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The Bereaved Mother.
Those words probably create an image draped in darkness. In sorrow. In unforgettable heartbreak. An image that probably makes some people draw back and distance themselves.
Incase it’s catching, perhaps?
Who is she? What does she look like?
She looks like a mother. A mother who experiences the same love and fear as any other mother. Yet she’s bereaved. So that love and that fear are angled slightly differently.
She is your friend. She is your sister. She is your daughter. She is your colleague. She sits next to you
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on the bus. She hides behind sunglasses. She laughs. She cries. She smiles. She aches. She feels joy. She’s utterly bereft. She longs. She has the darkest of humours. She’s anxious. So so anxious. She’s waiting for the next devastation. She’s desperate. Desperate for her motherhood to be seen.
She loves.
She’s lost.
She doesn’t need you to question how she was Bereaved, or when, or why. She doesn’t want you to weigh up her right to feel what she does. She doesn’t need comparisons. She doesn’t need comfort in the form of empty
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platitudes. It isn’t actually comforting. She doesn’t need advice when it hasn’t been asked. She doesn’t need silence. She craves connection. She craves mutual love. She craves understanding. She craves a wingman. Someone who will be there – not to do anything – but to just be there. She craves for you to remember. She craves the opportunity to speak their name. She wishes no one truly understood; but also that everyone at least tried.
She is a mother. Bereaved yes. But a mother first and foremost. She needs to still belong. She is a mother.
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One of the most relatable and recognisable versions of a person.
She is a mother.
Who Mothers still.
Forever more.
She is a mother.
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Jessica Clasby-Monk - 7 Mar 19
The Bereaved Mother.
Those words probably create an image draped in darkness. In sorrow. In unforgettable heartbreak. An image that probably makes some people draw back and distance themselves.
Incase it’s catching, perhaps?
Who is she? What does she look like?
She looks like a mother. A mother who experiences the same love and fear as any other mother. Yet she’s bereaved. So that love and that fear are angled slightly differently.
She is your friend. She is your sister. She is your daughter. She is your colleague. She sits next to you on the bus. She hides behind sunglasses. She laughs. She cries. She smiles. She aches. She feels joy. She’s utterly bereft. She longs. She has the darkest of humours. She’s anxious. So so anxious. She’s waiting for the next devastation. She’s desperate. Desperate for her motherhood to be seen.
She loves.
She’s lost.
She doesn’t need you to question how she was Bereaved, or when, or why. She doesn’t want you to weigh up her right to feel what she does. She doesn’t need comparisons. She doesn’t need comfort in the form of empty platitudes. It isn’t actually comforting. She doesn’t need advice when it hasn’t been asked. She doesn’t need silence. She craves connection. She craves mutual love. She craves understanding. She craves a wingman. Someone who will be there – not to do anything – but to just be there. She craves for you to remember. She craves the opportunity to speak their name. She wishes no one truly understood; but also that everyone at least tried.
She is a mother. Bereaved yes. But a mother first and foremost. She needs to still belong. She is a mother. One of the most relatable and recognisable versions of a person.
She is a mother.
Who Mothers still.
Forever more.
She is a mother.
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Blogger, mother, awareness advocate at The Legacy of Leo on behalf of my son, Leo Phoenix
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