Holding the Unthinkable: A Mother's Journey Through Grief

Entry three: The Decision No Mother Is Meant to Make

There is a moment in grief when the world stops asking how you’re doing and starts asking something far worse.

A moment when love is no longer enough to protect your child from what is happening to their body.

A moment when hope no longer looks like recovery — it looks like mercy.

That is the moment they asked us to decide.

For days, I had lived on the belief that staying was enough.

If I stayed beside her.

If I talked to her.

If I loved her loudly enough.

If I believed hard enough.

Surely something would shift.

But then the language changed.

Doctors stopped using words that pointed forward.

They spoke carefully. Gently. Precisely.

They explained what her body was doing — and what it was no longer able to do.

I remember nodding while something inside me screamed no.

Not because I didn’t understand —

but because no mother is built to accept this information.

They told me what the tests showed.

They told me what wasn’t coming back.

They told me that what was left was being sustained, not restored.

And then they paused.

That pause was where my life collapsed.

Being asked to make that decision does something violent to a mother’s identity.

Up until that moment, my job had always been clear:

protect her.

fight for her.

keep her safe.

Suddenly, I was being asked to choose something that felt like the opposite of protection — even though it wasn’t.

I remember thinking:

If I say yes, I lose her, but we honour her by giving her peace.

If I say no, I prolong something she can’t return from.

There is no language strong enough to describe that space.

It is not logic.

It is not reason.

It is not bravery.

It is devastation dressed as responsibility.

People say things like “you did the right thing.”

They mean well.

They are trying to help.

But the truth is — there is no “right thing” here.

There is only love forced into an impossible shape.

Letting go was not giving up.

It was not abandoning her.

It was not choosing death.

It was choosing not to ask her body to suffer any longer for my inability to let go.

That distinction matters.

Because what I did came from love so fierce it broke me open permanently.

When the machines were turned off, time did something strange again.

It slowed.

It thickened.

It pressed in on my chest.

I held her.

I talked to her.

I told her everything I needed her to know — not because I expected a response, but because silence felt unbearable.

I told her she was loved.

I told her she didn’t do anything wrong.

I told her she didn’t have to fight anymore.

I don’t know which words mattered most.

I only know that I said them all.

When her body finally stopped, the world did not pause the way I thought it might.

The room stayed quiet.

The lights stayed the same.

The earth did not crack open.

Only I did. 

I felt like I died with her. 

There is a particular kind of grief that comes after making that choice.

It is layered.

It is complicated.

It is relentless.

It carries; love, guilt, relief, horror, gratitude, rage, heartbreak

All at once.

I replayed the moment endlessly.

I questioned every breath.

Every pause.

Every word.

This is something no one tells you:

The decision does not end when it is made.

It echoes.

It lives in your body.

It wakes you up at night.

It asks you questions there are no answers to.

I know now that no mother walks away from that decision intact.

You walk away changed.

Marked.

Reshaped.

But I also know this:

I did not stop being her mother in that moment.

I mothered her through the very end.

I stayed.

I loved.

I protected her from what could not be fixed.

That matters — even if it doesn’t lessen the pain.

If you have made this decision — or are facing it now — I need you to hear this clearly:

You are not heartless.

You are not weak.

You are not a failure.

You are a parent doing the most unbearable thing love can demand.

No one gets through this without breaking.

And breaking does not mean you did something wrong.

It means you loved fully.

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Gentle note to readers

This entry speaks about end-of-life decisions, parental grief, and trauma. If this brings up overwhelming feelings or thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out for immediate support.

In Canada, call or text 988 for 24/7 mental health support. If you’re elsewhere, local crisis services or trusted support can help you through the moment.