No one that was there that day knew I was grieving more than the death of my mother.
No one present at her funeral knew I was broken in the grief of losing her, and also shattered by the reality that I had coincidently lost my faith, too. It felt like the foundation of who I was and what I believed had been stolen right from me — gone.
There was no warning, and if there had been, I’m not sure I would have even recognized it. I was in disbelief of the last breaths I witnessed when my mother passed and in confusion for the future that now stood in front of me.
It’s a harsh reality, a broken hallelujah, sitting with the loss of your mother and also the loss of your faith. It’s a loneliness that you cannot describe and one you truly cannot comprehend until you’re sitting with it, encompassed like a new skin, a new version of you that you never asked for . . . one that, in fact, you despise.
The loss of my mother came over time, a fatal diagnosis, though never truly expected. The loss of my faith came sudden and without any kind of indication of what was to come, of what was dissipating.
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I truly admire how you tackle difficult topics and address them in a respectful and thought-provoking manner