The following words were written at 2:11am this morning. I couldn’t sleep at all last night with the whirling of thoughts and words in my head. In attempts to show what grief looks like at all times, I’m not going to edit or change anything I said last night. You’ll even see the scribble out of one word and the underline of another.

I wish…

I wasn’t writing this. I wish loss never happened. I wish Jensen was sleeping silently soundly in his crib. I wish wishes came true, then I’d bring our babies back for you and me.

I remember…

Only hearing 4:25 and feeling something I’ve never felt before. I remember the emptiness when I arrived home. It took place where Jensen had made his home for the past thirty-eight weeks and two days. That emptiness spread from his sacred spot and traveled in my veins to my heart, my brain, and even to my toes. I remember the second that emptiness and numbness turned to unbearable pain, that still hasn’t went away.

I could not believe…

Those six words that came out of the doctor’s mouth. Even worse, I couldn’t believe the confirmation of them with the silence of his birth.

If only…

I knew what I do now. Maybe I could have saved you. If I couldn’t have saved you, I would’ve changed the moments after your birth. If only there were one kiss or sweet whisper of ‘I love you.’

I am…

Jensen’s mom. I am on a raft of love in the sea of grief. I am Danielle and I’m learning how to journey and survive life after loss.