Please do not tell me that I am lighter than I was a year ago or two or nine. Do not call me strong or inspirational or a survivor. I am not lighter and, if I am honest, I am heavier because I know the worst can happen and that a person can live with profound grief. I am not strong for surviving the death of my precious Mackenzie. I survive because there is nothing else to do when you know how precious life is, how fragile and fleeting is our time to breathe upon this earth. I do not want to be an inspiration for the sorrow with which I have no other choice but to cope. I just want you to walk with me so that I am not alone and that you know you are not alone.

Nine years of living without Mack has not made me brave, but it has made me different in all the ways that human beings are remade when life throws them something hard or unexpected. I am not better; I am simply better at coping. I am still in pain but today I better balance my pain with the good bits of being human. I no longer find myself in the fetal position on the shower floor, sobbing and late to start a day, but every time the warm water hits my skin, I remember everything. Her death. My loss. The burden of every milestone collected in her absence. The pain in my bones. The throbbing ache in my heart for missing her. And then I wash myself with soap and memories and start a new day.

Because I am here.

Because I have two lives to live. One for myself and one for Mack.

I have rewarding and challenging work to keep my mind supple and give me purpose. I walk outside every single day and appreciate the fresh air. I practice yoga. Family nurtures me, and I have brilliant friends to share this life. I have my darling Savannah. I have my cozy bungalow. There are my dogs, birds chirping on my porch, and great gin with fresh lemon. I have books into which I can escape; and I have my writing to push me into a future I did not imagine was possible nine years ago. And a newfound joy of watercolor has awakened my inner child. And when I paint, Mack sits on my shoulder giggling with me at the hilarious results of her Momma Bear’s creative efforts. Watercolor is a new joy for me to share with the spirit of Mack in the quiet of my little archive room, sitting at the childhood desk she inherited from her big sister, the morning sun streaming in through the large windows.

I am okay. I can locate laughter. I know love, joy, and peace. I am melancholy, yes, but I am also beautifully bittersweet. I can hold love and pain, the quintessential qualities of being human, and be well in the knowing that this is precisely what it means to be alive.

I am productive and creative and content most days. I am here. And Mack is with me.