There are days when getting out of bed feels like a punishment. When the world moves on like nothing happened, and I'm stuck. My body hollowed out and my heart heavy with a name that never got spoken aloud.

After a miscarriage, people want you to heal quickly, quietly. But the grief is loud. It lingers. And in the thick of that silence and ache, it can feel impossible to keep going. This list isn’t about silver linings or toxic hope. It’s a raw offering to keep on living when it feels like everything inside of me has died.

One: The memory of my baby

I only knew him through a line on a stick, a flutter in my belly, a dream at night, and then a tombstone. But he existed. And that changes my life, our life, forever. His short existence deserves to be remembered, even in the quietest ways.

Two: The love surrounding me

Even when I feel hollowed out, there are people trying, awkwardly, imperfectly, to love and care for me. Sometimes they say the wrong thing. Most of the times they say nothing. But they’re there and that matters.

Three: The people who still needs me

I'm thinking about our parents and siblings. There might be a child in the future. Or a friend who’s going through the same experience. Or someone I haven’t met who will need to hear my story. Now or later, I might be someone’s lifeline, and that's enough to make me stay.

Four: The journey of my own healing

My body has been through a war it didn’t ask for. My heart, even more so. I don’t owe anyone a quick recovery. But I do owe myself the chance to put one piece back at a time. Slowly. Carefully. Lovingly.

I am still breathing and that is not nothing.

Five: The resilience

I might feel weak and don't want to keep going, but I will. One ugly cry at a time. This is the kind of unpolished resilience. This is brutal, desperate, and stubborn kind that keeps my heart beating when I don’t want to.

Six: The future version of myself

Months ago, it doesn’t feel like it. But there’s a version of me right now that laughs in the sun again. And there will be another version of me in the future, the one who remembers without crumbling. One who tells their story without choking on it. She’s not here yet. But she’s possible and she’s waiting.

Seven: The possibility of joy

Joy. The word of betrayal when you're grieving. It's like I'm forgetting. But it’s not. One day, something small will crack the sadness. My cat doing something silly. A song I used to sing to the belly. And I'm going to let it in. I don’t have to choose between joy and grief. That’s the awful, beautiful truth.

Eight: The hope of someday

Not the promise nor the certainty. Just the tiniest flicker of hope that someday I will long for things again. That I will find something to look forward to. It’s not naive. It’s survival. I don't want to let it die.

Nine: The list of unfinished dreams

There were things I wanted before the loss. They might feel small, irrelevant, or impossible now, but they were once real. And maybe one day, they will matter again and I will give myself permission to return to them or create new ones.

Ten: The unexpected moments of beauty

There will be a day when the sky is unfairly beautiful, and I will hate it for a second. There will be a day when I received a nice gestures from strangers, and I will question it for a second. And then maybe, when I take a deep breathe, I finally notice, and maybe shed some tears, that I just encounter a kind of beauty. The kind that meets me in my grief instead of trying to fix it.

Eleven: The chance to mother

I am still a mother. Maybe not in the way the world recognizes. But in the way I show up. In the way I keep loving. In the way my arms still ache to hold. There are ways to pour that love into the world and I don't want it to go to waste.

Twelve: His legacy of love

He never took a breath, but he changed every single thing. The love I felt didn’t disappear when he did. It’s in my veins and bones now. It shapes the way I live, and that is the kind of love he carved, even if no one else sees it.

Thirteen: Because my life is sacred

There are moments when it hurts just to exist. Because no one understand griefs, unless it's theirs. But I believe my life has bigger meaning outside of what we've lost. Not because I have to "move on" or "keep on living", but because surviving this makes me realize how life is holy in a way a few people understand.

There are no neat ways to wrap this list up, no perfect ending to grief. Some days, I will find a reason to keep going. Other days, I'll just survive without one. And that’s okay.

If you're also in grief, you don’t have to be strong all the time. You just have to stay. One breath, one hour, one day at a time.

Tulisan ini saya buat pada tanggal 23 Juni 2025. Tanggal yang merupakan hari perkiraan lahir anak laki-laki kami, Theo Ramothi. Hari ini, tepat enam bulan kepergiannya, tulisan ini saya unggah kembali di sini untuk mengabadikannya ke banyak media, karena ia begitu layak untuk kami kenang, di setiap sudut memori kami.

Beberapa bulan lalu, saya dan suami menghadapi meltdown terparah saya sejauh ini. Akumulasi emosi yang sudah overwhelmed sejak akhir bulan April, ditambah kenekatan saya untuk skip obat-obatan.

Saya marah, yang dipicu oleh ketidakmampuan fisik saya mengeluarkan sebuah kardus dari bawah kolong tempat tidur kamar belakang.

Saya mengamuk.

Suami saya mengamuk.

Saya menangis sejadi-jadinya hingga kepala, telinga, dan tenggorokan saya sakit.

Dada saya terasa sesak.

Seandainya saya memiliki rekaman CCTV-nya, I will gladly let you see how everything you see from February 1st is only a facade and it’s finally cracked.

You might see me laugh, and joke, and nod, and smile when people tell me I look better than their expectation, I look stronger even with what I’m going through.

You have no idea that I put on masks so you could feel normal around me. I did it for your own sake and comfort.

Because God knows what will happen if you see me screaming, crying, hurling luggage, kicking boxes, throwing punches, and pushing my husband away.

There’s an invisible rope of grief and anger tying me down by the throat.

It's like the rope bringing my body to the floor.

I couldn’t see clearly, but I tried looking for my husband’s eyes as I whisper, “Tolong, adek mau mati aja,” over and over and over.

I can feel his tired eyes, gazing me.

I have no idea that human body could produce that much of tears.

It might be hours, it might be just minutes, but the time I spent laying there on the floor, feels like eternity. I keep closing and opening my eyes, hoping to finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hoping to see my dearest son’s face again. Hoping to see someone caress my head and said, “It is tiring, but you’re here now…”

Nothing could end this pain and hardships instantly other than dead. It is not an option, I know, but I finally, dare I say, understand how painful and heart-shattering life must be for those who chose the path. I know how devastating it feels to admit to your loved ones, that you’re scared you’ll choose the same path.

I'm fine now.

As I wrote this piece, I'm in a better condition, with a better medication (and no skipping). I have decided to not ending my life the way I wanted.

Although it’s a never-ending parade of sorrow here in my head, please don’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for yourself if your tiny little head think some people facing hardships because they must did something bad in their life.

I have my own party to feel sorry for mine.

Today marks three years of your passing.

I used to think that by now, I could share a story or two of the life lessons you taught us.

You taught me how to determine the safe space between a stove and fridge, how to put out a small fire and what to do when there's a big one, how to use drills, saws, and jacks, and how to properly change lanes, read the street signs, and measure the space to drive safely.

I learnt a lot, yet I lost so much.

I can change flat tires and dismantle furniture, but it took me years to change my negative self-talk and disarm myself from the arrogance. Every scrap of me is indeed taken from you. I can't even sing along to that lyric from Taylor's because it hits too close to home.

I love you, and I don't want to be you.

I'm gonna be a better version of you. The one you maybe hoping you were three years ago when we held hands in the hospital room, singing to my favorite old gospel song that I only sing once a year now because it reminds me of you. I would pay millions to see that man shed tears on my wedding day, and not on his deathbed. But that's the circle of life. The drive in the hearse was our last road trip together, bringing you to your resting place.

I love you, and I'm glad I didn't follow most of your advices. There was distance between us, but as long as the formality stays, we were fine. Now I'm happily married with a man who didn't raise me yet never raised his voice. I never have to deal with awkward silence because he made it comfortable. He pinpoints the problem but never points at me. We fight, we argue, yet we won't leave each other by choice. In the short time of you knowing him, I'm glad your laughter will be one of a few precious memories you shared together.

I am living as a better version of you.

I'm a lot happier now. I still overthink any inconvenience, but I'm content. I laughed the way you laughed. At jokes, not at people.

I run now. I wore the sportswear you bought and never got the chance to use. My feet has muscles and I lost 10 kgs. The endorphins help me to grieve in a healthy way. Yes, I grieve for you sometimes. I grieve for you in the middle of Coldplay's concert. We still grieves for you. But that's okay. We are okay. Life is okay and when bad things happen, I'll ask myself quietly, "What will the kind, loving, and gentle version of my late dad do?"

Because what was lost and taken away, will be shared to as many people as I could.

I cannot human properly today.

when my father died, I didn't had time to grief. I held his head. I whispered in his ear. I kissed his hands. I helped the nurses took off all the cables. I brought a seat to my mom. I wrapped his still warm body. I called the distant family, our closest neighbours, and answered the same questions for gazillion times. I asked my cousin to book the funeral home. I signed lots of paperwork. then I went home alone.

I took his suit. his favourite shoes. I took my time to choose a pair of socks because oh how he loved socks. he had a lot of socks. I chose a tie, the one he wore at my brother's wedding. it reminds me how he didn't attend mine. but it's okay. I can grieve later.

then I went to the funeral home. it was already packed with a lot of unfamiliar faces demanded to be recognized. I sneaked to the morgue. I stare at you. hoping that you could at least pull one last silly practical joke and suddenly raised your eyebrow or jumped at me. you didn't. but I didn't cry. I cannot cry. there were a lot of people out there and I need to "socialize".

dark jokes is always my coping mechanism.

my therapist suggest writing... well that works too, but I prefer jokes. that night, as mom and I lied in the tv room, mom said, "wow, mama jadi janda..." to which I replied, "wow, adek jadi yatim..." dark jokes run in the family.

that night, we fell asleep and didn't cry.

when my brother and his wife arrived the next morning, they cried. as much as I could remember, I did not cry. I mean, someone has to function properly, right? the day's still long and there will be more people coming. I cannot cry right now. I'll be exhausted if I cry right now.

there's a gospel song that I really love.

the lyric is simple yet meaningful for me. I used to play it in the piano and sing it quietly. whenever my little baby cousin threw tantrums, I sing or hum the song to him and he went calm almost immediately. so when I was in the hospital room with my father as he screamed and groaned in pain, I sang the song to him. and to my surprise, he tried his best to sing it too. we sing for hours. we sing it for days. he even sing it alone when I'm too tired and my throat was sore. but then I have to chime in because he ran out of breath yet wanted to hear the song.

we sing it at the service in the funeral home. and I finally cried. we sing it as we lower his coffin to the ground, to his final resting peace. and I cried. and mom cried. and my little baby cousin cried.

it was my favourite song, pa.

I always thought I was going to be in The 27 Club. and I told mom to sing that song at my funeral. I never imagined that now I associate the song to you. to the war we fought. to the pain you and I both had to endure, because every scrap of you would be taken from me.

I'm way pass 27 now. I made it out alive. you were 61. you made it to the finish line.

we won.

for months after you're gone, I had nightmares.

I still haven't visited your grave, but that's for another story and grief is an endless journey.

this morning, I put on the same shirt I wore two years ago when you left. the one that I took from your wardrobe because I ran out of clothes. maybe one day I will forget about this shirt, but today I won't.

I sit down and write this while singing the song to myself.

then I let myself cry.

I will always miss you.

I'm a lot better now, so don't you worry. Your little girl will always be fine.