It is hard, y'all.

It has been over a month since I last posted a blog post. During that time, we had the year anniversary of the worst week: Mitchell's death, the funeral, the "aftertime." Remembering so intently how hard those first days were, plus dealing with how hard these days are. It doesn't get better. It just gets... different.

So much is hard. It is hard to feel joy for friends who post on Facebook about miracles. It is hard when people say "We prayed and God delivered!" Because those kinds of posts make people like me rail at God and ask Him WHY he didn't deliver -- not so much for me, but for Mitchell. So no, I'm not interested in reading a book about miracles, about people who died and saw Heaven and came back. That doesn't mean I don't have faith in God's plan, in God's timing, and in Mitchell's getting to Heaven first. But even faith doesn't mean I don't miss Mitchell so much it hurts with every breath I take.

It is hard when people say "you are so strong." Because to my ears, that almost sounds like criticism, like I'm not grieving enough, like I should be doing something else. Don't ever say to a grieving mom "I couldn't do it; I couldn't get out of bed." Because of course you could; you HAVE to. I don't want to either, but I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other -- for Mike, for Carson, for Mitchell. Every day is a struggle doing that; some days more than others. I don't feel strong. And my brain is not really working. Work is HARD, because I can't concentrate. I used to be proud of my work, and now I'm not, because I'm barely getting by. I muddle through and try to accomplish what I need to. But know this: I am not the same person. I will not get over this. I am forever changed. We all are.

And I am so grateful to all of you who have rallied around the "new me" -- the new us.

It is hard to feel empathy for my blessed mom friends who are lamenting going back to school or taking their child to college or to their next hockey adventure. No, I don't know what it feels like, because all I know is that it doesn't feel like this. I would give anything to walk in your shoes and feel that precious ache of watching your son or daughter become the man or woman they are. Yes, you'll miss them; you'll miss their daily presence. That I know, because that is something I miss. Only you will get to have your "missing them" punctuated with texts, calls, emails, Facebook or Instagram, weekends home. Please don't get me wrong; this isn't meant to be a lecture. It is just hard. And please know that I am so darn excited for each and every one of your kids who are entering their senior year, or college, or playing hockey elsewhere. And some of you (Trevor, Jake, Ian, Lucas, Ben...), you better know we are cheering hard for you because we are going to say we knew you when, and we're going to want tickets...

It is hard to check the mailbox and get yet another piece of college mail addressed to Mitchell. Two came from UT last week; those may be some of the hardest. Not because I think he would have gone there, but I smile and cry to think about what he would have said. Probably something like "I'm not going there; that school is garbage" and then ended up on Hannah's couch for a week-long college visit in between hockey weekends. So much he is missing; so much we are missing.

It is hard to feel Carson's disappointment at not being selected to play for the team he has played on the past two seasons. To be twelve and to have your big brother ripped away from you, then to have your team ripped apart is a lot of "hard." He feels like he has lost his identity, and I can understand that. If Mitchell were here, he would tell Carson (and we have said this to him over and over) that he knows how hard it is to not be selected for a team that you thought you deserved to be on, based on your play and your tryout. But Mitchell would also tell him that at this very same age, he was not picked, and the team he ended up being on turned out to be his very favorite hockey season, and mine too, because that is where we both met some of the people who have turned out to be some of our very best friends. (That was the infamous Bantam BAAD team -- the one with three boys in the box, Andrea!) Just this week, a hockey mom friend sent a print of a painting of three jerseys hanging in the locker room, taken from Mitchell's Instagram account -- from that season.

So. It has been a year. And it's hard, y'all.