When the doctor told me that my baby didn’t make it, I was paralyzed with grief. Strangely though, on the outside, I was cool and collected. I guess it was because I felt like I had to be. While everyone and everything around me fell apart, I became an undeniable pillar of strength. Family members wept openly in my arms, friends shared heartfelt condolences and strangers expressed their true disbelief and genuine despair.
When the newness of my tragedy dissipated, though, my sadness erupted like a volcano. My heartbreak knew no bounds and like uncontrollable lava seeped into every single fiber of my being. I was completely and utterly inconsolable. In my private moments, I wept like a crazy person. I fell to my knees and released the most guttural, primal sounds that scared even me.
There was no stopping it: my grief had its own plan and I had no choice but to succumb to it. I became a person I didn’t know. I slept too much, drank too much, ate too much, exercised too much and shopped too much. I hated myself in the process. Looking back at it now, I realize that I was just trying to fill the hole in my heart. It didn’t matter what I did, though, the wound was so big and so deep, it was UNFILLABLE.
A few months later, as I struggled to continue on with my normal life, I had this unbelievable moment of clarity when I was driving to work. It was so profound, it shook me to my core. Hyperventilating, I pulled my car over on Collins Avenue and staggered a short distance to the beach. I realized that it didn’t matter what I did or how much of it I did, the emptiness inside of me would never, ever go away.