04/28/2025
The quiet grief that no one sees.
There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t have a beginning or an end.
It came without warning.
It lingers in the spaces between appointments and diagnoses, between good days and very hard ones.
It lives in the pauses.
The breath you hold when you sense a meltdown coming.
The silence after a test result that told you nothing new, only confirmed what your heart already knew.
The moment you realize you're grieving a life that never got the chance to be lived.
No one throws flowers for that kind of grief. No one brings meals or writes cards. But it’s real. And it’s heavy.
This is the grief of watching your child struggle to do the things others take for granted. Of smiling through another milestone celebration for someone else’s child, while your heart aches quietly in the background. And in the stillness that follows, you carry the ache of all the things unsaid - the invitations that never came, the silence where there should’ve been cheers, the quiet, knowing that your child is being missed in ways no one even sees. And of being proud of your child and heartbroken for them, all at once.
It’s complicated. It's layered. And it’s something only those who live it every day understand.
So if you’re carrying that invisible ache right now, I want to say this:
You’re not alone in it. You’re not weak for feeling it. You are allowed to grieve what was, even as you fiercely love what is.
I see you, Mama. And I’m holding that space with you.
Love, Christine x
Special Soul Mama
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