Someone asked me the other day if it affects me at all…like mentally I would assume. That was a hard question to answer, well not hard, but complicated to describe.
In what way does it affect me?
In my effort not to minimize my loss, but in an effort not to sensationalize a common trauma amongst women, I’m seeking neither disregard nor attention. No tissues or sympathy is required here. Like we all do, I have a story of loss.
But how does it affect me?
I would say when I look at little boys running in laughter and sweat I think about what that would be like for me. [bctt tweet=”When I see a young girl pushing a stroller I’m the first to forget and yet the first to remember what that may have cost her. ” username=”ladylauraco”]To carry such a heavy cross, to bear the burden of sins. Hers, his, and theirs. I remember that I was a coward, too broken and ashamed to share that I was broken and ashamed. And when she raises him up to kiss his drooling lips and wet cheeks, I remember that life will always give you answers in the end. I rejoice in her victory. Despite all odds she made it through. She pushed through barriers of judgment and walls of despair.
You would think I’d be angry, just a little bit cynical, very judgmental, and possibly guarded. I would say I am the opposite. Life has taught me more about possibility than any schooling could have ever drilled into me. It has taught me to love on so many different levels. It has taught me that life is cumulative. It has taught me that I can change the world, change minds, views, and people with one act, or writing at a time.
How does it affect me?
Maybe if one person would have sat with me and simply loved me in those dark moments my world would have been different. Maybe not. I just don’t understand why nobody ever thought I was important enough to help me understand my feelings. But I am comfortable where I stand today. I love with no regrets. Just a sense of loss that never goes away.