My entire life has been filled with “somedays.” Someday I would graduate high school and then college, someday I would become a nurse, someday I would have a pretty house, someday I would have my dream wedding, and someday I would be a mother. From a young age, I knew exactly what my life would look like. I worked extremely hard to achieve the goals I had set, and my husband and I were well on our way to the life we had planned together. Not to sound boastful, but I truly have accomplished a lot. Becoming a mother felt right, and I felt as ready as one possibly can be to have a child. I had the mindset that my life would be “good” if I did everything right: followed all of the rules, studied hard, and made as few mistakes as possible. Looking back, it was an extremely naïve way of thinking.

Common sense will tell you that losing a child changes a person. What often goes unrealized is the way in which it changes you. Sure, my smiles are a little faker than before and I stumble over my words when someone asks me if I have children. Grieving has changed me in these seemingly small ways, but it also has changed who I am fundamentally and shattered my way of thinking. I no longer look to the future with excitement, and I no longer have a clear picture of what my life will look like. I feel empty, directionless, and utterly hopeless. When I envision the future, I see an endless void filled with fear and uncertainty. The internal calendar and timeline I had for myself no longer makes sense or aligns with the speed at which the world keeps spinning.

The fear of the future is something entirely unfamiliar to me. My whole life, I feel like I’ve been racing towards the next big milestone with a giant grin on my face. I’m not saying that is the way we should live our lives, but it is how I had been living mine for 23 years. I never questioned my choices, and I never stopped to consider that things would not work out for me. Now, I feel like that is all I do. Each moment of my day is spent waiting for the latest delivery of bad news because I no longer expect good things to happen to me.

Recently, I have felt the pressure to move forward. Moving forward feels so scary when I have learned the hardest way possible that I have very little control over the way things play out. Everything feels so uncertain to me, but life has continued to move. My husband and I hope to buy a house soon. I would love to start a business. I pray to have a living baby one day. I still have all of these goals, but I no longer carry the confidence I once had in my ability to make them all happen. I also fear that others will see me moving forward and think that I am moving on.

I am very much living in the in-between state of not being who I once was while also not really being entirely sure of who I am becoming. For the first time probably ever, I have no idea where my life is going. Grief has forced me to unwillingly live more moment-to-moment. Instead of focusing on what’s coming next, I am now just focused on trying to get out of bed each day. I used to live for the big milestones. Now I live for the days I can breathe without breaking.

I am working on redefining “someday.” I can no longer think about how someday I will see Nathan take his first steps, graduate high school, and maybe have babies of his own. Instead, I pray that someday I can tell his siblings about him, or that someday a grieving parent can hear our story and feel a little less alone. My favorite of all is that someday, I will hold him in my arms again. Only then, I will never have to let him go.

“The Shelf For Somedays”
an original poem by Sadie

Right now,
all of my somedays
feel heavy
with the weight of uncertainty.

They used to float
feather-light, glowing with promise,
tied with baby blue ribbon.

But now, they press on me.
Their shape has changed.
Their edges have sharpened.
Their silence is deafening.

Sometimes,
it is just too much for me to carry
the ache of what could’ve been,
the unanswered questions,
the hurtful hush
where laughter was meant to live.

So, I put my somedays
back on the shelf.

Not forever.
Not with anger.

But gently,
the way you place something sacred,
in a place of waiting.

Until my body feels ready again.
Until the weight feels kinder.
Until I’m strong enough to hold
both grief and hope
in the same hand.