Stormeyes Enchanted

This Morning, I Didn’t Wake Up—I Surfaced Through the Panic.

This morning wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t gentle. It’s been heavy. It’s been painful. For no reason at all.

I opened my eyes and didn’t feel awake—I felt like I had surfaced from somewhere dark and heavy and overpowering, gasping for breath. And before I even reached the sink to see just how wild my hair had become from another restless night, the panic had already started screaming in my chest.

Restless legs. Racing thoughts. Short breath. That deep, unsettled ache that has become part of my waking world.

This isn’t something I used to deal with.
This is life after losing Garet.
This is trauma. PTSD.
And now it’s mine to navigate.

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The Fairies in My Hair & the Earthquake in My Chest

By the time I brushed out the mess (and trust me, it looked like a team of fairies had spent the night twirling in it), I was already mid-spiral. Shaky hands. Tight jaw. Silent tears. Tight chest. No trigger. Just… everything.

My husband was briefly awake, which meant I had to try and push through the panic. But today? It wasn’t going down easy.

I still catch myself looking to where my bedroom door used to be in that old life, waiting—just waiting—to see Garet with his ASL “I love you” sign as he passed by. And even after 1,150 days, I still look. I wonder if I always will.

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This Is What It Looks Like Now

Some days, I want to curl up in the dark and let the world be too big without me in it. I want to cover my ears and somehow silence the terror in my mind.
But I don’t.
Because there are still kids to care for. Cats to be annoyed by. Reptiles to feed. Bills to pay. Laundry that doesn’t care how I’m feeling.

So I stay. I show up. I breathe—even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

And I write. I write because this is my truth.
This is what grief looks like when it’s not quiet or polite.
This is what it looks like to live with the weight of love that has nowhere to go.

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The Things My Body Carries Now

I’m learning so much about myself—things I didn’t know before this loss.

🔹 My fists clench when I walk, nails leaving marks in my palms.
🔹 I clench my jaw so hard that when I do relax, my jaw trembles from exhaustion. My teeth are damaged from 1,150 days of this jaw clenching.
🔹 I’ve never told anyone this. Not even my husband. Not even my best friend. Not even anyone. I am not even sure I’ve told myself before today.

My husband already carries so much pain from this. I know just looking at me is painful for him. I think sometimes just my voice may be too much. And I know it’s not easy to love someone who’s rebuilding herself from pieces. And I know it annoys him. But he still does it.

And I’m still here.
Still learning. Still Stumbling. Still falling.
Still refusing to give up.

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Why Cooking Makes Me Sad

I thought maybe cooking was just something I never really enjoyed before.
I blamed it on my past. I blamed it on preference. On my love for creativity.

But this morning, mid-panic, it hit me:
I stopped cooking because I can’t stop seeing that moment.
Standing in the kitchen, holding my youngest daughter, burying my face in her hair as I listened to them carry my son out in a bag.

That’s where the shaking started.
That’s when the kitchen became a battlefield.

And I didn’t even know until today. Today will be difficult. Any day I dig and find some sort of answer hurts. And I know it is a part of healing. I know this has to happen. But the pain in my chest today is a lot. Today I would love to hide and cry until this–feeling–leaves. But I’m not hiding. Today I am being open and honest and raw.

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Grief Gave Me Back My Voice

I’ve returned to something I hadn’t touched since school—writing. And now it’s what gets me through.

This loss has introduced me to other grieving moms who explain the unexplainable. It’s shown me kindness from strangers. It’s given me a deeper understanding of addiction, trauma, and what real love looks like in the face of devastation.

Someday, I’ll tell Garet’s story enough times that maybe—just maybe—it saves someone else.

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🌱 So What Now?

I don’t know exactly who I am anymore.
But I know this:
I’m not the same. I will never be the same.
And maybe that’s okay. I have been resisting but maybe it’s not about going back to who I was.
Maybe it’s about embracing the new, messy, broken, beautiful version of me—and figuring it out one breath at a time.

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Have You Felt This Kind of Morning?

If you’ve ever woken up into the panic, into the grief, into the spinning mess of thoughts—you’re not alone.
Tell me how you cope. Or just say hi.
We weren’t meant to do this alone. 💜

Hugs, my friends.

Love and Light ~Mandy