Waiting for My Brain to Catch Up

What am I doing, I ask myself—lying here under this blanket, sleeping the afternoon away, missing life?

Waiting, comes the answer.
Waiting for my brain to catch up.
Waiting to understand.

It’s January in New Zealand—a new year ahead, stripped of its usual promise. But our calendar no longer begins in January. A new rhythm has been imposed on our lives, one that pivots around a single day: the last day of May. The day Abi, Ella, and Sally’s precious lives ended. So, it’s January—but we’re only halfway through our year.

Are those milestone days—Christmas, New Year’s Eve, my birthday this week—really any different now? People message kindly, lovingly. But the truth is, every day is a day we didn’t choose. There was a before—chaotic, loving, bubbly, fan, mad, loving family life—and there is an after.

And now, all we’re doing is waiting.
Waiting to adjust.
Waiting to understand.
Waiting for this “new normal” to feel less alien.

I tell myself not to question why. Not to waste time or energy on the agonising calculus of fate—why our girls, in that exact place, at that exact second. A thousand other seconds might have changed everything. But I resist that path. Most of the time. Don’t question why, I tell myself—just know that this is it, and we must somehow learn to live with it.

Acceptance is key. Sometimes, I think I’m getting there. I remind myself: they’re gone. That was it. It was beautiful. And now they’re gone. I can’t afford to ravage and rail against this reality. Doing so will only cost me more.

Except, all I feel is numb. I watch myself go through the motions—only truly at ease when I’m with Trevor, Ed or Paddy. At a time when the boys are needing me less, the irony of my amplified need for them doesn’t escape me.

And so I let them go.
Another loss.
Another step forward into this unfamiliar terrain.
A stranger in my own life.