Posted by: Louise | April 14, 2013


Our youngest child was stillborn.

The words catch me off guard…still.

There is a restlessness about me…still. I am busying myself with life – giving it socks. I’m going for it, whatever ‘it’ is, and it is filling up my time. But at night when I climb into bed, the other ‘it’ is there…still…like dye, drifting through my unconscious conscious…and I find it hard to be…still.

I look at the stack of books, books that say I love to read, but the trained eye, or the return visitor to our bedroom, would tell you they are untouched for over seven months now. It feels like a crime, a whole new guilty secret – my youngest child was stillborn and now I do not/cannot read.

I can lose hours staring at pictures on the great vast interweb, but I cannot read. Skipping over pictures idly accommodates my drifting restlessness. To read I must be still, give focus, stay with…what?

I am tired. Tired of daughter death – Wake up, butterfly.

Tired of living with it…still.

Tired of being busy being. Tired of not being…still.

Tired of climbing into bed restless.

Wake up, butterfly –
it’s late, we’ve miles
to go together.


Be still and know…



  1. We never asked for this did we. The loss, the change, the world as we once knew it. Sending love and light always my friend…

    • We didn’t ask for it. Feeling the love and light helps… xx

  2. Just yes, and I’m so sorry, and I know it never goes away, but I’m still surprised and angered by all the ways in which it never goes away.

    As for the books, they wait for you. That’s one of the lovely things about them. But (and feel free to disregard this as I feel presumptuous even writing it), it might help to try something outside of what you usually like to read – the book version of an action movie, perhaps?

    • Thank you, Erica. Maybe the book version of a light hearted romantic rom com! I hear you.

  3. I am tired. Tired of daughter death – Wake up, butterfly.

    Tired of living with it…still.

    Tired of being busy being. Tired of not being…still.


    Every bit of this though different parts different edges different shards
    but it is
    so familiar
    so familiar
    and the only
    thing holding on to
    me and not I to It is
    that end in which you wrote

    Be still and know…

    I wonder does that sentence finish in your head as it does in mine?

    “Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless soul on Thee.”

    You know, Louise, when I read something you write, it never leaves. Your posts are slow-burned inside.

    Thank you for placing another log on the fire.

    Warmer, now; thank you,

    xo CiM

    • Cathy, your comment stopped me in my tracks – literally. Thank you for your beautiful words. Thank you for hearing me.

      If you write anywhere let me know please because I would love to read more of your words. xx

  4. Tired and restless, comfortless. That is how I feel. I can’t know and I can’t seem to find any stillness.

    I also struggle with reading books now. Although I still buy them like I used to and they pile up in similar guilty stacks around the house. I do find the book equivalent of a light hearted rom com quite appealing. I read all the Twilight books and the complete works of Jilly Cooper whilst Jessica was in hospital.

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