A new year is starting without my son, and I am not ready.
Everyone talks about fresh starts and new beginnings, but I don’t want one.
I want the year he existed in.
I want to stay where his breath was still in the air and his name was still being said in the present tense.
Walking into a year he will never touch feels unbearable.
Every day forward is another day further away from him.
Time is stealing the proof that he was here.
No more dirty socks on the bathroom floor.
No change beside his bed.
No chairs stacked outside the way he left them.
The world keeps cleaning him away piece by piece, and I am screaming inside for it to stop.
I’m terrified that as his things disappear, parts of me will too.
Because I was his mother.
Because my life was built around his presence.
This new year doesn’t feel hopeful.
It feels heavy.
It feels wrong.
It feels like learning how to breathe in a world where my child no longer exists.
And I don’t know how to do that yet.