'That call from police took my breath away.' It's Tabitha's first Christmas without her daughter, Mackenzie.

Content warning: This story includes descriptions of domestic violence that may be distressing to some readers.

Her name was Mackenzie.

Grief is a land where we head to uncharted - it's always there simmering and coming to the boil for spurts where it burns you, overwhelms you, takes your breath away, buckles your knees and consumes your thoughts.

Never in my life could I have imagined the life I am currently living. 

In March earlier this year, I raised a glass of wine on my birthday and toasted to my marvellous life. I spoke of how I was living a life where I felt so lucky and had so many opportunities. The next day everything completely changed - my marvellous life was gone and it will never be the same again for my family or I.

On March 25th at 10.30pm, police arrived at my 21-year-old daughter's house after a distressed triple-zero call. She was dead when they arrived. Luckily, her young son was still alive. 

She was the 14th woman [allegedly] murdered this year. A few months on that figure now sits at 42 women, who have died in similar circumstances. Mackenzie's ex partner was charged with her [alleged] murder.

A couple of hours after police arrived at the scene, I received the call that has changed my life. In that moment it was like time stood still - I almost felt very calm as shock quickly set in. I was away in Cairns on holidays with my son and I sat there alone while he slept next to me. I was in shock trying to comprehend what I had just been told; my daughter was gone.

Her one-year-old son had been with her when she died. 

Tabitha, Mackenzie and Tabitha's son previously celebrating Christmas together, and a more recent photo of Mackenzie before her passing. Image: Supplied.

The police then told me over the phone that I needed to give permission to have the blood evidence found on my grandson tested in order to help with the investigation. My first thoughts were that he must be so scared not knowing anyone.

In that moment I made the decision to not tell my son sleeping next to me that his sister had died back home in Newcastle. So I left him sleeping, made the phone calls to our immediate family, packed our bags and booked the first flight out of Cairns.

I even called Lifeline but hung up after a 25 minute wait.

That next morning, I travelled to the airport. I said hello to people and service staff who smiled, trying my best to be polite. My son was upset that I was ending the holiday earlier and not explaining why. But that flight home to Sydney, felt like a long haul overseas flight. My son quietly played Nintendo, and I wore my sunglasses so he wouldn't see the tears welling in my eyes. 

My mind raced on what I could have done differently to prevent this. But also; how am I going to tell my son his sister has died? How am I going to tell the rest of my family? How am I going to survive?

From the airport we made the two-hour drive home, where some close friends were waiting for me. They took my daughter's son to the park and now that we were in a safe space, I had the conversation there is no happy ending to. I told my son that his sister had been [allegedly] murdered. They are words you never imagine in your life you will have to say. 

I was wishing I could lie to him but knowing the truth would eventually come out, I had to be honest and transparent so he knew he could trust me. Soon after, I received a phone call from a friend saying that much of the media had not only given out my daughter's full name but were also showing pictures of her. But I hadn't yet had the chance to call all my loved ones, so I started frantically calling them, hoping I would reach them before they would see it on the news.

After this, I don't really remember much about the next three weeks. I know people came in and out of the house; they dropped off food, and flowers upon flowers filled our home. Media also knocked on my door and I had meetings with police officers in my lounge room.

Survival mode had kicked in. I had my son and now a traumatised one-year-old in my care, and I knew I needed to look after and provide for them, determined to make sure this didn't destroy their lives.

Shock can be a wonderful survival mode. You just move through the motions. Your smiles are forced, your laugh is not as real and in the back of your mind you never stop thinking about how scared she must have been. At what point did she know she wasn't going to make it? Why didn't I know more about what she was dealing with?

In my head, I play over and over again our interactions, conversations and rethink how maybe if I did it differently, she would be alive. I dread sleep, for these are the quiet moments, where the house is dark, the kids are in bed and there is no one or thing to distract me and my mind.

Since Mackenzie's death, we have had to have Easter, her son's second birthday, her brother's birthday, her dad's birthday, Mother's Day and her own birthday. All of them have been horrendous.

Watch: Two parents share what it's been like dealing with child loss. Post continues below.

Celebrating Mother's Day without your child is a cruel and horrible day where you wish the world could swallow you up and you never have to celebrate it again. My daughter's birthday was a horrible reminder of how young her life was, how much of her potential was ripped away and how her son will now navigate life without her.

Christmas is quickly approaching, and I am dreading the day. 

We unpacked the Christmas decorations last week and my daughter's stocking was there. This will be the first time in 22 years I won't be filling her stocking. 

That I won't be buying her gifts. 

That I won't have both my kids to spoil.

The shock has finally started to wear off, which is hard. The tears are harder to keep in, and my sleep is fairly non-existent as nightmares have settled in. The silence is deafening and I try to busy myself as much as I can.

My life has gone from marvellous to survival where many days you question the want to survive. I know my mission now is to provide a marvellous life to my son and Mackenzie's son, so survival takes first place. The grief is pushed down and each smile feels forced.

One of the hardest things about moving into 'the season of cheer' for everyone else is that grief lasts longer than sympathy. People stop calling, stop asking how you are, they stop saying her name, and you start to live two separate lives - one where you are high functioning and constantly busy to keep the thoughts at bay. One where you pretend everything is okay. And the other life, where your heart silently screams in pain, where you cry into the face washer in the shower so your kids don't hear.

Mackenzie's son will never remember a Christmas where he had her with him. It's so hard to fight the urge to ignore Christmas, to pretend it no longer exists. To avoid people, events and shops so I can pretend that it's not happening. 

But I know I can't do that. I have to make it extra special, to make sure my son and grandson have memories to look back on that are not just trauma. Memories they can smile about.

For more from Tabitha and to follow her activism in this space, you can see her Instagram @theyareourdaughters here.

If this has raised any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service. 

Feature Image: Supplied.