The Things I Would Miss

Trigger warning: postpartum depression, depression, suicidal thoughts, and suicide note.

I try to live my life from a eulogy perspective.

Not in a morbid way. More like… Is this something I would want mentioned in my eulogy when I’m gone?

Work is important. Bills are important. Food is important. Keeping the lights on and showing up and doing all the things that grown ups are apparently supposed to do every single day, those things matter.

But they aren’t the most important.

Living with that perspective feels a little different when you’re someone who has struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts before.

Because when life gets rough, and I mean really rough, I have a letter.

I wrote it for my family during a time when I wasn’t sure I was going to be here to see all of the things I desperately wanted to see.

I’m fine. Really. Totally fine. Truly.

But I keep the letter.

And when things get dark, I read it.

It reminds me of everything I would miss.

The ordinary things. The ridiculous things. The people I love. The little moments I would never get back. The things that seem insignificant when you’re standing in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday but would probably feel like everything if you knew it was your last one.

That letter was written from the perspective of someone saying goodbye.

But somewhere along the way, it became a reminder to stay.

So I’m sharing it with you.

Not because I want you to worry about me. And not because I’m currently saying goodbye.

I’m sharing it because maybe you need the reminder, too.

Maybe you need to stop for a minute and ask yourself:

What would I miss?  Who would I miss?

What tiny, ordinary, beautiful things would I ache to experience one more time?

Maybe your answer is your kid climbing into your bed at 6 a.m.

Maybe it’s your husband’s stupid laugh.

Maybe it’s coffee on the porch.

Maybe it’s the song you always skip until you’re driving alone.

Maybe it’s a Tuesday that you currently think is completely unremarkable.

Maybe it’s something you haven’t even experienced yet.

There is still so much I haven’t seen.

So much I haven’t done.

So many people I haven’t met.

So many ordinary Tuesdays I haven’t gotten to complain about yet.

And honestly?

I want all of them.

⸻

The Letter I Wrote

A note about what you’re about to read: This is a letter I wrote during one of the darkest periods of my life. It was written as a suicide note, but I am not saying goodbye now. I’m sharing it because I still have it, and because reading it reminds me of all the reasons I am still here.

This is the letter I wrote for my family.

With all my love.

⸻

The Letter I Wrote

To my family,

If you’re reading this, then apparently I’m not there to say it myself. And honestly, I hate that. I hate that I don’t get to come home.

Because that was always my favorite thing. Coming home. Even when home was loud and messy and somebody needed something and somebody else was crying and there were dishes in the sink and laundry that had been sitting in the dryer for three days. I loved our chaos. I loved our little life. And if I could have known how badly I would miss it, I would have paid so much more attention to it while I was living it. I would have stayed five more minutes in the doorway. I would have held the baby a little longer. I would have listened to the story I had already heard seventeen times. I would have taken the picture instead of saying, “Hang on, let me finish this first.” I would have stopped cleaning. I would have sat down. I would have looked around. I would have realized that I was already standing in the middle of everything I had spent my whole life praying for.

Because that is what you were. The answer. All of you. My family. My babies. My husband. This ridiculous, beautiful, exhausting life. I hope you know that I never needed it to be perfect. I just needed it to be ours.

I loved you.

God, I love you.

I need you to know that. I need you to know that whatever happened inside of me, whatever became too heavy, whatever finally convinced me that I couldn’t keep carrying it, it was never because I didn’t love you.

It was never because you weren’t enough.  You were everything.  I was just so tired.

I tried so hard.  I hope you know that.

I tried to be a good wife. A good mom. A good daughter. A good friend. A good person.

I tried to hold everything together. I tried to show up when I was exhausted. I tried to smile when I didn’t feel like smiling. I tried to keep going when every part of me wanted to stop.

And for a long time, I thought trying harder would eventually make me feel better. I thought if I could just get through this week, this month, this season, this hard thing, then maybe I’d get to the other side and feel like myself again.

But I was so tired.

Katie.  My best big girl.  I hope you never remember me as the mom who worried so much. I hope you remember that I believed in you before you knew how to believe in yourself. I hope you remember how fiercely I fought for you. How many times I sat in a car and cried because I couldn’t figure out how to make the world feel a little softer for you. I hope you know that every hard conversation, every meeting, every email, every time I asked one more question, every time I refused to just accept “that’s how it is,” it was because you were worth fighting for. You always were.

And someday, when you’re grown and you have your own life and you don’t need me anymore, I hope you understand that there was never a single version of you that I would have traded for an easier child. You were never too much. You were never difficult to love. You were my girl, and I was so lucky I got to be your mom.

Parker, you came into my life after I had spent so much time wondering if I would ever get to hold a baby who was mine. And then there you were. My sweet girl. You don’t remember the beginning. You won’t remember the nights, the tiny clothes, the sleepy mornings, or the way I could stare at you forever. But I will. I will remember every second I got. I will remember how badly I wanted you. And I hope somebody tells you someday that you were loved long before you ever understood what love was. You were wanted. You were prayed for. You were worth waiting for.

And if I could give you one thing, it would be the ability to see yourself through my eyes. Because you would never question for a second whether you were loved. You’d know.

To my bonus girl, I hope you know that you didn’t come into my life as some footnote to somebody else’s story. You became part of mine. And I hope someday, when you’re old enough to understand all the complicated pieces of families and life and how people end up exactly where they are, you know that loving you was never something I had to force. You just became one of my people. That’s how it happened. One day you weren’t here, and then suddenly, you were. And somehow my heart made room without asking permission.

I hope you know I was proud of you. I hope you know I wanted you to know your worth. I hope you know that every boundary, every lecture, every “absolutely not,” every annoying mom moment came from the same place.  I wanted you safe.  I wanted you loved.  I wanted you to know that you never have to make yourself smaller to be worthy of being chosen.

And to my husband. God. I don’t even know how to write this part. Because how do you say goodbye to the person who built a life with you?

Thank you. For the life. For the ordinary things. For loving me when I was tired. For loving me when I was hormonal and overwhelmed and convinced I could handle everything myself. For knowing when I needed you even when I said I didn’t. For the nights we were both exhausted and still somehow laughed about something stupid. For every time you came home.

I hope you know I noticed. I noticed the sacrifices. I noticed the work. I noticed the ways you loved us that weren’t always loud enough for anyone else to see. And I hope you never let yourself believe that you weren’t enough for me. You were. You were my person.

And if I don’t get to grow old beside you, I need you to promise me something. Don’t stop living because I stopped. Please. Don’t turn the rest of your life into a monument to the part of it we lost. Take the kids somewhere. Go somewhere beautiful. Laugh. Fall in love with life again. And if someday you meet someone who makes you happy, I hope you don’t feel guilty. I hope you let yourself have it. Because if I loved you as much as I did, then I would want you to be loved again.

To all of you, I’m sorry for the things I didn’t get to finish. The conversations. The plans. The little promises. The trips we talked about. The things I said we’d do “someday.” I’m sorry there are going to be moments when you instinctively reach for your phone to call me. I’m sorry there will be birthdays where you look for me. I’m sorry there will be Christmas mornings where something feels wrong because I’m not standing in the kitchen. I’m sorry there will be songs you can’t listen to for a while. I’m sorry somebody will eventually make you laugh and then you’ll remember for half a second that you can’t call me and tell me about it.

I’m sorry for all the little absences. Those are the things I would be sorry for. Not the big stuff. The little stuff. Because the little stuff was my whole life.

My whole life wasn’t some grand story. It was grocery lists. School drop offs. Baby bottles. Laundry. Appointments. Work emails. Trying to remember who needed what. Finding someone’s missing shoe. Taking pictures. Making dinner. Forgetting to thaw dinner. Laughing until my stomach hurt. Crying in the car because sometimes that was the only quiet place. Kissing foreheads. Saying “I love you” even when nobody was listening.

It was ordinary. And it was everything.

I spent so much of my life thinking I needed to accomplish something important to prove that my life mattered. And then I had you. And I realized, oh. This is it. This is the important thing. You. You were the important thing.

So please don’t spend your lives chasing some imaginary version of perfect. Don’t save the good plates. Don’t wait until you have more money. Don’t wait until the house is clean. Don’t wait until everybody is less busy. Call your people. Sit on the porch. Eat the cake. Take the trip. Wear the shirt. Forgive the stupid argument. Tell someone you love them while they’re still here to hear it.

And for God’s sake, take the damn picture. Even when your hair is a mess. Even when the house is a disaster. Even when the baby is crying. Take it. Someday, that picture might be the thing somebody would give anything in the world to have.

And if someday you find yourself laughing about something I used to do, don’t stop because you feel guilty. Please laugh. Laugh until you cry. That’s what I would want.

I don’t want to become the sad part of your story. I want to be the part that reminds you how much you were loved.

I want you to remember that your mom was a little chaotic and a lot emotional and probably cared way too much about things that didn’t matter and somehow didn’t care enough about things that did. I want you to remember that I tried. God, I tried. I didn’t always get it right. But I tried so hard. I tried to be the mom you needed. The wife you deserved. The person my people could count on.

And sometimes I was tired. Sometimes I was so tired.

But please don’t ever mistake tired for regret.

I would choose this life again. Every messy, exhausting, beautiful piece of it. I would choose you every single time.

If I had known the last morning was the last morning, I would have held on longer. I would have memorized your faces. I would have listened to your voices. I would have kissed everybody twice. I would have stood in the kitchen and just looked at all of you. And I would have thought…This. This is what I was trying so hard to get to. I was already here. I just didn’t know it was the moment I was supposed to appreciate forever.

So don’t make that mistake. Please. Don’t wait for the last day to realize that today was precious. Because it was. Even the hard days. Especially the hard days. There was so much beauty hiding inside the ordinary.

And I hope you find it.

I hope you find me in it. In the baby pictures. In the ridiculous stories. In the songs. In the kitchen. In the smell of laundry. In the way somebody says “Mom” exactly like I used to hear it. In the little things.

That’s where I’ll be.

Not because I’m haunting you. Because I was there.

I was there.

I was lucky enough to be there.

And I need you to know something before you put this letter down. You were never a burden. You were never too much. You never took too much of me. You were my life.

And if I got tired, it wasn’t because I didn’t love you. It was because I loved you so much I kept trying to give you every piece of me I had.

I hope some of it stays.

Not the sadness. Not the grief. The love.

Keep that.

Carry it. Give it away. Let it make you softer, not harder.

And when you miss me so badly that it feels like your chest is splitting open, I hope you remember that feeling isn’t proof that I’m gone. It’s proof that I was here.

I was here.

I was yours.

And you were mine.

And for however long I got to have you, it was enough to make my whole life worth living.

I love you. I always have.

I always will.

And if there is one thing I wish I could come back just to tell you, it would be this:

I was so, so grateful that I got to be yours.

Please remember me that way.

At home.  In the middle of the mess with one of you yelling from another room. With a baby on my hip. With a thousand things left undone. Laughing about something stupid. Probably tired. Probably saying, “I’m fine.” Probably not fine.

I am completely, overwhelmingly, ridiculously in love with you.  That’s how I want you to remember me.

That’s how I want to be remembered.

I love you.