In today’s world, we often skirt around the term “dead.” It seems like a taboo, something to avoid, as if saying it disrespects those who have departed. But my daughter lived and then she died. Using those words doesn’t lessen my love for her; in fact, it honors her reality.
When I first uttered the phrase “she died,” it felt surreal, as if I was caught in a cruel joke. My body shook and my heart ached. Even now, those words can summon waves of grief that feel insurmountable. Conversely, saying she “passed away” or that we “lost her” feels like I’m trying to mask the raw truth with a layer of gentleness that it doesn’t deserve.
To me, “passing away” feels too soft for what truly happened. Death intruded into our home early one morning, taking my daughter while we were both in the safety of sleep. And I didn’t lose her. I am a capable mother, and though that term isn’t meant to imply physical loss, it feels dismissive to me.
Every time I try to soften the ending of her life, it feels like I’m denying the brutal truth that she is truly gone. I grappled with this for a long time, convincing myself it was easier to think of her as just at daycare, waiting for me to pick her up. But I can’t afford to live in that denial anymore.
Yes, the term “died” carries a weighty finality that is hard to bear. But for me to grieve effectively, I need to embrace that finality. I crave closure, even though it’s painful. I’ve silenced the irrational hope that she’ll come back, and I refuse to let it resurface. It’s not productive, and it only drives me deeper into sorrow.
Sometimes, I still catch myself telling others she “passed away,” trying to spare them from my discomfort. But I realize now that this only drains me further. I shouldn’t have to hold back my truth to protect others from feeling uncomfortable about my loss.
Before my daughter’s death, I felt a sense of belonging. Now, I often feel isolated in my grief. The world is filled with sorrow, yet we struggle with how to navigate it. It’s exhausting.
Death is a harsh truth—cruel and inevitable. So why can’t we just acknowledge it? Allow me to express my daughter’s death in my own words, without judgment. My love for her is independent of the language I choose; it belongs solely to me.
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In summary, I refuse to soften the reality of my daughter’s death. While others may find comfort in euphemisms, I need to confront the truth to navigate my grief. My love for her is profound, and it exists beyond any words.