Four years ago today, Peyton's suffering ended and my suffering began.
I would like to say that loving and losing Peyton made me a better or stronger person. I would love to bask in gratitude for all of the lessons she taught me, or feel joy that she is with Jesus. There are a lot of beautiful ways I would love to be able to spin this in my mind, but the reality is that four years ago today my child struggled for her final breaths in my arms.
I will likely never be okay with that.
I am angry and hurt. I am sad and bitter. I walk a line between feeling incredibly blessed and grateful for the joys in my everyday life, joys that I know Peyton worked hard to bring me, and feeling an immense amount of sorrow over how incredibly robbed she was. Of life. Of joy. Of growing up. Of everything.
Peyton never even felt the sun on her face. She never breathed fresh air.
She was born into a world where she gave only love, and knew only pain.
I guess four years is not long enough to blunt my anger at that.
