The first day of school can bring joy, pride and hope, but grief can make those milestones feel complicated. Brooklyn, one of our Lived Experience Ambassadors reflects on guilt, moving forward and learning that making new memories doesn’t mean leaving someone behind.
I had woken up expecting the day to be emotional, but I thought those emotions would be about the child beginning school. I wasn’t prepared for how deeply I would ache for the child who never had the opportunity to begin.
This week, I took my youngest son to his first day of school.
We had completed the forms, visited the school, bought the uniform and prepared his book bag. That morning, I took the photographs, held his hand and walked with him towards the school gates.
I felt incredibly proud.
But somewhere among the excitement and nervousness, grief appeared.
I thought about Zay.
I thought about the uniform I would never buy for him, the photographs I would never take and the school gates I would never stand beside him at. I thought about all the ordinary milestones that should have belonged to him — and to me, as his mummy.
I had woken up expecting the day to be emotional, but I thought those emotions would be about the child beginning school. I wasn’t prepared for how deeply I would ache for the child who never had the opportunity to begin.
I cried for most of the morning.
Grief does that. It does not only arrive on anniversaries, birthdays or the dates we circle because we know they will hurt. Sometimes it appears in the middle of a beautiful moment.
Sometimes another child’s milestone illuminates everything your child did not get the chance to experience.
For a moment, I felt guilty that grief had entered such a joyful day. I wondered whether my sadness was somehow taking something away from the child I was celebrating.
But joy and grief are not opposites.
I could be completely present for my youngest son while desperately missing Zay. I could celebrate one child’s beginning while mourning everything another child was denied. My tears did not mean I was any less proud or grateful. They were simply another expression of love.
Bereaved parents learn to carry these contradictions.
We celebrate while remembering. We smile while aching. We remain present for the children who need us while continuing to mother the child who is no longer physically beside us.
That morning, pride and grief walked through the school gates together.
And somehow, I carried them both.
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