Nobody puts baillee in the corner

It’s almost been a whole year without you. I’m writing this in mid-June because I want to give myself time before I read this again and post it on the anniversary of your death. I don’t know if it’s helpful or harmful, but either way, it’s what feels right. 

Almost a whole year without your laugh. 

Almost a whole year without our two-hour phone calls. 

Almost a whole year without your voice, outside of saved voicemails. 

I miss your stories. 

I miss your kindness (like how you helped deliver a baby in an H‑E‑B). 

I miss you so much it physically hurts. 

Some people say it gets easier, but right now, I don’t see how. 

I keep thinking about all of the things I’ve accomplished this year. 

I keep thinking about how you would’ve rooted me on for starting my own blog. 

I keep thinking about how supportive you’d be of me starting my own channel. 

I keep thinking about you. 

I try to celebrate you however I can, be it through actions or words, both written and spoken. 

I try to live how I know you would’ve wanted me to, by being courageous, taking risks, and spreading kindness. 

I try to remember you however I can, through stories, photographs, and all the little trinkets you bought or made me. 

Grief seems to be a vicious beast I have yet to conquer. 

It taunts me in the broad daylight and at night when I try to lay my head down. 

On the unlucky nights, it infiltrates my dreams, and I wake up to the feeling of tears on my cheeks. 

I have the best support system in the world, but it still feels so incredibly lonely. 

Especially when your one-woman support system isn’t here to step up to the plate. 

The silence from the sidelines is deafening when your biggest cheerleader is no longer screaming for your victory. 

There are so many times I’ve caught myself talking about KP in the present tense, only to awkwardly correct myself. 

There are so many times I’ve worked KP into conversations when talking to anyone from coworkers to best friends. 

There are so many times I’ve thought, “If only KP were here,” when I wanted to vent or cry or share things throughout the day. 

I’m so grateful for the time I had with my mom, and I think it shows by how devastating the loss was/is. 

I know she’s still here because I feel her, but it’s so hard to simply believe instead of receiving the nod or “uh huh” you get from a physical person. 

I’m living my life for myself, but I still live for her, too. 

Another whole year of life for me means another year without you. 

I’d say I hope you’d be proud of me, but I know you are. 

For KP. For always.