Listening to Myself

These past few days have carried a heaviness and a tenderness I wasn’t expecting. It started when my brother invited me to my godson’s police academy graduation — a moment I wouldn’t have missed for anything.

Elijah and my godson shared a special bond — not just in childhood, but through the years. Even though they lived in different states, they stayed connected. They messaged, they checked in, they laughed, they kept that thread between them alive. I remember when Anthony was little, he would always ask, “Is Elijah here?” and get so disappointed if Elijah wasn’t with me. Elijah was always someone he looked up to.

So when Elijah passed, that living connection — that ongoing relationship — was lost too. I can’t speak for him, but I know the loss had to be extremely painful.

When my brother asked me to come to the ceremony, the answer was immediate: yes.

Not just for Anthony — but for Elijah, too. I wanted him there with us.

I spent time choosing the right gifts: a framed photograph of the two boys, rosary beads made especially for police officers, and a card with words that came straight from my heart. The drive there — over an hour and a half alone — was emotional. I cried. I talked to Elijah. I felt the weight of what would never be again.

Then, in the pouring rain on that cold morning, I looked over and saw a hawk perched on a bare branch. Still. Watching.

I hadn’t seen a hawk in over a week — and for me, hawks have always been Elijah. (I am always looking for the hawk.)

It felt like a sign:

“I’m with you, Mom.”

At the ceremony and afterward at my brother’s house, emotions stayed close to the surface. My brother hugged me like he always does — a big, grounding hug. And then later, when Anthony opened his gift, he gave me the biggest hug, the kind that wrapped around my heart and broke it open all at once.

He hugged me like Elijah used to — strong, full, wholehearted.

And then he looked at me and said, “I love you.”

I wept.

The day after the ceremony, I went to work.

I had just gotten my new Busy Bee business cards, and even though it made me feel vulnerable, I brought them with me. I handed them to the massage therapists I was working with that day — including one coworker I’ve known for years.

At break, he looked at my card and said, “Wow, I didn’t know you did this.”

Later, he read my story online.

And then — unexpectedly — he came up to me and said,

“Marcia, I need to tell you something… I am so proud of you.”

It landed differently than anything I’d heard in a long time.

It wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t “You’re so strong,” which always feels like people don’t know what else to say.

It was real.

It was human.

It was one parent talking to another parent, understanding the unthinkable.

He asked if he could hug me — and when he did, my shoulders dropped. I let myself receive it. I cried. It was a hug that didn’t feel overwhelming or smothering. It felt… safe.

And then today, something else.

I was in the bathroom and suddenly noticed a painting hanging on the wall — a picture someone gifted me after Elijah died, based on a photograph of me holding him when he was maybe three. I’ve seen that painting a hundred times. But today, for some reason, the sunflowers stood out.

I started my Busy Bee book in 2016. Sunflowers are woven into it.

And here they were in this painting — something I never asked for, never planned, never noticed until now.

It felt like another quiet sign beyond coincidence.

Another whisper of connection.

Another thread back to Elijah.

All of this — the ceremony, the hawk, the hug at work, the sunflowers — has pushed something open in me.

Not just emotionally.

Spiritually.

Physically.

It’s made me see what these past weeks have been trying to teach me about receiving, about trust, about paying attention to my own body — my instincts, my intuition, my limits.

I’m learning how to notice what feels safe and what doesn’t.

I’m learning what feels like home in my nervous system — and what doesn’t.

I’m learning to stop overriding myself to make other people comfortable.

For so long, I equated receiving with owing.

Tit for tat. Keeping score. Feeling indebted.

It made receiving feel unsafe — like there would always be a price.

But these recent moments — these small but powerful moments — have been showing me something different.

Receiving can be clean.

Receiving can be safe.

Receiving can be simply… love.

After Elijah died, everything inside me was chaotic — loud, raw, overwhelmed.

My nervous system craved something steady. Something quiet. Something gentle.

It craved peace.

And to find peace, I’ve had to do uncomfortable things.

Make difficult boundaries.

Sit with myself.

Sit with grief.

Sit with truth.

Most of all, I’ve had to learn how to not abandon myself.

I’m discovering how to pay attention to what my body has been telling me all along — the tight chest, the sinking in my stomach, the exhaustion that shows up when I’m giving too much. I’m learning not to ignore myself anymore.

Because peace isn’t something I find out there in other people.

Peace is what happens when I stop abandoning myself.

Peace is what rises when I finally listen to me.

May you come home to yourself,

and may you find that everything you’ve been longing for

is already inside you —

quiet, steady, waiting.💛