just couldn’t place it… my memory isn’t always so great these days, but I finally figured it out. Every year, I love reading Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men with my ninth grade classes. And every year, the same lines from the text grab me and pull me into a greater appreciation of the language of pure, great literature. Here’s what’s been sticking in my brain: “As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment. Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on.” The past three months since Lucy passed has felt absolutely, exactly like Steinbeck described in those lines. That time had stopped. Movement had stopped. The world stopped for more than a moment. And now… now I’m at the point in the story in which time has gradually awakened again and is moving sluggishly on. It’s both promising and undeniably heartbreaking all at once. For some reason, I see my return to work as the next step, the next turning page. It breaks my heart. However, after going in to work for the past two days, setting up my classroom again and bracing for my return, I feel like the pause button has been released and time is simply continuing on, and I’ll be back in my niche as if nothing has changed. There is little time to think of anything else in my job, and in some ways that will be both healing and heart-wrenching. The paradox of life as a loss parent (and teacher). Time is now moving sluggishly forward and I have little control over it. I must return to exactly the way things were, even though nothing is truly the same. Time goes on, with or without us, doesn’t it?

Lucy, I promise to keep finding ways to spend time with your memory and spirit, little one, no matter how much time moves forward. I love you so much…

Turning Another Page

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Well, the time has come. I’m going back to work on Monday, and in doing so, am turning another page in my grief and life journey. If I’m being completely honest, I have mixed feelings and emotions about it, and some lurking doubts about my ability to handle it. I have done the best I can these past few months to take care of myself and find a way to function in the ‘real’ world again. One of the popular mottos for teaching has often been that ‘you can’t take care of your students if you don’t take care of yourself’… I hope that I can still continue to care for myself with grief in the right ways in order to function the best I can in my classroom. It’s not the interactions with students and staff that are giving me anxiety, it’s mostly the tasking bit. There are thousands of tiny decisions that must be made in the course of a school day, and all of them generally feel like an ’emergency’ that must be addressed immediately. On one hand, I feel that all of that will allow me to take some focus away from the underlying sadness of missing Lucy and that might actually be good for me. On the other hand, what if it is all too much? I know my threshold for stress is different than it used to be. I’d like to think that because I’ve been through the worst, so everything else is minor, right? Deep down, I think I’ve got this and that everything is going to be just fine, and I will keep telling myself that.

There are many advantages to teaching in such a small community, one being that most everyone cares. With some of my sweet students and Chris just down the hall, I should be alright. Maybe I’ll even surprise myself. I should most definitely surprise my principal, because as it stands now, I think she expects a blubbering mess. It seems that way anyhow, though I know what she’s said and offered already come from a place of concern and care. She offered for me to be ‘exempt’ from conferences next week (meaning, I could shut my classroom door and do lesson planning) and also offered to speak to all of my classes ahead of my return about etiquette for these types of situations. For conferences, she fears I will be bombarded by parents who want to share condolences. I’ve worked with my therapist on how to handle that if it gets overwhelming, and I’m willing to face it. What I’ve noticed so far in my interactions with others since Lucy’s passing is that the first ‘sighting’ is often uncomfortable for others because they don’t know what to say or do, but once they realize Chris and me are still pretty much the same people on the surface, it’s all fine and they aren’t weird after that. The parents that typically show up for conferences are ones that I am going to see often throughout the year, so it’s best to just rip the Band-Aid off, so to speak. One example of this is my interactions with a former student who works at the breakfast place just up the road… I saw her two weeks ago when I went to breakfast with two of my friends and then again this morning when Chris and I met up with another friend. When she saw me for the first time, she acted like a deer in the headlights and didn’t say much to me, though I attempted to carry on a brief conversation with her. I know it’s because she simply didn’t know what to say or how to act. Today, she came up and gave me a big hug and shared with me what she’s doing these days, and it was all fine. I know that it’s tough for others and that they don’t always know how to act around me, so (though it can seem like a lot of work sometimes) it’s up to me to make sure they take their cues from me. I intend to do this for my students on Monday. By the way, I shared with my principal that I DO NOT want her to go in and discuss etiquette on how to act around me with my students… I mean really, how to you address students on how to act around their teacher with the deceased baby? Yikes. That’s the best way to make things absolutely awkward for my poor students. I politely declined that as well, and hope that she will follow my wishes. I think most of my students are going to be just fine, and no one is going to say anything too outrageous. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m just a ticking emotional time bomb. As long as I can keep my emotions in check while at work, I know that I have my safe haven here at home if things get rough. I’ve always been good at putting on the face and switching into teacher mode, and hopefully I still can.

I received a beautiful letter from one of my students this week (pictured below) telling me that she didn’t want to be one of the people to bombard me as soon as I am back in the classroom, so she wrote a letter instead. She explained how often she thinks of me, that we didn’t deserve what happened, and that we are very loved at LHS. It was very touching and sweet and made me realize that it’s all going to be okay because there are a lot of wonderful students and colleagues who are all a part of a bigger support system than I’d realized we had. It will be another safe place to be. I just hope I can maintain the confidence that I have in this moment when I go back to the old routine.

While work is going to be familiar territory to navigate again, I still realize that nothing will truly ever be the same. I heard that song “Pompeii” by Bastille the other day… the lyrics spoke to me: “And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all? And if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you’ve been here before? How am I going to be an optimist about this…?” There are moments when I close my eyes and it really almost, almost feels like nothing has changed, and that I’ve been here before… but that façade always crashes down around me immediately. So, like those lyrics, I continue to ask myself “how am I going to be an optimist about this???” I am finding ways as I go along, but it’s so difficult sometimes. Lucy is forever a part of me, my whole heart. I still find comfort in the little signs she seems to leave behind. Today I saw both a dragonfly and a butterfly, and yesterday even a little heart note (I keep finding SO many random heart shapes these days!) on the bathroom counter (also pictured below)… these tiny things bring me comfort when I need it. It made my heart smile today when Chris said a dragonfly landed on him yesterday and he felt like it was from Lucy… she continues to be a part of our constant lives, which makes me feel like maybe I can be optimistic through this somehow. There is more love for her every single day.

A heartfelt letter from my thoughtful student.

A heartfelt letter from my thoughtful student.

A Lucy note in the form of a heart-shaped water droplet on the bathroom counter...

A Lucy note in the form of a heart-shaped water droplet on the bathroom counter…

A Sigh of Relief?

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Yesterday was hard, but today is easier. I woke up and almost felt myself heave a sigh of relief. Halloween is over. Last month, on the first, I was having a hard time because suddenly it was even more glaringly obvious that time keeps moving us away from our moments with Lucy. I think on this day, November 1, I am simply feeling some relief because Halloween is over. Of course, there’s the ‘Halloween hangover’ to contend with, which consists of all of the adorable little children in their adorable costumes in all of the adorable Halloween photos all over Facebook and Instagram. I know I would have done the same thing if Lucy had been here for her first Halloween experience, so I do not fault those parents for doing so. I do however, fault my own weakness of looking at the damn pictures in the first place, knowing that it would sting. I finally asked myself, “What the hell am I doing?” and promptly closed down Facebook. Might need to disconnect for a day or two until the hoopla dies down. And, in thinking of that, I breathe another sigh of relief. I have to protect my heart when I can. The only babies I could stand looking at are those I know to be rainbow babies, from a couple of the blogs I’ve been following. I find comfort in following the stories of other women who’ve been where I’m at and go on to have another child. It’s been my intention for some time to link to a few of those blogs by the way, so I’m going to do that now.

As Long As I’m Living

Still Born and Still Breathing

The Reluctant Aviator

Jensen Grey

Each of these women have been an inspiration to me, and I read everything I possibly could on each of their blogs as quickly as possible. The first site I stumbled upon was Lindsey Henke’s Still Born and Still Breathing, and I couldn’t get enough of it… I was so devastated, and her message of hope was really something I needed at the time (and still do). I’ve also started reading her PALS (Pregnancy After Loss Support) site (link here), and find inspiration there too… I hope to be a PAL mom in the near future. Amanda’s As Long As I’m Living blog is one I found just a few weeks ago, right around the time she was anticipating her rainbow baby. Again, I went ahead and read everything she’s written and was happy when her little rainbow boy was born. It gives me hope that I too will be in that position at some point. I truly have been inspired by her story, and reading about her continuing experience has done my heart a lot of good. The Reluctant Aviator blog also comes from a loss mom, Janice, who’s just recently had her rainbow baby as well. Again with that whole sigh of relief thing… when I read the words of these women, I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s proof that we can and will get through this, and that there’s the potential of a rainbow in our lives too. Danielle is a loss mom who writes her blog, Jensen Grey- His Story, to process her grief and honor her son; I’ve found a lot of comfort from her perspectives as well. I do hope that someday, my blog might help even one person to see that there is hope, that this can be survived and joy can coexist with grief.

Another sigh of relief I’ve exhaled has been for returning to work next week. Now, I realize even now that I might come to refute this after getting back into the thick of it all, but for now, I am feeling okay about it. The upside is that there will be routine and purpose again in my daily life, meaning that I won’t have time during the day to wallow in the depths of my grief… but the downside is exactly that too. There is no time for reflection or grief in the classroom because everything moves so quickly and is so fragmented. It will also be a loud reminder that life moves on, and there’s no stopping it. I don’t believe I would have been emotionally and mentally prepared to go back to work any sooner than now. I know that it’s been a huge advantage to me to be able to take this time, as not everyone gets that luxury. I think I’m ready. I feel that I’ll have a different attitude this year; I just need to let some things go and realize that it’s okay to be imperfect, and okay to relax. Already, I’m starting the mantra: “I can do this. I can do this because I’ve already been through the worst.”

So, for today, I will continue to try to breathe these sighs of relief, make some more lesson plans in the online gradebook, and try to be kind to myself. All I can do is just take one day at a time and get through each one as well as I can, with Lucy safe in my heart.