The 11-Year Portal: The Weight of the Only One Who Stayed

The Heavy Truth

I was going to give you Part 7 yesterday. I was going to talk about the "Quiet Smooth." But I couldn't look you in the eye and talk about strategy while my soul was vibrating at the frequency of April 20th.

Yesterday was the 11-year anniversary of the day I lost my twins.

Eleven years ago, I was lying in a hospital bed, waking up from a surgery that emptied my body. I woke up to a stranger and a Subway sandwich because the people you would naturally expect to be in that room were busy choosing the rhythm of their own lives. My mother was boarding a plane. My sister had her own family to get back to.

Exactly eleven years ago today—April 21st—my father picked me up and dropped me off at a two-bedroom apartment that I had rented with the intention of it being for three of us. I had to walk into those rooms and sit in the silence of a life I hadn't even gotten to start. I had to be "Solid" before I even knew how to breathe through the grief.

The Reality of the "Solid" One

When people look at me today, they see a woman who has it together. They see my 9-year-old rainbow baby and my 5-year-old son—my fiery reflection. They see strength. They see resilience. And I am grateful for that; I am grateful for the children who are the heart of my entire world.

But the truth of my reality is realizing that I am still the only one holding the line. That is lonely. That is heavy.

My mother is still alive, but she still doesn't see the true value in honoring the relationship between the two of us. My father is alive, but I don’t have the pleasure of speaking to or contacting him at free will. Through the weight of yesterday, I realized that while I am growing into a beautiful, well-developed woman, the people I came from have only seemed to grow more distant.

I don’t act like my crisis is anyone else’s job to fix. I understand my responsibilities. If there is anything in my world that needs to be fixed, I am the one who fixes it. If my house is peaceful, if it is secure, if it is quiet—it is because I have secured the premises.

I am proud of the world I’ve built, but I am tired of doing it alone.

I jumped the line to Part 11 because 11 years is a long time to stand in a gap by yourself. I’ve proven I can survive. I’ve proven I can lead. But today, I’m just a woman who wants to enjoy her children without the shadow of that absence looming over the room.

To the stranger with the sandwich: Thank you for being the only one who saw me when I was "nobody."

To my twins: Your mother is still here. She is still the atmosphere.

To Be Continued.