There are different parts inside me, each with their own feeling and voice. Some days, I awaken with the relaxed part who feels great relief. As my day unfolds, out of nowhere, the deeply and perpetually sad part stands up and cries. Then, after the pain sweeps through and the tears begin to dry, I feel the part of me who longs to look back, opening the albums and smiling at the small things that brought me such joy.
Mila's bedroom has felt so empty, so quiet. But it's filled with emotions. Some days they push me away. On others they pull me in. I haven't felt comfortable moving her bed or changing the feel of the room. But I found a space by her window, between the fairy curtains I sewed for her when she was little, and I placed my small desk. Every morning, I sit and work on my foundation toward a brighter future for rare disease. While I type, I stop, sit back and notice the light and warmth I now feel in Mila's room. This is where I want to be.
