The Slow Evolution of Hope by Beth Ledbetter
The concept of “hope” is an interesting one. One of many different definitions of the word “hope” comes from Merriam-Webster: “To cherish a desire with anticipation.” When we speak generally about “hope,” I think we are often describing a general desire and reasonable expectation of good things in the future.
Right after I lost my 3-month-old daughter Maria, hope wasn’t even something I was in a place to consider. Sleep mostly eluded me, replaced by vivid flashbacks of my daughter’s life and death, and my waking hours felt like a strange, vast nothingness. Getting through each day was all I had the energy to do. For days, which bled into weeks, I existed in the dense fog of grief. I got out of bed in the morning, and that was my big accomplishment each day. Every part of my body ached, every movement a surprising reminder of just how physical the experience of grief is. Thinking back to it now, I honestly can’t even remember how I fed myself, if and what sustenance I ate. I must have though, somehow. I went outside once or twice a day to walk my dog, otherwise I’m sure I wouldn’t have left the house at all. I looked at myself in the mirror and literally did not recognize the shell of a person looking back at me.
A few months later, I felt like I was able to convincingly go through the motions of life. I still felt completely hollow and empty on the inside, and I still felt that disorienting fog, but on the outside, I was mostly able to function. But I still didn’t have what I would consider “hope.” I still cried at least once a day, even on “good” days. The grief waves would hit me at different times and for different reasons, but I got better at recognizing when one was coming, so I was able to hide it from others. Thus, the “functioning on the outside.” When I was able to bring myself to think of the future, I wondered if this was what the rest of my life would look like.
This was when I found Return to Zero: Hope and joined my first support group, and I am so grateful that I did. Since then, I have continued to meet so many amazing, inspiring, incredible bereaved mothers, and I am so thankful for that community. Without them I believe my life now, my life after my daughter’s death, would look very, very different. I believe having a community of others who truly understand your grieving heart is so incredibly important.
Maria’s third birthday was in January, less than two months ago. The anniversary of her passing won’t be here until the end of April. As I write this, I am living in the time that I have started to think of as the shadow of my daughter’s life. The time of year when she was alive. This birthday, her third birthday, was the first birthday on which I didn’t feel entirely consumed by either numbness or grief. It was a hard day, yes. A day filled with a range of difficult emotions: loneliness, rage, sorrow, and longing. It was also, surprisingly, a day of remembering the joyful moments of her birth (because yes, there were joyful moments even amidst the anticipatory grief).
I remembered the absolute joy of hearing her cry and learning that she could breathe on her own. The immeasurable joy of finally seeing her face for the first time. Seeing her beautiful thick brown hair, just like my own. Her blue eyes, just like her dad’s.
Joy and sorrow, intertwined forever. This is life after loss.
I couldn’t tell you the exact moment when I started feeling hope again. I wish I could. I wish I could say it takes a certain amount of time, or passing a certain milestone, but I think those things are probably different for everyone. But I can tell you that I’m feeling it again now. It’s not always strong, and some days I feel it more than others. But I am comfortable saying that I now feel a general, although still sometimes tentative, sense of hope about the future.
But still, there are days. Oh, there are days. Days I sit exhausted on my bed at the end of a long day, angry, defeated, and sobbing… and I consider again, from this place, the idea of hope. Hope does not mean that there is no sorrow. Hope is not some flippant, happy, naïve feeling that everything is great, and the future is bright. I believe hope happens in tiny moments, in the here and now, when you can breathe deeply through your tears and know that somehow, it’s not actually all over. Hope happens when you can accept your brokenness and continue living. It happens when you can look bravely at the prospect of your own eventual death and vow to be present in your life, however brief or long it might be. Before I watched my beloved baby girl die, my own future death was an idea that I happily ignored. An idea I was privileged to be able to ignore. But when you meet death, when you spend time living in death’s presence, when you palpably feel death’s heaviness, death’s permanence, you can never again ignore it for your own convenience or pleasure.
Grief is like the tide, always ebbing and flowing. I couldn’t write this reflection on hope in one day, or in one week, or even in one month, because each day and each week and each month (and sometimes even each hour) my grief and I still look and feel different. I am still learning to walk hand in hand with my grief.
I think finding hope again is a culmination of a thousand moments of “maybe,” little glimpses and whispers of feeling ok. Minutes or hours, here and there, of feeling like your life has a new purpose. Moments spent searching for, and finding, meaning. After enough of those moments, you look back at where you have been, and realize that hope has somehow snuck its way back in.
Right now, my hope for the future is this: I will be ok. I will experience moments of joy. I will set meaningful goals in life, sometimes big and many times small, and work to achieve them. When I experience the fear of future losses of all different kinds in my life (because I do, and I expect to continue to), I will focus on the present, and on not taking the good things in my life for granted. I will feel my emotions, no matter how difficult they are, and I will honor my grief. I will not let others tell me the “right way” to grieve (because there is no “right way,” and everyone’s grief journey looks different). I will work on practicing empathy for others as often as I can. I will continue to work on accepting and owning my story. I will strive, every day, to be the best mother I can be to both my daughter and my living son.
And at the end of each day, no matter what happens, I will try again tomorrow.
HOW TO HELP MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN MARIA’S HONOR
Pregnancy and infant loss is a unique type of loss, leaving the grievers to feel isolated and unsure of how to move forward. We'd be grateful if you would consider making a contribution to RTZ HOPE. Your gift ensures that other parents who endure loss on their journey to parenthood have the support, resources, and community they need in order to navigate life after loss.
With your support in 2023 (Annual Report) RTZ HOPE continued to fulfill our mission of serving over 250,000 bereaved parents and the healthcare providers who support them through a variety of free and reduced fee programs and offerings.
HOW WE EMPOWER PROVIDERS:
Educated With Website Guides and Resources
Informed through Free Webinar Series
Hosted Free Drop-in Consultation Groups
Led Educational Trainings, Presentations, and Seminars
Provided Free Brochures and Materials
HOW WE ENGAGE PARENTS:
Connection through Social Media
Education Through Webinars
Email Newsletter
Extensive YouTube Channel
Healing In-Person Retreats
Informative Website Guides
Inspiration from our Stories of HOPE Blog
Meaningful Workshops
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