We have our return flights booked to England on Sunday, arriving in London at 6:30am Monday.

A huge part of me is dreading going back. Knowing I’ll likely be spending my 31st birthday, what would have been her 3 month old birthday, organizing and storing all of her things. Tucking them out of sight as though it might make the pain lessen not to see them as handily. I know we have to do it, no matter how difficult. It’s the right thing to do. If only I could pack the razor sharp knot of heartbreak that sits in the pit of my stomach away with them. But that would require her still being here, wouldn’t it.

We have been surrounded by doting friends and family here. Generous people offering a bed to sleep on, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. A comforting distraction that has helped me personally so tremendously that it’s impossible to accurately describe. I have felt safe here. Like being wrapped in an invisible warm hug; one that it’s going to kill me to pull away from.

I know life must go on. I also know that I don’t necessarily have to be happy about that just yet. Simply put, I will never be the same person again.