I was looking at a recent picture of myself and realized how focused I was on that picture. The attention I was paying to my appearance. Noticing how I’ve aged in the months since I’ve become a grieving mother.
My eyes are puffy, red, a little dark.
I cry more now.
My shoulders hang a little lower.
The weight of life is just a little heavier.
And there’s a little furrow line between my brow from that worry I can’t seem to shake.
All signs that the past eighteen months have worn on my body as much as they’ve worn on my soul.
But there’s a beauty to grieving. An unexpected perk. Losing my child, my only child, whose life was so brief and so beautifully purposeful and triumphant, has shown me how insignificant this weathered, worn appearance of mine truly is.
I know, with every breath I take and each day that passes, I am aging. But I am also growing.
Growing in the knowledge that we are each so much more than our bodies. That our actions, our words, and our treatment of others can make us beautiful.
No matter what the photos show, I know, I am good on the inside.