Grieving mother’s life —
dark, sharp, and served with a side of
“seriously, f**k this sh*t” !!!
Ah yes… the glamorous, envy-worthy life of a grieving mom. She wakes up every morning (
mornings come with a special kind of suckage) to that jolt of panic — not from her alarm clock,
but from the soul-splitting realization: yep, still real... No, it wasn’t just a nightmare. It actually is
a f**ng nightmare, and she is living it. And yes, she still has to function like a normal human in a
world that has no idea she’s walking around with half her heart missing.
Her new hobbies include:
– Crying and screaming in the car to her son’s playlists while parked suspiciously long in a
shopping plaza facing away from the crowd hoping no one parks next to her.She calls it her new
Self-care. Add a thrilling rotation of therapy sessions, grief groups and trauma courses to that
“care “ list.
– Avoiding questions like “How many kids do you have?” like they’re actual landmines
– Overthinking texts because people think grief has an expiration date
Oh, and let’s not forget her Oscar-worthy performance in public:
“You’re so strong.” — No, Karen, she’s dissociating.
“You should try cleaning out his room!” — She did. She held her son’s worn sock & smelt his
worn hoody, took out his shoes and soccer uniform , sobbed her guts out and put it all back until
next time she’s ready to cry out of her left pinky toe.
“Everything happens for a reason.” — Sure, tell that to the hole in her heart the size of her child
“It’s not a straight line,” they say. Right — it’s more like a blender. On high. With the lid off. And
she’s the kitchen.
“God needed another angel.” Cool, hope God is enjoying His collection, because she sure as
HELL isn’t.
“You should get a dog- it will brighten your life!” Okay actually, fair — the dog is the only one
who gets it.
And holidays? Emotional warfare. Mother’s Day? Don’t even.. Her own birthday? A celebration
of surviving a year she didn’t ask for.
And joy? Joy has to file a formal request and wait six to eight business months before being
cautiously let in for five whole minutes before guilt shows up like, “Oh hi, remember me?”
She didn’t choose this life. But she’s living it. Despite the madness, the weird, clueless advice ,
the emotional landmines and the general absurdity of trying to live after her soul has been
shattered…She shows up — with mascara smudged, sarcasm sharp, pockets full of used
tissues and a fierce love for her child that refuses to be silenced.
Because this isn’t strength — this is survival. This is grief: raw, chaotic, and so soul-wrenching
that sometimes the only thing left to do is laugh… darkly, loudly, and maybe even with a fistful of
chocolate. Or cake. Or both. At 2am? Or 1pm..with a cup of tea ? Or a glass of Scotch? Why
not!? There are no rules to grief — just survival, chaos and some sarcasm for dessert.
To all the grieving mamas : You’re not alone in this weird club none of us asked to join. I see
you. I am you.
Love , Max’s Momz
