Notes on grief: Smiling like I mean it

Inspired by “Notes on grief” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Normalising posting about my baby because I have no new memories with her other than the ones I create myself.

Today is Mother’s Day, and if luck were on my side, I would have had a nearly 6-month-old baby girl right now.

My final photoshoot with Ayli, less than two weeks before I lost her.

I would be pushing her in her pink stroller at Greenwich Park, basking in this London sunlight (it’s unseasonably warm today). She would be wearing this cute romper I bought last September because I knew she’d fit into it right about now.

Or maybe, we would be in the Philippines, where I would be carrying her on my hip on the way to somewhere — brunch, the palengke, the beach?

These are our family initials Andre and I put together using peas from a pod (from a tree?), poolside on a recent holiday.

AJA = Andre, Jion, Ayli

Some have asked what my daughter’s name means. Ayli means “smile” in Kapampangan. A name I spent months mulling over, and a name I had to quickly decide on because we were on the way to the hospital.

I never got to see Ayli smile, so I like to think that I’ll be honouring her by doing all the smiling for her instead. As much as I can for the rest of my life, despite not being much of a smiler myself. Most days, my smiles are forced, but I smile nonetheless. Because it’s the badge that I swore I’d wear for her.

Behind each genuine or fragile smile since November lies a quiet war within me — endless hours of falling apart and painstakingly piecing myself back together.

Nearly six months in, and I can see now that time heals nearly nothing. It just makes reality more real. Though it feels like I’ve already climbed three Mount Everests, this journey of grief is only beginning. And as my therapist gently reminds me, it’s a road with no end.

Every day requires so much energy just to pass off as normal. If you see me normal and I say I’m fine, just know that it took everything for me to get there. Each day is survival, but I’m fine simply because I decide to be fine.

I’m thankful for the good days. The good days matter because they are a reprieve from the constant ache. They’re a soft pause in the unrelenting hum of heartbreak. Emphasis on the words soft pause. They’re not a sign that the grief has lessened, only that, for a fleeting moment, I’ve found enough air to breathe a little deeper, to laugh without guilt, to remember without crumbling. The good days don’t erase the sorrow, they simply make space for me to carry it with more grace.

But somehow, the good days also don’t matter, because as the days go by, the wounds are still just as fresh as day zero.

Healing from baby loss is an uphill battle for the rest of your life. Or it’s like a rollercoaster you can never hop off—one with sudden drops, loops of guilt and longing, moments of feeling sick to your stomach, and rare pockets of calm that vanish just as quickly as they come.