I find myself returning here most nights, wandering into this midnight haze, body worn but mind in overdrive. Suspended midway between the day that’s trying to furrow itself into my memory and my inability to let go so that I might slip through that narrow tunnel into the void where sleep promises freedom from my grief.


As I learn to live again through the everyday-ishness that at most times seems incompatible with my reality as a mother whose son has died, I find myself longing for the end of each day when the clatter and chatter is over and I am alone. It’s getting easier to balance the joy and the sorrow in that outside world since it’s been three and a half years since my world collapsed, so I do laugh and I do smile and I do genuinely feel “good” at times. But there remains a darkness in me.

As foreboding as it may be, I long to wander into the midnight haze at the end of each day and drop the cloak which I’ve wrapped myself in, drop the shield I’ve used to protect myself from the world which I so often feel disconnected from. It’s in that midnight haze where I search for the woman I now am. It’s there where I can peer into the dead zone that lies beyond my eyes and become re-acquainted with me, the grieving mother.

Immersed in the midnight haze, I allow myself to breathe in the magnitude of my loss and listen to the silent, yet oh so mournful wails, which emanate from my bones, my bones now long steeped in sorrow. And it’s there, in that place of suspension, where there is no need to still the thoughts, no need to appear normal. It’s there that I can allow the horror to slap me upside the face, to beat into me the truth that this is who I now am, a mother who will never, ever, again see or touch or hear her son on this side of the realm.

The midnight haze. Suspended between two worlds. Free to be. Free to feel the real me, as I pray for the liquidity to slip through that narrow tunnel, to slip into the void where sleep promises freedom. To escape from my grief until I awaken and enter a new day.

I come to me in the midnight haze…because I cannot forget who I am.


  1. Susan,

    You’ve captured “mother sorrow” so well. It has been just over three years for me since the loss of my precious son. Thank you for sharing your grief in such a tender and honest way. I identified with every word you wrote.

    Love to you,

    1. Thank you, Pam. I’m sorry for your loss of your precious son. You and I are on the same approximate timeline of grief, which holds little meaning as there is no predictability to our grief. Right? Love and peace to you. Sue

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