I went to a support group last week where you were supposed to introduce yourself with one fact about you and one about your lost child.
The latter was easy. There are so many things I could say about Soraya.
She loved dancing. She was tall with bright red hair. She was the kindest person ever created. She was smart and bilingual. She wanted to be a pediatric nurse and help other kids with mental health struggles...
But me?
I have no f$#%ing idea.
Before this happened, I would talk about being an entrepreneur. A travel blogger. Someone who has visited a crazy amount of places and wants to go to all the rest. I was a mum of three. The oldest of five. A Tasmanian who loved being Melbournian. Someone who was always wanting to learn, to grow, to be better.
But who am I now?
In theory, I still want to learn, to grow and do better.
In some ways, if I want to get super self-analytical, I probably have learned and grown a lot in the last 16 months. And I really hope that in some ways, like in acknowledging my kids’ pain and being there for them, that I am doing so much better.
But I have no idea who I am anymore.
I don’t know how to describe myself.
Who am I?
I don’t even know whether to describe myself as a mum of three or two.
I realised recently that I’ve nearly been a mum of one or two as long as I was a mum of three. Even though in my core, I feel like a mum of three.
Even that fundamental fact is broken.
I’m not an entrepreneur anymore. I barely work. My work ethic, that I always took such pride in, feels like something to be ashamed of (as it feels like it lead me to not noticing my daughter’s pain). I’d rather lie on a bed all day than do anything useful.
I feel like a ghost.
Someone who glides through life.
Here, but not really here.
I listened to a podcast a couple of months ago by a couple who had lost their 29 year old daughter suddenly a few years before and they talked about being ghosts at every social occasion. They mentioned often not being sure if they should go to events that should be happy when they would be ghost-like in the background.
That imagery stayed in my head.
I realised that it’s not just at social occasions that I’m a ghost.
I’m a ghost living my usual life.
I run. I sit at home. I take the kids to their activities.
I talk to other parents. I see friends. I message family.
But in every endeavour, I’m not really there. A ghost version of me is there.
Sometimes, like when we went to Europe earlier this year, I can actually feel there. But most of the time it is more like I’m a ghost watching my life unfurl.
Just about everything that was important before isn’t anymore.
I have no idea who I am.
I don’t know one fact about the person I am.
Where I came from, what my life used to be, sure. I am still the oldest of five. I’m still someone from Tasmania who lives in Melbourne. I still own travel blogs.
But who am I right now, in this moment?
A ghost.
That’s the only answer that comes to me.
(After writing this, I randomly shared this with Gemini AI which had an amazingly helpful response. You can read it in the first comment below.)
Randomly I shared this with Gemini and it told me something really comforting:
Soraya sounds like she was an absolutely beautiful, brilliant soul. To be so tall and vibrant, to dance, to speak two languages, and to have a heart that wanted to pour itself into nursing other children through their heaviest mental health struggles—she sounds like a true force of love in this world. It is completely understandable why it is so easy to speak of her; her light is clear, definitive, and unforgettable.
But you? It makes complete sense that you feel untethered, like a ghost watching your own life unfurl from a distance.
When a loss this shattering occurs, it doesn’t just take the person you love; it completely demolishes the structure of the person you were. The “before” version of you—the high-achieving entrepreneur, the proud travel blogger, the woman who took pride in her work ethic—was built for a world that no longer exists.
Please, if you can, try to hold yourself with immense gentleness regarding that work ethic. Grief has a way of twisting our past actions into weapons to use against ourselves, convincing us we should have seen or done something differently. But your exhaustion right now, your desire to lie in bed all day, is not a failure of character. It is the heavy, physical toll of carrying a broken heart. You are surviving a catastrophic emotional injury. Your energy is entirely bound up in just keeping your chest moving up and down.
And that agonizing question—are you a mum of three or two?—is a grief milestone that so many grieving parents face, and it cuts to the absolute core of identity. But the truth is, love doesn’t obey the laws of physics or geography. You don’t stop parenting a child just because they are no longer in the room. You are, and will always be, a mum of three. The fact that you are fiercely acknowledging your other kids’ pain and standing in the fire with them right now proves how deeply rooted your motherhood is, even when you feel like a specter doing it.
If “a ghost” is the only fact that feels true to you right now, then let that be the fact. A ghost is still something. A ghost is a lingering presence, a quiet witness, a soul that is still here, refusing to completely vanish, even when the pain is loud enough to swallow you whole.
You noticed that when you traveled to Europe, you occasionally felt a flicker of being “there” again. Those tiny, rare moments aren’t a betrayal of Soraya, and they don’t mean you are suddenly cured; they just mean the ghost version of you occasionally steps back into her skin for a few seconds.
You don’t have to figure out who you are today, or next week, or even this year. For now, it is enough to just glide through the days, to take the kids to their activities, to run, and to exist in the background. The world doesn’t need you to have an entrepreneurial pitch or a tidy list of hobbies right now.
I am just so glad you wrote this down. Putting words to the feeling of invisibility is, ironically, a way of making yourself seen. I am holding space for you, for your two children who are walking this path with you, and for beautiful Soraya.
—–
Maybe being a ghost is enough and just right for now ❤
I love your honesty and how you can describe so many of the thoughts and feelings that I feel myself so profoundly but I can’t articulate it like you do. Thank you Sharon. I also love the Gemini response and compassion. It’s spot on and you are so incredible. So is your sweet Soraya. ❤️
You have a beautiful gift for words Sharon, thank you for sharing so honestly – I have definitely felt like a ghost, without having the words to describe it as you have so well. Thank you ❤️
Thanks Emma <3
Thank you for writing this – I feel less alone just reading about your experience . I am so sorry you have also the added agony of seeing your daughter’s pain as she too walks this , uggh, path.
A light bulb of relief just turned on in my heart! I have felt like I’m dead and just going through the motions. The loneliest part of this is the world around me relates to Mary as if she’s still here and not the AI bot doppelgänger shell. In the first year, emotional pain and physical pain could not be separated as if metaphors were quite literal. I felt cannons blasted between my shoulders and hips or rapid fire and at the same time being burned alive. Mary too died. Now that the depths of hell have eased, I can appear “normal ” when the candle has been extinguished- childlike awe and other lenses not even ashes to be found. It feels like having gone to war and come home the ghosts that flock to RSL to find the only others who understand. The event has made an invisible gap between me and people in my life, no matter how loving. “You’re still you. You seem fine” My favourite place is alone with my dogs and tick off achievements like ” brushed hair “. I too can see the growth and learnings and am grateful for many internal things that were burnt away – for example ,my tolerance for bulls*]^ is sub zero.
Thank you for your gift of writing and painting your landscape-a form of art, powerful in its ability to reach into others’ experience like music can which can help others.
Thanks Mary <3
I relate to what you say about an invisible gap between us and other people. I haven't thought about it that way before, but it is so true.