STT. “Saying Goodbye to a Child Is Never Peaceful,” Brielle’s Mother Shares in Latest Statement

She used to think death was something that happened far away,
to other families,
in other stories,
on hospital screens or in whispered conversations that ended quickly.

She believed death was quiet,
that it slipped in gently,
that it carried peace in its hands,
that it always came with meaning already attached.

She did not know then that death could arrive like an open wound,
raw,
unannounced,
and unbearable in its honesty.

She had always wished people talked about death more openly,
but she never imagined the lesson would come through her own child.

People liked to soften the word,
to call it “passing,”
or “resting,”
or “going home.”

None of those words prepared her for what it felt like
to say goodbye to Brielle.

Saying goodbye to a child is not beautiful.

It is not poetic.

It is not peaceful.

It is violent in its silence
and merciless in its permanence.

There is no language large enough
to hold the sound a mother’s heart makes
when it breaks in half.

She had known fear long before that day.

Like most people,
she had always been afraid of death.

The unknown terrified her.

She worried she would not be ready.

She worried she had not done enough,
not prayed enough,
not believed strongly enough.

She feared standing at the end of the world
and realizing she was unprepared to meet her Savior.

Death felt like a test she would fail.

It felt like a door she did not want to open.

But everything changed on December 11th.

On that day,
a huge piece of her died with Brielle.

Not metaphorically.

Not emotionally.

But in a way so deep
that her body seemed to recognize it before her mind did.

The world did not stop turning,
and that felt like a betrayal.

The sun rose.

People laughed.

Cars drove past.

And yet Brielle was gone.

The room where she once slept felt impossibly loud.

Every toy felt heavier.

Every memory cut sharper.

She learned that grief does not come in waves.

It comes as gravity.

It presses down on the chest,
on the lungs,
on the future.

She learned that knowing Brielle was healed
did not soften the pain.

Faith did not erase longing.

Hope did not silence the ache.

Belief did not make the absence easier.

Even with the certainty that Brielle was no longer suffering,
even with the promise that they would see her again,
the pain of now felt impossible to bear.

She missed the weight of Brielle in her arms.

She missed the sound of her breath.

She missed the ordinary moments
that once felt invisible.

Grief taught her that love does not end with death.

It expands.

It stretches into places where language fails.

It becomes heavier
because it has nowhere to go.

Before December 11th,
death was her greatest fear.

After December 11th,
death lost its power over her.

Because death had already taken
what she loved most.

And it did not destroy her.

It changed her.

She realized that the worst thing she had ever imagined
had already happened.

And she was still standing.

Barely.

But standing.

Death no longer felt like an enemy waiting in the dark.

It felt like a doorway.

A painful one.

A terrifying one.

But no longer meaningless.

For the first time in her life,
she found herself praying not for time,
but for reunion.

She had never prayed for Jesus to come sooner
until Brielle left.

Now she whispered those prayers into the quiet.

Not out of despair.

But out of longing.

She longed for the day
when the broken pieces would finally make sense.

The day when grief would no longer live in her chest.

The day when she would feel whole again.

She imagined it often.

She imagined standing somewhere brighter than memory.

She imagined opening her arms.

She imagined Brielle running toward her,
free,
whole,
laughing without pain.

She imagined holding her again,
not briefly,
not fearfully,
but forever.

That image became her anchor.

Her reason to breathe.

Her reason to endure mornings she did not want to wake up to.

She learned that grief and faith can exist together.

That doubt and hope can share the same breath.

That belief does not mean the absence of pain.

It means choosing to carry it.

Some days she felt strong.

Other days she felt hollow.

Some days she spoke Brielle’s name with a smile.

Other days the name alone stole her breath.

She learned there is no correct way to grieve a child.

There is only survival.

There is only love trying to live without a body to hold.

She wished more people talked about death honestly.

She wished they admitted it is ugly.

She wished they stopped demanding beauty from loss.

Because not every goodbye is gentle.

Not every ending is peaceful.

Some endings tear the soul open
and leave it exposed to the world.

But she also learned that love is stronger than fear.

That death, once faced, loses its sharpest edge.

That when you have already buried a piece of your heart,
you are no longer afraid of the ground.

Brielle did not just change her life.

She changed her understanding of eternity.

Through loss,
she learned what it means to wait.

Not passively.

But faithfully.

She waits now
with arms wide open.

She waits with a heart that aches
and hopes at the same time.

She waits for the day
when goodbye will finally become hello.