Last week was the (would have been) 11th birthday of my daughter. In a few weeks, it will be the 7th anniversary of her death.

That leaves four years. Four short years we had with her that were simply not enough.

To be sure, I am grateful for those four years.

I know people who were never able to conceive after years of trying. I’ve seen the heartache of those who suffered miscarriages or whose babies were stillborn. I have sat witness to the stories of those who only got to experience a few hours or days with their babies. Or those whose child never lived to see their first birthday.

I’ve also grieved next to those who had more than four years with their children before the unthinkable happened.

No matter the age or circumstance when our children died, we are all left with the same deep ache that will never go away.

Our children are a part of us. They are the embodiment of our greatest achievement and our deepest vulnerabilities. It is a bond that can never be broken. Not even by death. But they did die. And when they died, they took a part of us we can never get back. And it hurts like hell. 

The pain is unbearable and unrelenting at first. But over time the stabbing pain transforms into a duller ache. We learn to adapt to a life with that ache. With some work and determination, we can re-learn meaning, purpose, and joy. We can once again embrace the sweetness life has to offer if we know where to look.

But that ache forever remains.

When life shuts a door, another one opens. We’ve heard that saying time and again. And the death of a child is like a door forever stuck shut. We desperately try to peer through the keyhole to glimpse what once was. But that keyhole becomes more obstructed and harder to see through with the passage of time. We ache for the chance to open that door once again; knowing full well we can’t.

No matter how many new doors we open and travel through; no matter how wonderful it may be on the other side of these new doors; a part of us will always cling to that one door. We desperately try to peer through that keyhole while remembering the profound love that resided within it.

I am happy with where my life is heading. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’m grateful for the joy and love that fills me. I treasure my family.

But that ache is still there. Every moment of every day.

For the rest of my life, I’ll keep looking through that keyhole. I’ll do it to remember all of the joy and profound love she brought me in those four short years. And yet…I’ll keep opening new doors to see where life takes me. She would have wanted it that way.