Jaime Cline

@jaimecline | contributor
Hi Y'all! I’m Jaime, a proud working mama, author, girl boss and wifey to an ultra-adorable husband. I am a huge book nerd, I drink coffee like my life depends on it, and run on dry shampoo and Amazon Prime. Leopard print is my favorite color. I am a story teller at heart and I have a blog called The Princess and The Prosthetic. Our blog is a virtual scrapbook of our crazy beautiful life. I'm a Type One Diabetic and our little warrior princess Callie is a lower limb amputee. By sharing how we’ve chosen to flourish in the garden we’ve been planted in, we hope you can take some small nuggets of hope, inspiration, and laughter. We are so grateful that you’ve found us—welcome to the fam. We embrace our perfectly imperfect lives and don’t let the doctor’s appointments, spreadsheets, speaking engagements, 10th birthday parties to plan, housework or date nights overwhelm us. Those things are just the beautiful reminders of all the blessings in our lives.
Community Voices

Chosen Not Cheated

I was told my whole life I wouldn’t be able to have a baby due to my Type One #Diabetes . I was told it would be too hard for me to conceive, it would be unlikely I would be able to carry the baby full term, and too dangerous for me.

And so when I got pregnant, I felt like finally……this was going to be my redemption story.

After years of turmoil managing a chronic disease.

After years of hospital stays and doctors appointments.

Millions of shots and blood glucose checks.

Years of being told a baby wasn’t in the cards for me and going full term would be near impossible.

I did it.

And yet, it wasn’t the redemption story I’d imagined in my mind.

All of that struggle I’d endured hadn’t given me the perfect birth story, the healthy baby, the cherry on top of the sundae, or the fairy tale as a reward. That struggle I’d endured didn’t mean a damn thing. There was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for me.

I felt cheated. I felt like I’d had my hopes, dreams, and years of silent prayers ripped out from under me. As I sat in the NICU for 10 weeks, watching other families leaving with their now healthy babies, I felt like God was handing out MY dreams to other people. Why did they get to go have the fairy tale life now? Why did they get the healthy baby? Why did our family have to suffer with uncertainty, fear, anger, a disability diagnosis, a chronic heart condition, and grief? How come everyone else’s baby would be able to walk and ours wouldn’t?  Why was our baby born with a lower #LimbDifference ? Why did our child need an amputation?

Why wasn’t this my happily ever after?  Why was I being cheated out of my fairy tale?

The thing that I didn’t know at the time was…..

I hadn’t been cheated.

I’d been chosen.

Chosen to be her mama.

Chosen to be her advocate.

Chosen to be my husband’s soft place to land.

Chosen to navigate this new world.

Chosen to be her champion.

Chosen because I was strong.

Chosen because I knew what it was like to be different.

Chosen because I can do hard things.

Chosen because I’m stubborn as hell.

Chosen because I know grief and loss.

Chosen because I understand how to find joy in the every day.

Chosen because I don’t quit.

Chosen because there was no one else more perfectly suited to be her mother…..

Than me.

Jaime Cline

We Won't Put a Trigger Warning on Our Daughter With a Disability

I remember being at the pool this summer and my daughter, Callie went to take off her prosthetic leg. She doesn’t swim in it (obviously) and I heard the mom on the chair next to me mutter under her breath “Geez, a little warning would be nice.”I glanced over at her and she had a grossed-out look on her face. She made the motion to cover her kid’s eyes — as if seeing Callie’s leg without the prosthetic on was triggering for her and her kids. The thing is… we will never give a trigger warning for Callie’s residual limb. Ever. Trigger warnings are for things that are traumatic, abusive, and painful. Extremely hard things that people have been through. Not a bit of discomfort or uneasiness because YOU aren’t used to being around bodies that look different than your own. We get that it might be weird for you. Maybe it’s something that you’re not used to or it makes you a bit uncomfortable.But Callie’s limb is not traumatic or scary — it’s simply different, unique, and unlike what you might be used to seeing in your world. As a disabled person, she doesn’t owe anyone a warning for her presence, existence, or the way she looks. We would never ask her to make someone else feel more comfortable with her disability — that responsibility lies solely with them. We will always encourage Callie to bravely be herself — regardless of anyone else’s comfort level. Their reactions are evidence that there is some internal work that needs to be done — highlighting things that need to be explored, immersed in, introduced to and things to be healed. And that is on them.

Jaime Cline

The Impact of 12 Minutes

One of the most traumatic experiences of my life took 12 minutes. Twelve minutes for them to rush me to the OR and prep me for surgery. Twelve minutes for them to numb me, cut me open, and take our little girl out. Twelve minutes for us to wait to hear her cry and to hear the sharp intake of breath from the doctor. Twelve minutes that felt like 12 hours. Twelve minutes for our lives to change. They say that a song can bring back “a thousand memories.” I’m like that with the sound of the monitors in the hospital. Because in a matter of minutes, I went from dreaming about baby names and the perfect outfit for leaving the hospital to learning medical acronyms that I never knew existed. Prior to those 12 minutes, you would have never convinced me that giving birth to our daughter would break my heart. I would have never believed how traumatic and isolated we felt. I would have never believed I wouldn’t get to hold her on the day she was born. Or that it would be almost five days later before I would get to hold her for the first time. I would have never believed that I would learn how to navigate all the wires, tubes, and ports that were connected to her.  Never believed we would have to learn how to properly hold her for fear we would pull her ribcage apart. Absolutely none of that was in the baby books. I would have never believed that I would leave the hospital without her. Or how much my heart would break each and every day that I had to leave her.  Never in my wildest dreams would I have understood the sheer pain of spending the day with her in the NICU and then having to kiss her goodbye to go home. Alone. Some days the memories still knock the wind out of me. I would have never believed that I would look at life in five minute intervals in the NICU.  I would tell myself, “If she makes it through the next five minutes, we’re going to be OK. We got this.” I would have never believed that we would make it through days that turned into weeks and weeks that turned into months with those little “five minutes.” I would have never believed how much I clung to the word “stable.”  How each and every time I would talk to the nurses, specialists, and doctors, I would hold my breath to hear that word. I would never believe how much we leaned on hope, faith, and the sound of the word “stable.” I would have never imagined being strong enough to withstand that storm.  Strong enough to know that we could lose the best thing that ever happened to us.  Strong enough to discharge myself from the hospital less than 24 hours after having a C-section. Strong enough to see her code. Strong enough to make it through all the fear. Strong enough to hold myself together every day without collapsing. Strong enough to remain in one piece while my heart shattered. I would have never believed that the outside world would would just keep spinning. Our life as we know it had just stopped. But the world? It just kept going completely unaware that we’d been shaken to our core. I would have never believed that birth trauma would still effect me so much.  That each time I saw a pregnancy announcement, newborn photos or heard someone share their happy delivery story that I would be gutted. Baby showers would kill me after having Callie.  I wasn’t even brave enough to go visit my best friends in the hospital after they had their babies.  I just simply didn’t think I could be back in the labor and delivery wing.  I wasn’t strong enough for that yet. The pain, shock, grief, and devastation are still something that tears me apart. I absolutely hate that I sometimes feel like I’m forcing myself to act happy for new mamas while I’m trying to navigate through the grief that’s raging through me. That I have to excuse myself when they start talking about how hard newborn life is because I know that our experiences are not even on the same planet. People kept telling me I should be grateful.  And I am without a doubt 10000% grateful that our experience ended the way that it did. But the birth trauma is real.  Mourning the birth experience you hoped for coupled with surviving a traumatic 3 months in the NICU and being grateful for your child are two entirely separate things.  Trauma is something that permanently changes you.  That major disruption in our life left a new normal in its wake.  There was no “back to the old me.” I was unequivocally different now. Our life was now split into two parts — before and after. It’s taken me a very long time (and continued work) to heal.  I know that I need to be patient with myself and give myself permission to feel the things that I feel. I can manage through getting a birth announcement in the mail and it’s gotten easier to go to baby showers. I know that we just didn’t leave those feelings about her birth and our stay in the NICU at the hospital  — they came home with us too. I’ve learned that the goal of healing is not to simply plaster over the hurt, loss, and grief in an effort to present things as “normal.” It’s to acknowledge and wear your new life — scars, wisdom, heartache, experiences and all — with courage. Because honestly, no one ever said witnessing a miracle would be easy.

Jaime Cline

Please Don't Say 'I'm Sorry' When a Child Has a Disability

“I’m so sorry.” That is usually what we hear when we share the complexity of Callie’s medical situation. When she was first born, those were some of the first words we heard from doctors, nurses, specialists, and counselors. “I’m sorry.” But doesn’t saying “I’m sorry” in response to a new parent of a child with a disability lay a tragic foundation for their life? Doesn’t speaking the words over a new baby and within a few hours of the miracle of their birth cast a shadow over the event? Doesn’t that take away those first few hours of joy, bliss, empowerment, love, accomplishment, and togetherness that a new family should feel? These should be the sweetest moments, not the ones a parent looks back on in pain. Let’s not start the conversation about a child’s disability with “I’m sorry.” Looking back, I can see that they meant well, but it also brings up a lot of questions. Did they think that because of her diagnosis, Callie would not amount to “as much” as an able-bodied person? Doesn’t saying “I’m sorry” convey that her diagnosis was bad? Did they think her life was less valuable now? Doesn’t that set a very low bar for her? Would that continue through her life? Was that really how society saw people with disabilities? Did they think that with this diagnosis she would be considered less worthy? And how did they know that she would lead a lesser life simply because she was different? What exactly were they sorry for? The thing is… Nothing positive ever follows the phrase “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry” is a phrase followed only by something negative. In addition to mourning the loss of our plans and expectations, now we were had to brace ourselves for more bad news.  As time went on, we realized the diagnosis wasn’t bad, but I wish we would have had that insight and opportunity from the beginning. In those early moments of life, we don’t know what lays ahead for our little ones. And who are we to project a life of “tragedy and hopelessness” onto someone for being born different? Can we shift the perspective to the infinite possibilities instead of the loss? Can we try to look at all the ways they are perfectly and beautifully made instead? Can we assume competence and achievement? Can we treat this as a gift with endless amazing opportunities? Can we revel in the miracle of a brand new life? I think we can.

Jaime Cline

Please Don't Say 'I'm Sorry' When a Child Has a Disability

“I’m so sorry.” That is usually what we hear when we share the complexity of Callie’s medical situation. When she was first born, those were some of the first words we heard from doctors, nurses, specialists, and counselors. “I’m sorry.” But doesn’t saying “I’m sorry” in response to a new parent of a child with a disability lay a tragic foundation for their life? Doesn’t speaking the words over a new baby and within a few hours of the miracle of their birth cast a shadow over the event? Doesn’t that take away those first few hours of joy, bliss, empowerment, love, accomplishment, and togetherness that a new family should feel? These should be the sweetest moments, not the ones a parent looks back on in pain. Let’s not start the conversation about a child’s disability with “I’m sorry.” Looking back, I can see that they meant well, but it also brings up a lot of questions. Did they think that because of her diagnosis, Callie would not amount to “as much” as an able-bodied person? Doesn’t saying “I’m sorry” convey that her diagnosis was bad? Did they think her life was less valuable now? Doesn’t that set a very low bar for her? Would that continue through her life? Was that really how society saw people with disabilities? Did they think that with this diagnosis she would be considered less worthy? And how did they know that she would lead a lesser life simply because she was different? What exactly were they sorry for? The thing is… Nothing positive ever follows the phrase “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry” is a phrase followed only by something negative. In addition to mourning the loss of our plans and expectations, now we were had to brace ourselves for more bad news.  As time went on, we realized the diagnosis wasn’t bad, but I wish we would have had that insight and opportunity from the beginning. In those early moments of life, we don’t know what lays ahead for our little ones. And who are we to project a life of “tragedy and hopelessness” onto someone for being born different? Can we shift the perspective to the infinite possibilities instead of the loss? Can we try to look at all the ways they are perfectly and beautifully made instead? Can we assume competence and achievement? Can we treat this as a gift with endless amazing opportunities? Can we revel in the miracle of a brand new life? I think we can.

Jaime Cline

To My Daughter With a Limb Difference: I See You

I see you, baby girl. I see you taking that first brave step. I see you glancing quickly to watch people’s faces when they look at your prosthetic leg. I see you evaluating whether they are going to meet your eyes or continue to stare. I see you get that tiny little smile ready, your hand half-raised to wave at them. I see your shoulders slump when they make a terrible face. I see you constantly navigating your terrain, trying to find a sure foothold, watching out for a slight lip in the pavement, a hole you might not see. I see you traversing a world that is not built for you, running a race that you aren’t fully equipped to run but never even losing stride. I see you looking at other kids’ legs, watching them run, jump, dance, play, hop and live with abandon.  I see that moment of cloudiness in your eyes before you lift your chin and continue on. I see you jumping wholeheartedly into each new endeavor, never allowing your differences to stop you from trying something new. I see you adapting, making things manageable for you and making a safe haven for others to live a life without limits. I see you advocating, championing for the underdog, the runt of the litter, and the lost cause. You see a little bit of yourself in them, I know. I see the pain on your face when kids say your leg looks weird or gross. I see the toll it takes on you. I see you questioning how kids can be so mean. I also see that steely look in your eye because you won’t ever let them see you cry, shuttering yourself in a protective armor. I see you trying to hide your prosthetic leg, tucking it behind a blanket or standing behind other kids when you don’t feel secure. I see you continue to stand back up, time and time again. No matter how many times you’ve been knocked down, you just keep standing up. That fire is forged in your soul.  You will not be defeated. I see you feel big. You feel your feelings and aren’t afraid to lean into them. You are comfortable experiencing unbridled joys and can safely allow yourself to sit with your grief, understanding they both can comfortably share space in your life. I see you growing up way too quickly, forced by fate to handle way too much for someone your age. I see you talking to your doctors and your specialists. You are well versed in your medical history and are very much your own advocate. You have an opinion on your care plan and you make sure you voice it. I see you playing video games, comfortable in a virtual world where you can compete on an even playing field. There aren’t any disabilities there and I believe that’s why you love it. I see you fiercely fighting for your independence, wanting to do everything for yourself just to prove them wrong.  Wanting to show those that doubted you, that told us not to get our hopes up, exactly what you are made of. I see how you are comfortable with your scar from your open-heart surgery. You see it as a battle wound and not where you lost the war. It’s where you picked up your sword and fought. I see you questioning God, questioning because you don’t understand sometimes why He picked this life for you. I see you feel conflicted because you know you are strong enough to handle it but still heartbroken that it’s you that has to go through so much. I see you responding with grace when strangers ask you questions about your prosthetic.  You always take the time to talk to them because you know it’s a good time to break down biases, stereotypes and ignorance. You do it when you are tired, when you don’t feel like it, when you really just want to be left alone. All in hopes of making the world a more inclusive place for people like you. I see you changing the world. Changing the face of beauty. Reimagining the definition of strong. Shattering glass ceilings. Inspiring everyone that meets you. Touching the lives of so many. Coming into your own. Quick with praise, a hug, and reassurance when someone has a bad day. Secure in who you are but also constantly pushing yourself to be kinder, more compassionate, and better version of yourself. I see you… just getting started.

Jaime Cline

10 Things I Wish You Knew About My Daughter With Disabilities

1. Please don’t stare. A smile and a wave is much better. 2. Callie can do whatever she wants to do — swimming, horseback riding, dancing. She just might need an adaptation or it might look a little different. She still can participate to the fullest of her ability. 3. Her prosthetic leg is not the coolest thing about her. 4. Her prosthetic leg is pretty cool-looking, though. 5. We wish we saw more people like Callie in media, books, films, ads and on TV. 6. It’s extremely expensive and time-consuming to manage all of her healthcare needs. 7. She’s worth every penny. 8. We don’t want your pity. We would love your compassion, acceptance and empathy though. 9. We would love your help championing for people like Callie. Allies are amazing. 10. The disability is not the issue. The accessibility and the lack of adaptations are.

Community Voices

Why Aren't You Over it By Now?

Someone asked me that the other day because I remarked that I was struggling with some grief about Callie’s leg amputation and other health issues.  I’m 100% sure it was triggered by her recent knee surgery.

“Why aren’t you over that by now?  It’s been almost 10 years.”

First, geez sister.  Remind me to seek compassion from anyone other than you when I need it.

Second, the easiest way I can explain it is–I’m not.

I honestly don’t think I ever really truly will be “over it”.

Grief and loss, especially in this circumstance, isn’t something that I can tuck into a lockbox.  Process it, slam the lid shut, and shove it in the upper shelves of my closet to never be thought of again?

That’s not how it works.

The easiest comparison I can equate the grief of a special needs parent to is an ocean.

There are days where I’m just walking along the beach.  I’m too distracted by the gorgeous sunset exploding across the horizon, the sweet smell of the salty air, and the feel of the cool tawny sand beneath my feet to truly look at the water.  My surfboard is propped up a few feet away from me.  I just had a great day on the waves.  Those glorious amazing things are just too much in focus–too breathtaking for me to tear my eyes away from to even glance at the ocean.

But I know it’s still there.

Other days, I walk along the shore line, the cool turquoise water lapping at my ankles.  It’s not too deep–I can still clearly see the gold anklet I wear on my ankle.  The water dances at my feet and the rose gold nail polish I wear on my toes winks up at me in the sun.  Like my grief, the tiny waves gently come in and go back out.  I look out at the ocean and can hear it whispering my name.

I definitely know it’s there.

And then there are some days. the waves crash into me.  Slamming into me, tossing me around like a rag doll.  Pulling me down to the extreme depths of despair so deep that the ocean couldn’t even fathom.  I can’t catch my breath.  I can’t pull myself out.  The ocean is all around me–inky black water and I don’t know which way is up.  I’m completely underwater.  Lost and drowning.

The ocean consumes me.

Sometimes, on those days I have to fight to the surface on my own.  Pulling and clawing my way to the top until I can break the wave and draw in air.  Giant greedy gulps that remind me that I’m still here.  I’m still alive. It didn’t break me.  It didn’t consume me.  I have to keep swimming.

I’m grateful on the days that I have a lifeguard.  Someone that taught me that if I ever get turned around underwater and I can’t figure out my way to the surface–to blow bubbles.  The bubbles will float to the top and I can follow them to freedom.  On occasion, the lifeguard has to throw me a life preserver or haul me in themselves.  It’s not that I don’t want to do it myself–I’m just tired and need some help.

The ocean is too vast.  Too strong for me to try to take it on by myself.

I’d love to be able to take that grief that’s tucked safely away in the lockbox and throw it in the ocean.  Watch it sink to the cavernous depths of the sea–taking my pain and hurt with it.

Never have to deal with it again.

But no more so than I would tell someone who lost a pet/spouse/child, had a miscarriage, diagnosed with a chronic illness, or suffered a tremendous loss that they “should” be over it in a certain time frame.

Because grief, much like the ocean, is raging, harsh, and magnificent.  They both can also be calm, graceful, and infinite.

I’m still learning to balance surfing the darkness until the light washes me back up onto the shore.

Be patient with me.

8 people are talking about this
Community Voices

Why Aren't You Over it By Now?

Someone asked me that the other day because I remarked that I was struggling with some grief about Callie’s leg amputation and other health issues.  I’m 100% sure it was triggered by her recent knee surgery.

“Why aren’t you over that by now?  It’s been almost 10 years.”

First, geez sister.  Remind me to seek compassion from anyone other than you when I need it.

Second, the easiest way I can explain it is–I’m not.

I honestly don’t think I ever really truly will be “over it”.

Grief and loss, especially in this circumstance, isn’t something that I can tuck into a lockbox.  Process it, slam the lid shut, and shove it in the upper shelves of my closet to never be thought of again?

That’s not how it works.

The easiest comparison I can equate the grief of a special needs parent to is an ocean.

There are days where I’m just walking along the beach.  I’m too distracted by the gorgeous sunset exploding across the horizon, the sweet smell of the salty air, and the feel of the cool tawny sand beneath my feet to truly look at the water.  My surfboard is propped up a few feet away from me.  I just had a great day on the waves.  Those glorious amazing things are just too much in focus–too breathtaking for me to tear my eyes away from to even glance at the ocean.

But I know it’s still there.

Other days, I walk along the shore line, the cool turquoise water lapping at my ankles.  It’s not too deep–I can still clearly see the gold anklet I wear on my ankle.  The water dances at my feet and the rose gold nail polish I wear on my toes winks up at me in the sun.  Like my grief, the tiny waves gently come in and go back out.  I look out at the ocean and can hear it whispering my name.

I definitely know it’s there.

And then there are some days. the waves crash into me.  Slamming into me, tossing me around like a rag doll.  Pulling me down to the extreme depths of despair so deep that the ocean couldn’t even fathom.  I can’t catch my breath.  I can’t pull myself out.  The ocean is all around me–inky black water and I don’t know which way is up.  I’m completely underwater.  Lost and drowning.

The ocean consumes me.

Sometimes, on those days I have to fight to the surface on my own.  Pulling and clawing my way to the top until I can break the wave and draw in air.  Giant greedy gulps that remind me that I’m still here.  I’m still alive. It didn’t break me.  It didn’t consume me.  I have to keep swimming.

I’m grateful on the days that I have a lifeguard.  Someone that taught me that if I ever get turned around underwater and I can’t figure out my way to the surface–to blow bubbles.  The bubbles will float to the top and I can follow them to freedom.  On occasion, the lifeguard has to throw me a life preserver or haul me in themselves.  It’s not that I don’t want to do it myself–I’m just tired and need some help.

The ocean is too vast.  Too strong for me to try to take it on by myself.

I’d love to be able to take that grief that’s tucked safely away in the lockbox and throw it in the ocean.  Watch it sink to the cavernous depths of the sea–taking my pain and hurt with it.

Never have to deal with it again.

But no more so than I would tell someone who lost a pet/spouse/child, had a miscarriage, diagnosed with a chronic illness, or suffered a tremendous loss that they “should” be over it in a certain time frame.

Because grief, much like the ocean, is raging, harsh, and magnificent.  They both can also be calm, graceful, and infinite.

I’m still learning to balance surfing the darkness until the light washes me back up onto the shore.

Be patient with me.

8 people are talking about this
Community Voices

Why Aren't You Over it By Now?

Someone asked me that the other day because I remarked that I was struggling with some grief about Callie’s leg amputation and other health issues.  I’m 100% sure it was triggered by her recent knee surgery.

“Why aren’t you over that by now?  It’s been almost 10 years.”

First, geez sister.  Remind me to seek compassion from anyone other than you when I need it.

Second, the easiest way I can explain it is–I’m not.

I honestly don’t think I ever really truly will be “over it”.

Grief and loss, especially in this circumstance, isn’t something that I can tuck into a lockbox.  Process it, slam the lid shut, and shove it in the upper shelves of my closet to never be thought of again?

That’s not how it works.

The easiest comparison I can equate the grief of a special needs parent to is an ocean.

There are days where I’m just walking along the beach.  I’m too distracted by the gorgeous sunset exploding across the horizon, the sweet smell of the salty air, and the feel of the cool tawny sand beneath my feet to truly look at the water.  My surfboard is propped up a few feet away from me.  I just had a great day on the waves.  Those glorious amazing things are just too much in focus–too breathtaking for me to tear my eyes away from to even glance at the ocean.

But I know it’s still there.

Other days, I walk along the shore line, the cool turquoise water lapping at my ankles.  It’s not too deep–I can still clearly see the gold anklet I wear on my ankle.  The water dances at my feet and the rose gold nail polish I wear on my toes winks up at me in the sun.  Like my grief, the tiny waves gently come in and go back out.  I look out at the ocean and can hear it whispering my name.

I definitely know it’s there.

And then there are some days. the waves crash into me.  Slamming into me, tossing me around like a rag doll.  Pulling me down to the extreme depths of despair so deep that the ocean couldn’t even fathom.  I can’t catch my breath.  I can’t pull myself out.  The ocean is all around me–inky black water and I don’t know which way is up.  I’m completely underwater.  Lost and drowning.

The ocean consumes me.

Sometimes, on those days I have to fight to the surface on my own.  Pulling and clawing my way to the top until I can break the wave and draw in air.  Giant greedy gulps that remind me that I’m still here.  I’m still alive. It didn’t break me.  It didn’t consume me.  I have to keep swimming.

I’m grateful on the days that I have a lifeguard.  Someone that taught me that if I ever get turned around underwater and I can’t figure out my way to the surface–to blow bubbles.  The bubbles will float to the top and I can follow them to freedom.  On occasion, the lifeguard has to throw me a life preserver or haul me in themselves.  It’s not that I don’t want to do it myself–I’m just tired and need some help.

The ocean is too vast.  Too strong for me to try to take it on by myself.

I’d love to be able to take that grief that’s tucked safely away in the lockbox and throw it in the ocean.  Watch it sink to the cavernous depths of the sea–taking my pain and hurt with it.

Never have to deal with it again.

But no more so than I would tell someone who lost a pet/spouse/child, had a miscarriage, diagnosed with a chronic illness, or suffered a tremendous loss that they “should” be over it in a certain time frame.

Because grief, much like the ocean, is raging, harsh, and magnificent.  They both can also be calm, graceful, and infinite.

I’m still learning to balance surfing the darkness until the light washes me back up onto the shore.

Be patient with me.

8 people are talking about this