10/14/2025
I want to share a glimpse of my everyday life since that dark night when we lost Ashton. Each morning feels like I’m forcing myself into a world that no longer holds the same color, the same joy. People often see me go about my routines—I go to work, reply to texts, smile in conversations—but what they don’t see is the facade, the exhausting effort it takes to appear functional.
Inside, I'm a storm of emotions, battling numbness and a profound loneliness. It's a strange contradiction to say I’m “fine” when, truthfully, the heartache feels insurmountable. I think about that night every single day, questioning the “what ifs” that haunt my thoughts. Why isn’t Ashton here to experience life, to celebrate milestones, to just be? The mama guilt is relentless. How could I not keep my child alive? It’s a constant ache that no amount of rationalization can soothe.
I miss everything about him—his crooked smirk, the way his soulful eyes sparkled when he smiled, those warm hugs that made everything seem okay. I often feel that no one really talks about the emotional numbness. It’s not dramatic like the deep cries of sorrow. I often feel disconnected and dissociated, my body moves through the motions while my spirit feels miles away.
They praise this endurance, labeling it as “resilience,” but in truth, it’s a mask i wear to avoid the looks of pity, the push from others to be the old me It’s been 527 days since Ashton left us, and navigating this new reality is still a living hell. Even in this pain, I know I’m not alone in my feelings. There are others who carry the same burdens, often in silence.
So here I am, still here, still fighting, still remembering. Hopefully I have a long life ahead, and though I may never truly be okay again, I keep putting one foot in front of the other. Never moving on, always moving forward.
Love always,
Ashton’s Mama
