I never thought that I would be sitting here, staring at the keyboard, wondering just how to get all these things that are in the depths of my being out. I never once thought that my witty quips and random thoughts would fail to come pouring out from my fingertips with the scary ease of someone that really doesn't care about what people think.

But I can't do that. Not right now. Not today. Maybe not even 100 years from now.  Our life has been uprooted. Our once steady tree that we called family has turned sick. It's become blighted with disease and has caused a limb to fall off, leaving us broken.  As we stare at the spot that once was whole and hearty, even if it wasn't healthy, it was a part of us.

And it's gone. It was stolen from us. Taken.

Days seems to be at this weird impasse where they move quickly yet so agonizingly slow at the same time it's like an Olympic runner slogging through maple syrup. Every day is so different. Yet so exactly the same. Every day revolves around functioning. It revolves around eating, playing, cooking, cleaning, breathing. It revolves around being. It revolves around grieving. It revolves around that choking feeling where you have something lodged so firmly in your throat that you cannot clear it. It revolves around a tight chest, shortness of breath, unimaginable pain exploding in the extreme depths of your soul. It revolves around trying to figure out just where the sliver of silver lining will be in your day. It revolves around loss. Of tears. Of anxiety. Of the intangible questions. Doubt. Fear. Worry. It revolves around trying to figure out this new person that has taken over your body. It revolves around trying to figure out how to become whole again when such an important piece of you has been taken away.

Our life has shattered. I feel like there's something in me all the time that is just broken. I'm constantly fighting back tears. And when they do come they're the kind that fall slowly. They're the tears of extreme heart break and loss. Wet, silent reminders of things that have passed. Wet, silent reminders that I am alive, that I will endure. I will never be perfectly whole again. I will always have a damaged piece that will never fit quite right. Like that leftover puzzle piece that wasn't made quite right so that there's a perfectly imperfect blemish on an otherwise good picture. Others might not notice it, but it's there.

Our sweetest Dinky is gone. And it hurts. He slipped into his angel wings at 10:03 am, Sunday, December 13th 2015. 10 days before my 30th birthday. 11 days before his 16th month mark. 12 days before Christmas. And about 1000 years before we were ready.

No one is ever ready to say goodbye to their child. No one ever wants too. But it happens. Every day around the world someone is kissing their child for the last time and I will never, never forget that his very last kiss on this Earth, with his physical body, was the one that we gave him as he was taken from us. His heart wasn't beating, He had become stiff. Cold. But that was my last kiss to him. To the top of his downy soft blonde hair. Maybe one day I will write about the events surrounding his passing. It might help in some obscure therapeutic way.

I miss his face. The smell of him. His laughing eyes. The happiness. The perfectly imperfect person that he was. He was the very definition of strength to us. We are not glad that he is gone. No one can ever be glad that their child has passed. But we are thankful that he is now at peace. His life Earth side was so, so hard for him but he gave it his all every day in any way that he could.

His last moments Earth side were surrounded by so much heartbreaking love that it still makes me short of breath. We were blessed that we had those moments with him. To tell him that it was okay, that we loved him so much, that he had been so strong, that he was so strong, that he was so so loved. That it was okay for him to go. We sung to him as we held him. We wept the tears that only those that have dealt with loss know. Dinky slipped into his angel wings to you are my sunshine. And he was. He was such the brightest little sunshine.

And when he slipped into his angel wings he took that light with him into the sky, into the stars. That's where he is now. And it gives a sense of comfort, if not peace, to know that he's up there watching us. Shining brightly.

Whole. Healthy. Physically able to run and jump and play and swim and swing. He's whole in the stars. He's healthy and that is such lovely thing to know and to think about. And he knows that he is and will be forever loved, every single day. I just wish that I had more. More time. More love. More hugs and kisses and cuddles and laughs. More smell. More laughs. Just more of everything. He will never grow up here. He will never know his second birthday. Or Christmas. We will never know of the things that he would learn to do. Never know if he would take his first steps, learn to say words. But we know that he was loved. And there was never a day that he doubted it. And for that, I'm thankful.

Even when it feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest about 100 times a day. Even when it feels like I cannot breathe. That I'm drowning in what seems like my own personal ocean of hell. A fellow mum in one of my groups knows this pain. She knows exactly what we are going through and she said that her husband said that grief is like the ocean.

And it is. Sometimes there are good days. Calm, steady days. And sometimes there are the bad days. The ones that suck you under. And sometimes I fight to get back up as quickly as possible, even if it leaves me exhausted. Sometimes I just let it take me because I know full well that eventually it will pass and I can break surface again.

All I know is that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Life ever gives you more than you can handle. And that I am so extremely blessed to have the strength of my family and friends. Of my husband. Of my children. My parents. In-laws. Friends. Neighbours. I know that one day I will be able to find strength in myself again as well. Because that's what we do.

We are not victims of child loss.

We are survivors. Even if that means we have to figure out how to find our feet again. We are survivors because I refuse to give up, because we refuse to give up. Divided we falter and fall. Together we can rise up and become whole, never perfect and forever we will be scarred. But the wounds will stop bleeding one day, and one day there will be a scar. And one day the mention of his name won't be a giant kick to my soul. But not this day. And not tomorrow. But one day.

We miss you so much Dinky, our sweet little boy. We love you so, so much. Rest easy, dance and dream and play. Kiss us from the clouds. Our sweetest little Prince of the Stars, you'll always know how much we love you.