“Time heals all wounds.”

I’m certain you’ve heard that saying. It’s a nice thought. But the truth is not so simple and clean cut as that. It makes me think whoever coined the phrase hadn’t yet suffered the devastating loss of a loved one that both shatters and redefines the world you live in.

Another new year was ushered in this past week. It will be another year that my daughter did not live to see. An unwelcome reminder that she has been gone for more years than she lived to experience. It takes me further away from her. Further from her birth, her short life, and the impossible moment of her death.

It is distance.

Distance is a difficult concept to grasp or explain in the context of grief.

It is both good and bad at the same time. Both painful and liberating. It can both soften your devastation while solidifying the difficult reality of loss.

It can help close the door to the agony of early grief, just as it unearths new aspects of grief that you hadn’t expected. And weren’t altogether ready for.

I am thankful for the distance between where I am now and the horror of the day my daughter drowned.

I no longer fear that if I close my eyes I might be forced to recall and relive the worst day of my life. I’m no longer a complete wreck who can’t manage basic functions in the world around me. I am no longer at the mercy of uncontrollable waves of emotion that might leave me a crying, angry, trembling mess for the majority of the day.

But it isn’t just distance. It is distance combined with hard work. If I had not acknowledged my grief or faced my emotions head on, I might still be trapped in a web of despair concealed by numbness. I might have completely cut myself off from any meaningful interaction with life. Or swallowed my pain and pushed it so deep that it transformed itself into a devastating and debilitating illness.

Time alone does not heal all wounds. Time just gives you more opportunities to work through your pain…or to find new ways to try to hide from it.

Distance has given me perspective. The perspective that the four years I did get to spend with my daughter is much more than those who are denied the opportunity to have children in the first place. Or those who lose children before they even take their first breath. And while I am forever grateful for having more than a few days, weeks, or months with her, distance also makes me envious of those who got to spend more time – even decades – with their children.

Four years worth of memories of my daughter don’t add up to much. I don’t have a treasure trove of stories to tell. The milestones are limited and weren’t cataloged all that well to begin with. After all, I was expecting a lifetime of them. She didn’t have friends, lovers, or children who will remember her in perpetuity. Her brothers were too young to remember most of the time they spent with her.

All those everyday moments I took for granted are eroding away on the treacherous path of distance. Details are being lost to time. My mind tries to fill in the gaps based on pictures or conjecture, but it only serves to make me question the validity of those memories I once felt so sure of.

When memories are all you have left, distance becomes your enemy…and a new form of grief.

I don’t know what distance has in store for me. Each passing day, week, month and year seem to bring new healing and personal growth. For that I am truly grateful. But it is always with an undertow of longing. I suppose it is representative of life itself. With love comes pain. With pain comes understanding. Understanding leads to growth. Personal growth brings wisdom, purpose, and fulfillment.

I suppose if I am forced to live the rest of my life without watching my daughter grow, I will continue to try to grow and thrive in her honor. From that perspective, I can’t wait to see what the future will bring.