Half Full

There was a time when I thought grief would be the hardest part. People think the hardest day was the day my daughter entered heaven. It wasn’t. The hardest part has been every ordinary day since. The alarm clock still goes off. The laundry still needs to be folded. The groceries still need to be bought. People still need you. Bills still come. The dogs still need to be fed, and life keeps asking you to live…Even when part of you isn’t sure how.

Some mornings I wake up ready to conquer the world. I have ideas, energy, purpose, I laugh, I work, I dream, and for a few hours, life almost feels normal…but never quite full. Then there are mornings when the weight of grief settles on my chest before my feet even touch the floor. Not because something happened that day. Not because anyone said the wrong thing. Simply because grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It has a way of quietly reminding you that someone you love is missing.

Those are the days people don’t see. The days when taking a shower feel like an accomplishment. The days when answering a text message takes more emotional energy than it should. The days when I sit in silence because I don’t have words left. I used to think those days meant I was failing. Now I think they’re simply part of loving someone who now lives in heaven. Grief has taught me that healing isn’t becoming who I was before loss. Healing is learning how to carry love and sorrow in the same hands.

I’ve stopped measuring my life by how productive I am. Instead, I ask myself different questions. Did I love well today? Did I show kindness? Did I notice God’s goodness somewhere, even if it was just in a sunset or the sound of birds outside my window? Did I keep going? Sometimes… that’s enough!

Faith has changed for me over these last few years. I used to think trusting God meant understanding Him. Now I know trusting Him often means walking forward without understanding at all. There are still prayers I don’t know how to pray. There are still questions I don’t know how to ask. There are still tears that come without warning. But there is also peace. Not every day, not every hour, but enough. Enough to take the next step. Enough to get out of bed. Enough to love the people God has entrusted to me today. Enough to believe that this life, even with all its broken pieces, is still a gift. I don’t think God asks us to pretend we’re okay. I think He simply asks us to keep bringing Him the truth. Some days my truth is gratitude. Some days it’s exhaustion. Some days it’s joy. Some days it’s tears. And somehow, He receives them all.

So, if today is one of those days when getting out of bed feels harder than anyone around you realizes…You’re not alone. Maybe faith isn’t always standing on the mountaintop declaring how strong you are. Maybe sometimes faith is simply placing your feet on the floor, whispering, “Lord… help me through today.” And trusting that today is enough and tomorrow will take care of itself.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve begun to look at life differently. Not as something that’s broken beyond repair, but as something that’s still beautiful, even if it will never feel completely full again. Sometimes people think moving forward means leaving someone behind. It doesn’t! Moving forward simply means carrying them differently. I don’t leave Mya behind when I make new memories. I carry her into them. Every one of them. 

I’ve realized something these last four years. The memories we make after loss don’t become empty. They become half full. They’re still beautiful. They’re still worth celebrating. They’re like a family picture with someone missing. The smiles are real. The laughter and joy are real, but so is the empty space. At first, I hated that feeling. I wanted every memory to feel whole again. Now I don’t! Because that emptiness reminds me how deeply I love her. If every memory felt complete, it would mean I had somehow stopped noticing she wasn’t there. And I never want that. 

I never want to become so comfortable with her absence that I stop missing her presence. 

So, I’ve made peace with half-full memories. They are still beautiful. They still deserve to be lived. Because choosing joy isn’t choosing her less. It’s choosing to honor the life God has still given me while loving the daughter He has already welcomed home. One day, I believe those half-full memories will finally become whole. One day, there won’t be another holiday or birthday apart. One day, heaven won’t be something I imagine. It’ll be home. And I’ll sit beside my daughter again. And I think the very first thing I’ll do…is tell her everything. I’ll tell her about the babies she would’ve adored. The family dinners.  The ordinary Tuesday afternoons. The funny stories. The hard days. The beautiful days. I’ll tell her about all the memories that felt incomplete because she wasn’t there. And maybe she’ll smile and say… “I know, Mom… I was closer than you realized.” 

Until then…I’ll keep making memories. I’ll keep laughing, crying, and loving. I’ll keep saying her name. Because life didn’t stop four years ago. It simply became a life I never imagined living. A life still filled with beautiful moments…that will always feel just a little bit half full.

Maybe that’s what I’ve learned these last four years. People often hear half full and think it’s simply the opposite of half empty. But I don’t think they mean the same thing at all. A glass that’s half empty focuses on what’s missing. A life that’s half full acknowledges what’s missing…while choosing to treasure what’s is still here. There will always be an empty chair. There will always be birthdays, holidays, and ordinary Tuesdays where I wish Mya was beside me. That longing will never disappear. But neither will the blessings God continues to place in front of me. So, I choose to notice them. I choose to laugh without guilt. To love deeply. To make new memories. To keep saying her name. Not because my heart is full again, but because love has taught me that two things can exist at once. I can miss her with everything I have…and still be grateful for the life God has given me today. My life will probably always be half full. And maybe that’s what healing really looks like.  Because I’m no longer focused only on what’s missing. I’m choosing to treasure what is still here.