17 Oct 2017
For me, the holiday season starts with Halloween. It begins when the costumes and candy and pumpkins begin to fill the shelves and stores.
Along with it, comes that dull aching and longing for the missing pieces of my life that will never be. My daughters.
No pumpkins carved and lit on the doorstep.
Empty chairs at the holiday tables.
Missing handmade ornaments made by tiny hands.
No letters to Santa.
Gratitudes left unspoken because their little voices will never speak.
No cookies or treats will be stirred or decorated by sticky fingers.
And dozens of doorbells will ring one less time on Halloween because my girls aren’t here to push the bell.
Two costumes will remain on the store shelves.
Two plastic pumpkins or brightly color bags will sit empty without candy collected with excited “trick or treats” giggles.
Two caramel covered apples will stay standing on the tray.
Two half-scared, half-excited screams will be missing from the crowd of kids in the haunted house.
There will always be an empty space where they were meant to be.
I will never know their favorite candy treats.
I will never hear them say as I used to, “Here, Mom, I don’t like this one. You can have it cuz you do,” as they dig through their bags of candy.
I will never know if they would eat themselves sick on sugar or if they would be like me and eat just a few, leaving the rest to lay forgotten in a drawer until next Halloween.
I will never know if they would have been ghosts or princesses or superheros or kittens or witches or zombies or what else their little imaginations might have created.
Though I fill this pumpkin-orange and candy-filled holiday with friends and fun and life, every time the doorbell rings and little ones call out, “Trick or treat,” I always think of the silent doorbells and empty steps that would have been filled by my girls.
Halloween will always have two empty spaces where they were supposed to be.
*Originally published on Still Standing Mag.
10 Oct 2017
It has been 14 years since my daughter, Grace was born still and 9 years since her sister, Lily joined her.
Life has ever been the same.
I am not the same.
I think it’s safe to say that this kind of loss changes all of us in irrevocable ways. Life is different after loss. How I see life is forever altered. Sometimes, those thirteen years of grieving my daughter(s) feel like an eternity. Other days, it feels like just yesterday I was saying good-bye.
In my thirteen years post-loss, the grief and the joys, the love and the heartache, the messiness and the healing have all taught me a few things about life after loss:
Don’t Risk Waiting for “Someday When…”
If loss has taught me anything it is to not to wait in life, because the “someday when…” we too often wait for might never come. Something those of us who have lost so much already know.
We never know where life will lead or what will happen at any given moment.
We can choose to live, really live – fully, wholeheartedly, and completely. This life as we know it can end at any moment, without warning or preparation.
So, live. Say I love you. Be honest. Dive into your dreams. Go all the places you want to go. Do the things you dream of doing. Give your whole heart. Go on adventures. Learn whatever you can. Give all you are to relationships. Leave behind what doesn’t serve you or the things that hurt you. Be bold.
“Someday when…” might never come. The life you plan might end in the sudden stilling of a heartbeat. Don’t risk waiting for a “someday when…” that might never be.
We’re All Doing the Best We Can
Sometimes this thing called life is hard.
And sometimes we screw up, all of us do. Sometimes we aren’t there for people when we could be. Sometimes we aren’t as compassionate as we could be. Sometimes we lash out in our grief or our fear or our anger when we don’t really mean to.
Sometimes we fall apart. Sometimes we judge (ourselves and others). Sometimes we do things in the moment that we later regret.
Sometimes we hurt others.
Sometimes we hurt ourselves.
Sometimes we hurt each other.
We are human and we make mistakes. It’s okay.
I truly believe that most of us are simply doing the best we can in any moment with the information and/or the skills that we have. There is always more going on underneath the surface of life than any of us know.
People get upset or angry for things we do or don’t do when they have no idea weight of the grief we are simply trying to function under. Some goes for them, often they act or don’t act due to circumstances or situations we know nothing about. We’re all doing the best we can with what we have, whether anyone else can see that or not.
So, maybe we could all give ourselves and each other a bit of grace and acknowledge our mutual humanity. We’re all in this together, one moment at a time. One mistake at a time. Then perhaps, next time, our best will become better.
There Truly Are No Rules or Timelines
When it comes to loss and grief, there are many similarities. That’s why these amazing loss communities are so powerful and soul-healing – we can connect in the similarities of our experiences and find others who get it on a deep level, in ways that non-loss parents can’t.
Yet, there are also differences. No two journeys are the same – not even if the exact circumstances of the loss were identical.
Some are able to find light in the darkness within months and fight their way back to living in those early years after loss. Others find themselves continuing to stumble and crash in the darkness of grief for many years after loss. Many find themselves cycling in and out of painful grief over the years, sometimes buried under the weight of it and other times feeling the light on their faces.
Some of us bury our grief only to have it seeping out into our lives decades after the actual death of our babies. Others throw themselves into the messy, heart-breaking wilds of grief right from the start and find that years later the pain has faded to a quiet bittersweetness.
Any and all of these are equally valid and right. No journey of life after loss is wrong – they are all uniquely individual. My loss is not your loss, yours is not mine.
Grief, joy, sadness, laughter, tears, gratitude, and love – all of this is life. All of this is life after loss. No matter where anyone is in their experience after loss, they are living.
No Community Loves Harder Than This One
There is no community I desperately wish I wasn’t a part of more than this one – this community of parents living without their children, partners without their love, people living without those they love the most. Yet, at the same time, there is no better community to be part of.
I went a decade after my losses before I found this community of people living after loss – and in particular, parents grieving their children.
Finding others who understood the terrible ache and grief of losing their child was like breathing new life into my soul.
It’s family. It’s comfort. It’s love. It’s support.
Like any family, there are disagreements and grumpiness and arguing at times. Yet, I have never been a part of a community so willing to show up, to support, to give, and to nurture than this one.
Not everyone in this community agrees all the time – because again, we are all on our own journey of life after loss – yet there is love and support here unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
If you let us, we will wrap you in love for a lifetime. That is this community.
Life on Planet Earth is Temporary, Love is Not
At some point each of us will leave this thing called life on Earth. Some far, far too soon. Some after many decades of life and living.
I have often heard it said that the only thing we can really count on is that we live and we die.
But I disagree.
We can count on love. Love does not die.
When we lose those that we love, our love lives on. Our love keeps them alive long past their physical bodies are laid down. When we leave this planet called Earth and lay our own bodies down, the love that others have for us will keep us alive. Life is an infinite circle of love. Love is life.
Love isn’t exactly something that we can touch or hold or identify on a tangible level, but as parents and as human, we know love. It lives in our souls.
Love is the greatest aspect of our humanity and it will live forever. And those we’ve loved and lost will live forever as love.
*Original version published on Still Standing Mag.
25 Sep 2017
I miss her most in the autumn.
My sweet Grace.
It’s not the day she was born still or her due date. It’s not when I discovered I was pregnant. It’s not any of those anniversary dates that can sneak up and drown my heart in sorrow.
I have never found a logical reason for why I miss her so in the autumn. It doesn’t really make any sense.
Yet when the air starts to cool and the leaves start hinting of red and orange and gold that space in my heart where she resides aches a little bit more than usual. The leaves and frost that crunch under my feet seem to whisper her name and I can almost see her playing in the falling leaves that dance through the air.
When I think of Grace, I think of autumn.
Bold and vibrant colors remind me of the brilliant light she was.
Little kids jumping into piles of leaves symbolize the joy and innocence that her life will forever be.
Sweaters and blankets give me that same warm and sweet sense of comfort that she did after her daddy died.
Quiet mornings in a world coated in glittering frost remind me of her gentle, peaceful energy.
Autumn is a brief season. Like Grace’s too short life, autumn flares brightly, drenched in color and vibrancy before quietly fading into the stark and bare winter season. Autumn is the radiant flash between the heavy heat of summer and the gray chill of winter.
Grace’s life was like autumn, a brilliance and beauty that too quickly faded into the harsh chill of grief and sorrow.
The absence of her is acute and aching in the autumn. Her would-be adolescent form is missing from the groups of kids on their way to and from school. The piles of leaves remain neat and tidy, unmarred by her playful leaps and jumps. The closet will never be filled with sweaters and socks, jeans and scarves to warm her growing body. Steaming cups of hot cocoa will never welcome her home out of the chill after school or play or activities.
Her life will always be beautiful and brilliant but all to brief. She will never grow to bloom into spring.
My life will continue to turn, passing through the seasons, ever evolving and turning through time. I always survive the gray chill of winter to once again feel the warmth of the blooming spring and heat of summer.
Then autumn will come again and I will remember, always, the brilliance of her life.
I miss her most in the autumn.
*Originally published on Still Standing Mag.
11 Sep 2017
I wish I could be there with you now, in person, to hug you and hold you through these darkest of days after the loss of your precious child. I wish that I could sit with you, pour you a cup of comforting hot cocoa or tea, tuck a warm blanket around you and simply be with you while you learn to breath and be in this new world called life after loss.
In a way, that’s what this book is, a way for myself and many other mothers who are living through what you are experiencing now to sit and be with you. We are here holding you close in our hearts as we can’t do with our arms.
It is true that no words and no actions could ever fix what has happened – we cannot bring your precious child(ren) back for you, just as we could not prevent the loss of our own children. Even our fierce and absolute mama love could not save them and that is the unbearable sorrow that we all now live with every day.
I do believe, however, that the words that we share and the ways in which we who grieve reach out and touch each other help. No words or actions can fix our losses, but we can help pull each other through these dark hours of grief and pain. That is what I and every mother in this book are doing – reaching out to help all of us through our darkest hours.
This grief is not a burden that anyone should have to bear alone.
My hope is that this book is something that you can hold onto, in those dark, lonely and desperate moments of grief and pain and loss. This is a book you can open to any page and read the love-filled words of another mama like you who knows the pain of not being able to hold or see or hear the one you love most in the world. A reminder in the midst of grief and tears that you are not alone and you are loved. Because, Mama, you are so very loved.
These words and letters are written from our hearts to yours, from one mother to another. With open arms and big hearts, we welcome you (though we desperately wish we didn’t have to) into our tribe of sisters – the community of mothers who know this unspeakable loss and grief. More importantly than the loss, however, we know the same beautiful, fierce mother love that lives in your heart – deep and abiding love for the child you cannot hold or see or hear yet who lives in your heart each and every moment.
It is my hope that within these pages you will find love and moments of comfort. It is my hope that you will feel, deep down into your bones, that you are not alone and that you are so very loved. It is my hope that you will know without a doubt that your baby and your motherhood matter. It is my hope that you will know that your baby’s life, however brief, has touched this world in irrevocable and valuable ways. It is my hope that this love and these words will help carry you through the darkest moments of your grief and show you glimmers of light in that darkness.
Not every letter will resonate with you. Not every experience shared here will speak to you. But there are many letters here and many different experiences – find the ones that speak to your heart and simply leave the ones that don’t. All are offered with love and compassion and a desire to reach out to another mother who hurts so very much.
I cannot fix this loss and I cannot take away your pain, but will all my hopes and all my love, I offer you this book full of love and letters from our hearts to yours. And if you get nothing else from it, please know this:
You are not alone.
You love and you are loved.
And love never dies.
*excerpt from “From Mother to Mother”
01 May 2017
It’s that time of year again.
That time when everywhere I look there are aching reminders – commercials, racks of cards, advertisements, special programs, and endless talk of Mother’s Day. When the day actually arrives, social media is plastered with images of mothers and their children, stories of sweet gestures – barely edible breakfast in bed, child drawn cards and pictures, flowers and treats, cute stories of how amazing it is to be a mother.
Unless I hide in my home with no television, no radio, no cell phone and no internet service for last half of April and first half of May, the endless reminders of Mother’s Day are unavoidable.
I don’t really show it much on the outside, but in these weeks leading up to Mother’s Day, I walk around with a heart that bleeds and a throat full of held-back tears. I go to work and talk with friends and go about my life as usual while everything inside of me aches with grief for the children I cannot hold.
The other day I watched a mother and her son in a restaurant and wondered, “Can she really grasp the incredible gift that she has? The opportunity to love and raise and nurture her son here on Earth? Can she truly know how lucky she is?”
I love my mama friends and I love their children. Yet in these weeks before Mother’s Day, I wish none of them would say a word about their kids or their lives as mothers. Any other time of the year, I love hearing their stories about the successes and challenges with their kids. I love them and want to share in that part of their lives.
Yet in these weeks, I can’t bear to hear those stories. I don’t want to know what amazing or funny thing their child did. I don’t want to listen to how hard it is to deal with X, Y or Z as a parent. Every mention feels they are taking a hammer to my heart and breaking it to pieces.
See, I have stories of my children too. Thousands of images and memories of life with my daughters. Endless things I could tell my friends and family about.
But my stories and memories aren’t real.
My daughters died before birth. In my mind, I see them here with me every day. I imagine who they might be, what they would look like, and how life with them would be. They are part of everything that I do and who I’ve become in this world. In some ways, they are as real to me as your living, breathing children are to you.
Except aren’t. They are phantom children. I cannot show you pictures or tell you stories of how sweet or how mischievous they are. They live only in my imagination as possibilities of what might have been. You cannot see them and few would look at me and see a mother.
You won’t find stories of motherhoods such as mine in the commercials or the greeting card aisle or advertisements. Your church won’t mention mothers like me by name – though they may think they are by tacking on an addendum such as “and all those who consider themselves mothers.” There won’t be a brunch special for mothers of dead kids.
I don’t live the socially accepted or recognized motherhood. I’m not the kind of mother most will think of on this day called Mother’s Day.
I will wake to a quiet and empty home. I will make myself breakfast and go about my day as usual. There will be no giggling girls, no tempers to calm, not special “mom” events to attend, no outside proof of my motherhood.
I may not be recognized as a mother on this day called “Mother’s Day,” but I will remember. I will remember the children that made me into this person called Mother. I will remember the lives that grew inside of me and that I love beyond any kind of measure.
My greatest wish on Mother’s Day is that every recognized mother truly knows the gift that she has – a living, breathing child here on Earth with them. Children she gets to nurture and hold and share endless stories of their successes and their challenges.
The gift of Mother’s Day is getting the opportunity to mother your child. I would give up a thousand lifetimes for the chance to mother my girls here in living, breathing form.