The Bedroom That Stopped in Time

Grief is an unwelcome visitor that moves into your life unannounced and uninvited. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t wait. It just shows up, takes a seat in your chest, and changes everything. Sometimes it speaks in sobs, sometimes in silence, and sometimes… in the things left untouched.

For me, grief has lived quietly in a room in my basement. Mya’s bedroom.

It’s been almost three years since she passed, and her bedroom still looks exactly the way it did the day she left. Her shoes are by the door. Her hoodie is still draped over her pink velvet chair. There’s a half-used perfume bottle on her nightstand, frozen mid-spray in time, like she’s just late coming home and could walk in at any moment.

Some people call it a shrine. Some people say I’m avoiding closure. But it’s not about worship. And it’s not about denial. It’s about connection.

It’s the one space where I can still feel her most clearly…not in memory, but in presence. Her scent, her style, her energy; it lingers. Her laughter still echoes against those walls. Her spirit is woven into the very fabric of that room. And I’m terrified that if I start to take it apart, piece by piece, I’ll unravel what’s left of her too.

I’ve tried. I remember standing at the edge of her doorway one morning, determined to “just start.” That’s what people kept telling me. Just start, Shani. Take one thing. One drawer. One box. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. I sat on her bed…her perfectly made bed with the same pillow she slept on the night before everything changed and looked around. Where do you even begin?

Her shoes? Her clothes? Her makeup bag still zipped up next to her bed? I opened her top drawer and found a receipt from Target, a pack of gum, and a note scribbled in her handwriting. I closed it immediately. That was as far as I got that day.

Because every item in that room isn’t just an object. It’s a story. A memory. A piece of a life cut far too short. And the thought of placing those things in bins or donation bags feels like erasing her in slow motion.

Lately, Mya’s been coming to me in dreams. It’s always the same. She’s laughing, carefree, and barefoot. She’s pointing at her feet and saying, “Mom, I don’t need those shoes anymore.” She’s being silly, like she always was…wiggling her toes, smirking at me like I’m the one being ridiculous. In my dreams, she’s telling me it’s okay. She doesn’t need the shoes. She doesn’t need the clothes. She doesn’t need the physical things because she’s free now…. she’s not tied to them anymore. But I am.

It’s not just her belongings. It’s the moment I walk in and can feel the weight of a world that used to be. It’s the smell of her shampoo still faint in the air. It’s the journal on her nightstand with a bookmark on the last page she wrote. It’s the hair tie around her water bottle. It’s the way the light hits her tapestry on the wall at 3 p.m. and makes me feel like she might be back by 3:30. People tell me I should clear the space to make room for healing. What they don’t understand is that space is my healing. It’s my time capsule. My safe place. It’s the only corner of my life where nothing has changed, even though everything else has. Because everything else has.

There’s something sacred about spaces our children inhabit. As parents, we spend their whole lives preparing rooms to fit them. From cribs and stuffed animals to posters and piles of laundry…. we create safe places for them to just be. When they’re gone, those rooms become a reflection of everything they were and everything they were supposed to be. Mya’s room holds the scent of her hair after a shower, the shape of her body in the mattress, the way her music used to vibrate the floorboards when she was getting ready to go out. I walk in and feel like I’m walking into her world…uninterrupted, untouched. But I also walk in and feel a scream caught in my throat. Because no one’s used the charger on the nightstand in over two years. No one’s worn those shoes. No one’s sat at her desk. It’s the most alive and the most lifeless place in the house. Letting go of her things feels like a betrayal. It feels like I’m saying she’s not coming back. And even though my brain knows that, my heart keeps leaving the door cracked open just in case.

In grief, logic and emotion don’t always agree. Logically, I know she doesn’t need those things anymore. Emotionally, I feel like the moment I give them away, I’m confirming something that still doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I wonder: What if I need to smell that hoodie next week? What if I need to touch the bristles of her hairbrush just to feel close again? What if one day I’m strong enough to let go, but today isn’t that day?

What I’ve learned in grief…and I’m still learning, every single day…is that there is no timeline. No expiration date. No checklist.

Some mothers pack away bedrooms the day after. Some take years. Some never do. And none of us are doing it wrong. If you’re reading this and you’ve kept the light on in their room, I see you. If you haven’t moved their toothbrush or washed their blanket, I understand. If you’ve walked in and walked right back out again, you’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re grieving.

Maybe one day I’ll box up her favorite hoodies and give them to people who need warmth. Maybe one day I’ll open her bottom drawer and find peace instead of pain.

Maybe one day I’ll sit on her bed and tell her story without a crack in my voice.

But not today.

Today, I’ll keep the door open. I’ll sit quietly at the edge of the bed. I’ll close my eyes and remember the sound of her laughter when she teased me for crying over a Disney movie. I’ll tell her how much I miss her. How hard I’m trying. And maybe I’ll whisper back to her…about the dream about the shoes…and say, “I know, baby girl. I know you don’t need them anymore. But I still do.” Because love doesn’t leave just because someone does. And neither does grief.

Mya’s room isn’t a shrine. It’s not a display case. It’s a heartbeat. A reminder that she was here. A place where her spirit lingers. A space where I can still be her mom.

So for now, the bedroom stays just as she left it. Frozen in time, but alive in memory. One day I may find the strength to shift it. But today is not that day. Today, I honor her in the quiet way that only a mother can. By keeping her world just as she left it.

Because that bedroom, stopped in time, is still the only place in this world that feels like she might walk in at any moment. 

And maybe….just maybe….that’s enough for now.