My youngest daughter has now lived longer than her older sister did

Dec. 13 marks two years since my oldest daughter, Cammy, passed away from complications of Rett syndrome. She was 14 years, 9 months, and 3 days old. I hold on to that number because it matters. It’s not just a measure of time; it’s a line in our family’s history. And now, my younger daughter, Ryan, has crossed it. Ryan has officially been alive longer than her older sister was.

That is a sentence I never imagined writing.

Ryan is neurotypical, full of life, growing in the way children are supposed to grow. When I look at her, I sometimes see the life Cammy should have had. Not because Ryan replaces her — she never could — but because the contrast is impossible to ignore. I catch myself thinking Ryan looks so grown up, so mature, so big. And then reality crashes back in: Ryan is still so young. Cammy was so young, too.

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Waves of grief

Grief is not something you “get over.” I learned that in grief therapy. My therapist told me grief is continual, that it moves and changes, but never disappears. She said it’s like a roller coaster, and that analogy has proven painfully accurate. Some days I feel steady, like I can breathe again. Other days, without warning, I am plunged back into the rawness of loss.

She also warned me that grief does not follow a straight timeline. It does not only live in the days after a loss. It sneaks up on you — two years later, five years later — tucked inside milestones, ages, birthdays, and ordinary moments. I didn’t fully understand then what my therapist meant. I do now.

Watching Ryan become older than her sister ever was is one of those moments.

It’s not just sadness; it’s disorientation. It’s the quiet, complicated ache of realizing time keeps moving forward, even when part of your heart is anchored in the past. I am proud of Ryan, fiercely so. I love watching her grow, learn, and laugh. And yet, I grieve all over again for Cammy — for the life she did not get to live, the milestones she never reached.

Holding both truths at the same time feels impossible some days: gratitude for the child who is here, and aching love for the child who is not.

But this is what grief has taught me: You do not stop loving. You do not stop missing. You simply learn — slowly, painfully — how to carry it all at once.

And sometimes, the heaviest days arrive quietly, disguised as milestones.

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