Halfway to Meeting You
There was a day that looked like any other.
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Halfway to Meeting You
This original emotional pop ballad is about a loss that has no date on any calendar, and the second life a mother keeps living beside it.
The song comes from a post in r/grief. The poster lost a baby she never got to hold. She had never kissed that child or heard them cry. By her own way of counting, she was about halfway to meeting them: she would know by now whether they were a son or a daughter, she would have a name she said softly when no one else was listening, and she would be buying tiny clothes and folding them carefully into drawers. Instead she is left grieving memories that never had the chance to exist, and learning to keep that grief small.
The song stays inside that other life and never leaves it to explain. It does not account for the loss and it never asks the listener to feel better. The chorus holds the imagined life and the real one at the same time: a nursery painted only halfway, a drawer full of clothes that are too small, and a woman who still knows exactly where her child was supposed to be.
The hook is the phrase the poster uses to measure the time — halfway to meeting you — sung as though that date were still on the calendar.
The music stays close and slow, at a walking pace. Fingerpicked guitar and bare piano carry the verses; strings and light percussion step in at the chorus and step back out. The second pre-chorus is almost empty, the bridge drops away to piano and voice, and the last chorus opens all the way up before a solo piano closes the song.
Listen on the anniversary no one else remembers; in the weeks after a loss when people have already stopped asking; or on an ordinary afternoon when you are carrying something enormous and making it look small.
Content note: pregnancy loss and grief.
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