“I will send out an army to find you in the middle of the darkest night...
I will never stop marchin’ to reach you in the middle of the hardest fight...
I hear you whisper underneath your breath. I hear you whisper you have nothing left...
It’s true, I will rescue you...”Read More
“The friendship which can cease has never been real.” (St. Jerome)Read More
How much longer will I be able to keep this up? How much more will be asked of me? I miss her. I miss her so much. And I cry out to my God who gave and took: Speak to me! Speak to me. Because at your command, these waters can be stilled. Your voice can calm the waters raging within (“the sea in me”).Read More
Six months. Today, we celebrate six months of life. It’s your little brother’s half birthday. As I type this, he’s cuddled close to me, sucking on his pacifier, while his softie is nestled into his neck and lullabies lull him to sleep. It’s beautiful. But it stings. It’s bittersweet... I’m overcome with love for him and the joy he brings me to the point that I’m overwhelmed and brought to tears. His breaths fall heavily on my arm, while you remained so still. His little life, in my arms, because your life slipped through my hands. Death literally passed through me, so a new life could be planted. Could grow. Could resurrect from the darkness and bring to fruition a redemption I had not thought possible. There’s so much guilt. But there’s so much love. And grief, it still remains.Read More
Who am I now? How has this experience changed me? I hesitate to even call it an experience. It was and is so much more than that. It was stillbirth. It was losing a child. It is loss. And it is grief. But nonetheless, I am different.
Transformed, however, makes it seem as though I have come to the end of this difficult road. I am ever evolving. Ever changing. In each day, each moment, in each breath...I am transforming.Read More
Dear Friend, I’m sorry that someone in your life has experienced the greatest loss—the loss of a child. You must feel so sad, yet so awkward...so unsure as to what you should do. Because, what can you do? What can you say? You can say nothing. You can do nothing. Just be. Just be there for them. Nothing will fix this. Nothing will take away their pain. Nothing will make them feel better. No cliches, no words of wisdom, no biblical quote or spiritual truth. Nothing.Read More
Healing has been a process of surrendering, remembering, and waiting. It has been allowing the emotions and the memories to surface. It has been going through the pain and not stuffing it away. It has been allowing the gaping wounds to be exposed to the light. It has been counseling, and writing, and graveside visits. It has been nights of endless tears and crying to the point of vomiting and being unable to breathe. It has been going through your memory box and looking at your pictures. Meeting others in their suffering and talking about real and hard things. It has been allowing others to love me and admitting that I can’t do it all. It has been an attempt to trust, and getting let down—but trying again anyway. It has been acknowledging my pain, giving it a name, and being okay with who I am now. It has been accepting what life after loss looks like, moving one step forward, one day at a time. And it has also been taking steps backward. It has been losing relationships, losing friends, and letting go of the expectations I place on myself and others.
Healing has been allowing the old wound to touch this new wound. It has been waiting in joyful hope.
And healing will come because you existed.
Healing will come, because of you.
My healing baby.Read More
Every night, before bed, I would look at her picture on the mantle. Trace my thumb over the rosary beads made from her funeral flowers. And beg for it to all be different.Read More
Today my grief is a longing. A dull ache that never goes away, stealing my breath and causing me to feel like I can’t breathe. Today my grief is finding beauty. The Eucharist. A smile. A glimpse of joy. A warm fall morning. The flowers at your grave. Standing near you as the sun warms my skin, and the birds sing, reminding me of our silent retreat together. Today my grief is feeling you in my heart, always. Knowing that wherever I go, you are always near. And I feel it so deeply. Today my grief is choosing. Choosing to take another step forward. Choosing to be present. Choosing to remember. Choosing to let God soften the edges of my heart. Today my grief is real and tangible. I am aware of its presence. But I invite it in. I do not hide from it or run away. Today, I step back, and I allow it to take its place in my life.Read More
Your name. It came to me in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. It was early on in the pregnancy, and we weren’t finding out the gender. I had always thought I would have a Rebecca if I had another girl. But God named you before you were mine: Teresa Elizabeth. This was to be your name...Read More
Two years this Monday...October 1. The Feast of St. Therese. I had proof of your life growing within me. The inkling I had felt was proven true with two pink lines.Read More
I shut my eyes in hopes of dreaming of you. Of finding you. Of you finding me.
I see you in my mind’s eye, and I speak your name on my heart. It rests on my tongue in a quiet sigh. No sound comes out. It’s stifled. Unreleased.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders, clenching myself tightly. I envision the weight of your small body against mine. Leaning into me. Pressing against me. Delicate arms wrapped tightly around me with your tiny jaw embedded into the nape of my neck.
In the bed. Holding you. Holding me. I need you to hold me.
I miss you so much.Read More
There’s a deep ache in me that permeates every fiber of my being. A longing. A stillness. A quiet. It’s incomplete and completely painful. It swallows me whole and consumes my existence. It’s presses hard and captures me. I’m suffocating.Read More
I guess I just don’t want people to assume that I am okay, that my husband is okay, that we are okay, or that our family is OKAY. Or to assume that a smile on my face means that I am “better.” That because I hold a babe in my arms, I am over not holding her. That because it’s been a year, life is back to “normal.” We are not fully functioning. We are just trying to make it through another day. Just as pregnancy after loss was unbearably brutal, parenting after loss has been a beast of its own. I look around and see all the ways our lives have unraveled over the past thirteen months. Life still seems so out of control.
Right now, I just need an escape.
An escape from this thing called life after loss; from this gray area of waiting.
Waiting for the pain to soften, for the memories to not break me in two, for the heaviness to lift.
I want a break.Read More
After all, I am trying to mother a child who is always missing...that in itself is exhausting and overwhelming and will be part of me forever.Read More