Before I can begin, I breath for him

Every morning begins the same way, yet now it feels wholly different. Before, I would roll out of bed to go through the motions, yet now a pull myself from one step to the next. Before I can even entertain the thought of facing the day ahead and look myself in the mirror, I drag myself to the treadmill in the corner of my garage gym. It's become more than just a piece of exercise equipment; it's a lifeline, a tether keeping me afloat and within my body.

As I step onto the treadmill, the weight of grief settles around me like a heavy blanket. Each step heavy, the weight of grief hangs heavy on my shoulders, pulling me down with each trudging step, as if I carry the weight of the world within me.

And yet, I keep moving. Because even as my heart is oddly ok some days and pangs in my chest other days, I know that I cannot let the darkness consume me. So I push myself first just to get up and go, then to go just a little bit faster, and maybe in a day, a week, a month to run, as if the physical exertion can somehow outrun the pain that lingers in the shadows.

But it's not just the treadmill that serves as a reminder of what I have lost. As I move through my workout routine to squats because it’s leg-day, what should be my favorite day, each breath that gets deeper and harder between reps brings me back to those agonizing hours spent with my child in my arms, watching helplessly as he fought to hold on.

I can hear the sound of his labored breathing, the sight of his tiny chest rising and falling with each gasp for air. I remember the feeling of my own chest tightening with fear and grief, the desperate prayers whispered in the silence of the hospital room to bring him peace.

And yet, amidst the pain and the heartache, there is also a strange sense of comfort in the familiarity of the ritual. As I struggle to catch my breath between sets, there is a strange sense of satisfaction and reassurance as I am reminded that I am still here, still fighting, still clinging to the fragments of a life that I once knew. Oddly, I’m also enamored by my strange pride in his tenacity and ability to push for as long as his little heart, probably the size of a small clementine, could.

Each drop of sweat that falls to the ground is an offering, a silent vow to honor the memory of Aiden by living my life with purpose and intention. Even on the days when the weight of grief threatens to crush me, I find solace in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, of breathing in and out, of moving forward, one step at a time.

Pedaling Through Grief

As I sit here, sweat-drenched and breathless, the hum of the tacx bike trainer slowly fading down the background, I find myself reflecting on the journey that brought me to this moment. Just a few short days ago, the very idea of getting back into a workout routine felt like an insurmountable obstacle, an impossible feat in the wake of losing my precious baby. Yet here I am, pedaling through the pain, one revolution at a time.

I know the road back to fitness after such a profound loss will be anything but smooth. A small interruption from my kids has me jumping off early to give them an embrace. There have been days when even the thought of stepping onto this bike felt like too much to bear, days when the weight of grief threatened to drag me under. But there have also been moments of triumph, of clarity, of love, of fleeting glimpses of the person I used to be before my world was shattered.

Today's ride was one of those moments. As I pushed myself to go just a little bit faster, to pedal just a little bit harder through the pain I still feel constant in my chest, I felt a sense of liberation wash over me. For those precious minutes, the grief and the guilt faded into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of my heartbeat and the rush of wind against my skin.

But even as I reveled in the sense of freedom that came with each pedal stroke, I couldn't escape the reminders of what I have lost. The echoing silence of the guest room with a scent of fresh paint that days ago been a nursery, the knowledge that no matter how fast or how far I ride, I can never outrun the ache in my heart.

And yet, amidst the struggle, there is also a glimmer of hope as I pedal towards an uncertain future while being reminded that healing is a journey and an exploration of the soul. It's not about reaching some arbitrary finish line or achieving some unattainable level of perfection. It's about finding moments of joy and solace amidst the sorrow, about honoring the memory of the one I have lost by living my life to the fullest.

So I will continue to pedal, to push myself beyond my limits, to embrace the pain and the joy and the bittersweet beauty of it all. Because in the end, it's not about how fast or how far I ride, but about the courage it takes to keep moving forward, one revolution at a time. And for today, that's enough.