One of the Hardest Posts I’ll Ever Write. 

I wish what I’m writing right now would be the good news I hoped it would be. What it should be. 

Truthfully, I had been keeping a little secret from you guys. Hiding my hope and (yes) excitement for the future. You see, the Wednesday before Mother’s Day the word ‘positive’ boldly presented itself right in front of me. I was blessed with another baby, another pregnancy. Jensen had handpicked his little brother or sister for me. There the fire of having a living child was reignited. 

The past weeks were full of anxiety and guilt and joy for this new life inside of me. I’ve been sick to my stomach and craving avacados. Eleven days ago I even saw his or her’s strong heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. Ten perfect weeks of pregnancy. 

Late last night, I noticed light, brown spotting. Of course I was concerned. I read through all the baby blogs and boards. My mind kept telling me, it’s just old blood. Everything has went so smoothly. Then this morning, it was back. The spotting went off and on, I thought about going to the doctor first thing, but figured I’d just rest unless it got worse. 

Then it did. 

My mom and I went to the hospital. Still, I was so confident nothing was wrong. There was no pain or any other symptoms. They took my blood and urine. It said I was pregnant, but we needed to scan just to see. 

I should’ve known when she didn’t let me see the screen. Part of me did know, but I was holding onto hope. 

Loss had already struck, it wouldn’t hit me again. 

We waited in our room for what it seemed like forever. Today there was a ton of trauma patients. There were so many people being wheeled to the rooms beside me. I told my mom that I wasn’t high priority, they were just getting to everyone first. There’s nothing wrong. I really didn’t think it could happen again. 

He came into the room, muttered some words, but all I got out of that cacophony was ‘there wasn’t a heartbeat.’

I don’t know what’s going to happen now. In the blur of the conversations after those words, I know I’ll either miscarry naturally or have a D&C Monday. This weekend was supposed to be happy, I was going to announce to the rest of my family. Show them the baby’s ultrasound, have hope for the future. 

Mentally and emotionally, I know I’m in a sort of shock. Different from what I was with Jensen, but still shock. I am angry and feel as if having a living child is not in my cards. 

There’s nothing that’s going to make this ‘better.’ This baby is not in a better place and I don’t want to hear about God’s plan for me. I’m in pain. Losing this child hurts like hell. I loved and wanted him or her so much. It wasn’t just a few cells, it was my baby. Just like Jensen is my son. 

This is my child. He or she was here and so real. I miss them already and hope Jensen will take care of his little sibling. 

Although I don’t know when this will be posted (I’m writing this on my couch after just leaving the hospital), I will probably be MIA for the next couple weeks. If I do post, it’s not going to be ‘happy,’ my second child just died. 

I do appreciate all of your support through my journey of loss and love. It’s not one I’d ever wish on anyone. 

Thirty-Eight Weeks.

The past two days have been a whirlwind for me. Christmas was hard, as expected. I woke up with a lump in my throat. There wasn’t a happy little boy waiting in his crib to be picked up. I didn’t get to help him rip through all the wrapping paper on his presents. So many things I had planned for his first Christmas that just didn’t happen. They couldn’t without him here. I had to pretend the day wasn’t even Christmas to get through it. Yet, I made it, only to awake the next morning with a high fever and cold chills. My whole body ached. I slept for more than half of the day, which I desperately needed. Some part of me thinks yesterday physical pain was reflective of how my I would feel emotionally today.

What makes this Tuesday, thirty-eight weeks, such a triggering day? More time has passed than Jensen was alive. I had thirty-eight weeks with him and now another has come and went. It seems outrageous that this time has come so quickly. I hate that it’s been this long, even though I knew it would happen at some point. (Sometimes I wish you all could see the pauses I take while writing. This is hitting me really hard.) Honestly, I didn’t really think I would be able to make it this far. I wonder how my heart hasn’t stopped even though his did. It seems weird to think, but how does that happen. How does my heart keep beating for thirty-eight week when little heart that was inside me stopped?

Grief makes you question everything in almost a wave type fashion. Things you’ve thought you’ve come to terms with, come up back up during certain days. Questions you though you’ve let go are asked again. I keep replaying everything in my mind. From the day he was born and how I was feeling last year, it’s all just crazy. How can everything change in just one short year? Last year was such a happy time for me and this year was just sad. There’s no other way to describe it. I look at me now without Jensen and I hate this. I wish this wasn’t my life. All of this doesn’t help with this particular week and events that I’m right in the middle of. With Christmas, this day, and New Years coming up, I’m just thankful I haven’t pulled out my hair yet.

I don’t know how present I’m going to be for the rest of the week. There’s a fog around me and I’m trying with all my might to stop the year from changing. Ridiculous right? I can’t fathom that I’m leaving 2016 without Jensen. My future was always supposed to have him here with me. This last year was supposed to be the happiest in my life. Somehow 2016 feels safe to stay in no matter how horrible it was. It will always hold Jensen. This year will have always taught me love and perseverance. It was the year I learned I could survive anything thrown at me. I wish it turned out to be a different year, but I could never hate it.

This is Jensen’s year.

And because it’s Jensen’s year and has been so impactful on me, I’ll always carry 2016. This year has seen the best and worst of me. It’s opened up a world I never thought I would be apart of. It made me feel lost and found again. It’s brought me wonderful friendships and has let others dissolve. It shown me the harsh reality of this world. It’s allowed me to grow. It welcomed the best little guy I’ll ever know. It’s been full of love and loss.

Since today is such a big day of this grief journey, I wanted to share something special with you all. As I wrote about this year and how I’ll always carry it with me, I kept thinking of this picture. Those little, big hands hold my heart. They hold this year and all that it has brought. I see those hands and wish they could have squeezed my finger or searched for mine as he would begin to walk. Oh how I wish 2016 would have turned out so differently, but I will always have Jensen and the love he brings to me each and every day; no matter the year.

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Third from the Top.

Yesterday was the first Tuesday for a very long time that I hadn’t written and shared. It was a busy day for me. I’ve been getting ready for vacation, started writing names for the beach post, and went to a Christmas service for Jensen and his friends last night. On top of all my busyness, I had a horrible headache. When I was sitting at the service, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. It was already one of those days for me and it hit that I’m back to not eating again. I couldn’t remember the last time I had ate breakfast or lunch for the past few days.

Everything grief related started whirling in my mind. All the names. My longing for Jensen. How his loss has weighed on my heart. The mix of pain and love.

Seeing all those comments on the beach post for babies names to be written, I was so sad. There were too many names on that list, too many families feeling this same grief. Then on the service’s program, there were six full pages of names. Each name was someone’s child and there was Jensen’s, third from the top left on the third page. All those names are more than just names. When I read through them, I couldn’t help wanting to know all their stories and hear their parents beam about them. The names read and pictures shown were only the smallest glimpse into the lives they had and the memories their parents still carry on for them.

When Jensen’s name and picture was shown, my chest instantly felt tight. I couldn’t catch my breath and could only marvel on how beautiful he was and still is. The whole time his picture was up, I didn’t breathe. All I could do was sit there and let every emotion I’ve felt in the past thirty-five weeks flush over me. It was only a few moments, but it felt like an hour sitting there and looking at him. I noticed my hand was tracing my necklace, almost like it was second nature. My body instantly tried making my mind feel better and letting me know I was going to make it through this moment. It’s crazy because I had forgotten I wore a necklace, since I never do when I have a headache. I reached down saw that I was tracing his hand print. That perfect hand and fingers who have touched my heart and life in ways I never knew a person could.

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I know I’ve shown this necklace many times before, but it’s one of my favorite Jensen necklaces I have. It’s been really helpful for grounding during my anxiety attacks, just like I described above. His hand is so near my heart, which is so symbolic. He’s always there, but it just beautifully shows it. Sometimes I wish I could have a tattoo on my face saying I’m Jensen’s mom and I’m grieving. It truly is a mix of emotions. I know in my past few posts I’ve mentioned that I’ve been struggling. December has been really bad for me. Walking into any store is hard. All I want to do is buy children’s Christmas books so I can read to him. So, I can see that hand helping me turn the pages. People don’t get to see this side of grief. They’re not here in my home every night or they don’t see the Christmas book Jensen’s grandma bought him last year during this time. They don’t see that invisible hand pointing to that book or do they hear me reading it out loud to him.

The past week, I’ve longed for every baby to be back in their mothers arms. Grieving Jensen through the holidays is something I never imagined myself doing. I thought I would have to be keeping him quiet or tracing his actual hands during Christmas services. This universe shouldn’t have pages of children’s names written in a program or a list of them to be in the sand. But somehow that list grows longer each and every day.

If I’m being honest, I wish I didn’t know this world. Heck, I wish no one knew this world. Unfortunately, so many of us do. In a crazy, weird way, I’m thankful to be able to be in a position to write those names at the beach. Just like I was thankful to read all those six pages of names and get a glimpse into their lives. This type of grief takes a community to help heal each other. Just as I am so glad to be able to know each of your children, it makes me so very happy you all get to know Jensen.

If you haven’t written your child’s name to be written in the sand yet, please click on Jensen’s Facebook page on the left-hand side or click here. I’m also planning on posting more ornaments in the next few days. There are a handful more that mean a lot to me and Jensen’s story that I think you all will really enjoy.

Avoiding Situations.

Earlier this month, I talked about Reliving the Moment and how Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is common in moms who have experienced pregnancy/baby loss. In that post, I shared the four major symptoms of PTSD and my experience with the first one. Although right now my mind is blocking when I found out Jensen’s heart had stopped through the day he was born. Moments come flooding in my brain and I can only analyze those small bursts of time. Even though there’s no way to know when I’ll remember more about those two days, I find myself clinging on to the second symptom. For the ease of this conversation, here’s the list once more:

  1. Reliving the event.
  2. Avoiding situations that remind you of the event.
  3. Negative changes in beliefs and feelings.
  4. Feeling ‘keyed’ up or being on the lookout for danger.

When I first decided to talk about PTSD with you all, I didn’t even realize how much the holidays would go right along with the discussion. With Thanksgiving being my first, BIG holiday without Jensen, I didn’t know how I would handle the day or my emotions. Every day has been a test for me, but Thanksgiving and Christmas are really big days. They’re days where I’m supposed to be showing him off to the whole family and they let me know how big he’s getting. It’s the missing out on what his favorite holiday food would be, what his face would look like seeing the shiny ornaments on the tree, and so many countless things that these days bring with children…

As a loss mom, I have to weigh my emotions for family-get-togethers and other type of situations.

For the sake of not going on and on, I’m going to specifically talk about avoiding situations during this Thanksgiving. Maybe in the future I can touch on situations that directly remind me of the day Jensen was born. There’s so many ways this second symptom could go, but I think this is more relevant and timely for right now.

Going to Thanksgiving this year was hard. My family actually had two different ones, one that had all the kids and the other with just adults. Honestly, it was bittersweet to have. It’s nothing against my family, at all, but it sucks that Jensen wasn’t here. That he couldn’t be experiencing his first Thanksgiving with his whole family. I felt horrible, obviously I didn’t go to the first one. I avoided it, completely. There was no strength in me to go or even think about it. The whole night I would’ve pictured Jensen there and there and there. But like everyday since he’s been born, he isn’t physically here. There’s no silly smiles or trying to take all the food off the table. My brain puts it there, but it only makes his absence even more noticeable. I thought the second one would be better.

It wasn’t.

In the morning, I laid out my outfit and did everything I needed to around the house. As the clock kept getting closer to four, my anxiety kept getting stronger. Again, I felt myself wanting to avoid the situation and all the visions I thought I was going to have. Then when I told myself it was okay to have those thoughts, I was terrified to have everything come back to me. I didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole and that’s a really big possibility. My brain has been actively trying to remember those two days. I feel like if I give it a little room to explore my deep thoughts, it’ll play it all out. That scares me, especially because I don’t know if I’m ready for that.  So, logically what does a person do when they’re not ready to face something? They avoid it.

That’s what I did, for a few hours at least. Four came and went, and I still didn’t feel like leaving my bed. Jensen’s urn candle was on and I just kept watching it flicker, wondering what he would want me to do. I was still seeing him eating mashed potatoes and how he would look like at thirty-three weeks. Even sitting here in my room, I could see him dressed, ready to go, and watching me frantically get ready. I saw him in a denim shirt and khaki pants, with his white tennis shoes. Those images came so vividly even with me not at the dinner table. I avoided what I was afraid of for as long as I could. This type of situation of reliving the event, never goes away. I relive the days I was pregnant with Jensen, certain moments of his birth, and each day that he should be here.

When I got to my uncle’s house, I took a deep breath before I walked in. I kept playing with my Jensen bracelet as everyone greeted me. My arms felt empty, I kept thinking how I should be carrying him in his car seat. I’m not going to lie to you guys, it hurt. It felt like my chest was being crushed. This feeling overwhelms me and is usually present in my day-to-day life. Yet, I still made it to Thanksgiving dinner. A plate was given to me and I filled it up to eat. I sat, ate, and talked. There were moments I wanted to cry and there were moments I laughed. I kept wondering why I had avoided going over for those few hours and I wondered about my lifetime of avoiding these situations.

Losing a child brings a lifetime of hurting, dreaming, and avoiding. But with every step and day we continue on, we heal just a little bit at a time. I know how stressful the holidays are and how the PTSD can really hit. Even though I went to Thanksgiving dinner and have certain plans for December, it’s perfectly okay to avoid these days. Grieving is a learning process that we have to figure out each day. If one day you’re ready to face these challenges head on, do it. If the very next day, you just want to stay in bed and avoid everything, you have every right to do so.

You are not alone. These feelings are not strange or weird. Be gentle on your heart. I know how hard this is, just like I know you’re doing your very best.


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A little side note to this post…

I’d like to let everyone know that Poe made it home on Sunday. He’s lost a few pounds, but he’s safe and has no injuries. I am so thankful for my community, the positive thoughts that were coming my way, and that Jensen lead Poe back to his home.


Saved by a Bluebird.


A bluebird saved me this week.

Which makes me smile because I can just imagine a huge bluebird holding me while it’s flying to safety. The moment was as dramatic as that image, but you get the point.

For the past two days, I’ve started writing at least twenty posts. All which were quickly deleted in the first two or three sentences. Nothing I write doesn’t seem worthy to share this week. These words that I write yell out for support, but another part of me doesn’t want them to be unanswered if I reach out. This self-doubt stems from the weeks after losing Jensen. Doubting everything I did during my time with him and how my emotions were making me feel crazy. I remember asking him for a sign to let me know he was okay and always with me. Then I saw the red and blue bird.

I still felt crazy in grief, but it did let me know he was close.

November has put this craziness and loneliness in my mind again. My whole body seems to be sinking in itself. Thankfully Jensen bear’s weight draws me to the outside world. There’s been moments this week I’ve wanted to throw out my phone, get sleeping pills, and just sleep for days. I kept asking why again. I’ve questioned if Jensen knows I love him. I pleaded to him to give me a sign because I needed it so bad. Thinking back now, it seems selfish because I usually get little signs during the day. But I needed that familiar sign to save me from myself. To save me from doubt and questioning my whole entire existence.

That’s when the bluebird came.

It was hopping from limb to limb outside the mud room window. This bluebird’s blue was almost shiny and the sun kept hitting it just right. My eyes were completely drawn to it and as much as I wanted to get a picture of this  bird, it only stayed for a minute. There would have been no way for me to run and grab my phone to capture him. That’s how I knew it was sign. It made me stop everything I was doing and the sun reflected on its shiny wings.

This was Jensen’s ‘I love you, Mommy,’ from heaven.

When I realized yesterday was November eleventh, so 11-11, it was even more special. This is going to make me sound even more crazy, but when I was asking him for a sign it was 11:11pm on the tenth. Then there was my sign the next day. I can remember feeling him last year during this time, fluttering happily away. One year later, he came fluttering to me again. Maybe his spirit was carried on the bird like I had imagined me being in the beginning of this post.

I like that thought.

Maybe one day we can fly together. He’ll have to show me how and probably give me the courage to do it, but I’d fly with him.

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There’s days like these I wish I could go give everyone feeling this self-doubt and loneliness the biggest hug I can. I’d want them to know they’re not alone. Even if they don’t feel like they’re important or what they say doesn’t matter, they should know it does. This week on the internet has been rough and there’s a lot of people who need support for what’s going on with them. Grief doesn’t give days off, ever. There are times it’s lighter, but it’s always present. Believe me, I know how heavy it is and if you’re feeling it as you’re reading this, I’m walking with you.

You are important.

You are loved.

You have so much to give to this world.

I hope a bluebird can come save you too.

Seven Months.

I don’t know how to begin my post today, but everything is telling me to start typing away. Seven months is a long time to live without half of your heart. In the scheme of life, it’s a short amount of time, which makes it feel more horrible knowing how many more there will come without him.

If Jensen was here, there wouldn’t be a lot of words, just a picture of him smiling and me telling you more about him. What tastes he likes, how big he’s getting, and I’m sure I’d tell you he’s still dancing to Usher. Maybe that picture would be outside on this beautiful day. I think he would be being held by his grandparents, since they’d be celebrating their anniversary this weekend. For some reason, I can imagine them matching with their outfit colors. All I see is smiles and feel like it’s a playful moment between the three of them.

Such a peaceful moment I vividly see, that will never happen.

My life, seven months post loss has one foot in the harsh reality that is and the other envisioning what it would be like if he was here. Seeing those dreams and feeling these emotions afterwards it what makes things complicated. Admittedly, it’s nice to see him in my mind. It keeps his spirit lively and lets me escape the dread momentarily. The feeling part is what’s worse. A mix of letting happiness fill my body when I hear his laugh, that I’ve never heard. Then when it stops… That silence and stillness that I absolutely hate pulls me down; drowns me in the sea of grief. I literally can feel the sobs coming on when that happens, like I’m coughing up salt water while my body convulses.

This life is hard.

Usually, I try to find some good in all of this. I’ll say holding Jensen bear has helped and so has seeing Jensen’s candle on. This morning I woke up feeling lighter than I usually do on the fifth of every month. I dreamt of him last night and this morning’s stillness felt peaceful. Maybe he wanted me to be reassured that he’s still right here with me. As the morning has come to a close and the afternoon welcomes me, I’m waiting for some of the flashbacks of this day in April. They usually hit on these big trigger days. When that happens, I won’t be able to find any good. Instead of holding Jensen bear and finding comfort, I’ll be upset in wondering how much heavier he would be at seven months old. Anything good in life now comes with a double-edged sword.

When I let myself predict how the rest of this days goes, I think it’ll be better than the last few months. Not because I’m ‘getting over’ his death or I’m completely ‘healed,’ it’s more of my body preparing for the rest of the next two months. As I said on the first, there are things coming up that will sting. I feel almost as if my brain is protecting me today by keeping itself busy. I’m not sure. Living with grief is different each day.

In honor of his seven months in heaven, here is a picture you’ve never seen before. It’s of his nose, lips, and of course his big cheeks. Today when looking at his ultrasounds, I was drawn to this one. Looks like he’s trying to look up at me and I can imagine him looking up at the tree outside of his window. Seeing the beautiful orange leaves and the bright blue sky. He’d be such a curious boy, always listening and wanting to learn more.

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Happy seven months in heaven, Jensen Grey! Instead of gold confetti this month, I hope you’re celebrating in a fall wonderland. There are orange leaves surrounding you and you’re watching them as the fall all around you. I hope the angels are singing sweet lullabies to you and the wind carries their voices down for me to hear. Celebrate and let the love I have for you surround and warm you. I wish you could be here with me.

I miss you. I love you.

My Promise To You.

Capture Your Grief, My Promise To You, Pumpkins

In the days before your silent arrival, I wrote you a letter. I remember crying while writing it because I knew it was just the beginning of me writing letters to you. My plan was to keep these words secret from you throughout your childhood and give them to you as a surprise on your eighteenth birthday. As I wrote, I was trying to imagine what you would look like the first time I saw you and how you would be years down the road. During these thoughts, you wiggled around in my belly and I just kept encouraging you to keep dancing along. All of these movements reassured me for what I thought was a promised future.

These words were full of one promise I’ll always keep.

The letter I wrote on that day is my favorite that I’ve ever written. There was so much innocence and positivity in every up and down stroke. Even when I told you I expected you to break my heart and challenge me as you grew. I wanted you to know that no matter what you did, your mother would always be there for you. That no matter what trouble or ‘bad’ thing you think you did, I would right here to help. I told you I would be your lifelong cheerleader who would embarrass you at every turn, but I knew you would always be appreciative of those times.

To be honest, I forgot about this letter and a lot of other things when you were first born. My mind blocked a lot of those precious moments in the beginning. It wasn’t until the first time I was home alone at your grandma and grandpa’s, with just your urn and flame flickering away, that I found this letter once again. In that moment, I wanted to throw the notebook across the room. I would never get to embarrass you in the ways I wanted or I would never know what you’d look like at age eighteen. All the letters I had planned to write were gone and they were filled with different words now. Each up and down stroke was still filled with innocence and positivity, but the writer who was reading into her past had changed.


It flickered in my mind just as quickly as your flame. Each motion reminded me of the pain I was constantly feeling. My whole world has fell apart, Jensen. You are no longer physically here and that absence crushes me. I remember in those moments of sitting there with your letter in my hands, that my soul was tugging from two angles. The first was cold and painful. It was always right there. In those days, it was really the only thing my body could process, so I welcomed it. Yet, there was something else in that moment. The second pulling, which was warm and inviting. It was the promise I made to you each day you were in my belly and it’s the promise I continue to make to you even in your death.

My promise to you, Jensen, is love.

Love is the only promise that can never be broken. I promise to love you with each breath I take. It is the only thing you ever felt on your time here on earth and it’s what you continue to feel in heaven. My promise to you is not only to love you, but surround myself and your memory with love that everyone will be able to see. It’ll be the way I can survive through tomorrow, the holidays, and each day I encounter. My promise of loving you makes my world continue to turn.

I miss you. I love you.
I promise you I’m doing my best.

I Am.

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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.


Beliefs & Spirituality.

I just want to start off saying, this topic brings a lot of emotions when talked about. There have been centuries of wars started over religion and differences in beliefs. This post was not written to harm others or to push what I believe on anyone. I’m not like that and I value differences in opinion. It’s fascinating to hear what other’s think about the world and their spirituality. There’s no right or wrong in what you believe.

Beliefs, spirituality, and faith are as individual as each person or their journey in life. For me, it’s something that’s constantly changed as I’ve experienced different situations or learned more information. When we were young, we didn’t go to church or were pushed to believe in a certain thing. I mean, we celebrated all the holidays and learned about Jesus, but we were able to explore it all in our own time. That meant learning about any religion I could find and even more ideas about the afterlife. Like I said, I found it all so fascinating,

To put it bluntly, I believe in God and the afterlife. Yet, there’s so much more to what I believe than just that.

Before I get into the details, I want to make something clear. I do not find it comforting for people to tell me Jensen is in a ‘better place.’ There’s no better place for him than in my arms. It’s not comforting to know that God needed another angel and He somehow chose Jensen. More than anything else, it angers me and it’s not fair that he died. Believe me, I know he’s a special boy, but his innocent soul deserved to live so much longer. If you hear me talking about him being in heaven or being an angel, it’s because I can. That sounds ridiculous, I know. BUT, until you’ve walked in my shoes and experienced losing my son, you don’t understand what is comforting to me. It’s okay if I say those things because sometimes that’s the only thing keeping me being here. Knowing he’s protecting me and will be there when I die. As I said, faith and this journey is individual.

Now I’ll get back to the prompt.

Yes, I believe in God, but that doesn’t mean I’m angry with Him and it doesn’t mean that my faith wasn’t shattered. Most days, I’m still so mad and don’t understand why this is happening to me. I find comfort in a lot of verses, not all of them. One of my favorites is below, Jessica, from Lettered Hope, made this for me. It comforts me to pray and put my worries on God. If I say I’m praying for you and/or your angel, I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s what helps me make sense of this loss. I believe God hears me and tells the children in heaven that they’re being thought of. Then I think they can just hear me too. I remember not praying for a few weeks after Jensen died because I was so angry, which was weird because I did a lot of work in the bible when I was pregnant. It was Jensen and I’s routine every night to pray. I can remember screaming till my throat would bleed asking Him why. Why Jensen? I know there’s not a reason for his death and I won’t know until I’m dead. There’s nothing good that can come as a result of Jensen not being here, but I’m being lead into healing through knowing I will be with him again.

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After losing Jensen, I understand how people don’t believe in God, or well any higher power. It’s not fair, especially when we’re led to believe that He put this pain on us. I get it and your beliefs are justified, just as mine are to my understanding of this.

Another belief I have, is in spirit communities; I’ll try not to go too deep into this, unless you’d like to know. When I talk about this, I literally feel crazy. I believe that everyone has a soul and that our souls are connected with those that mean the most to us. Some know this as soul mates, but I believe in a soul community. These souls stay around each other for all eternity and come back here to earth and find each other again. This can be from partners to children to friends, but we’re constantly searching for one another. I think Jensen and I’s souls have been connected for a long time. As any mother, I had a bond with him when I was pregnant, but I get a lot of signs that I know are from him. In my letters to him, I’ve said that we’re two souls who search for each other, but are continuously just out of our reach. Maybe this goes along with not only wanting to see him again, but one day seeing him grow? Who knows, I’m still working on this belief.

The last thing I want to touch on is heaven. I really believe there is a home for us after we die. Maybe we go there to rejuvenate for another life or we stay there forever, both comfort me equally. I think heaven is different for everyone. Sort of like everyone has their own house and inside is what makes their soul happy. It could maybe even be your house transported into heaven, which I wouldn’t be disappointed about! Sometimes I think my heaven will be walking right into my front door and picking Jensen up from his crib. Then just holding him and studying every detail of that moment. We’d never run out of diapers and food. My heaven is just us together in his nursery, watching whatever’s going on outside his window. Hopefully my other family would be there and so would Leo and Poe. But as I said, everyone’s heaven is different.

I often think about Jensen’s heaven. Maybe his is with me and that’s why I always have so many signs. I think he’s with my grandma being held, I have a feeling that would be apart of hers. Maybe he’s growing or waiting for me to get there so I can see that. I hope I can revert back to twenty-two and we can grow together.

Jensen will always be my heaven and I have faith that he’ll be eagerly waiting for his mother’s embrace.

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Lemons & Lemonade.

So, I’m going to break the rules on today’s prompt. Chalk it up to having an emotional morning or just a horrible past six months, my mind is letting me delve into the ‘lemonade’ I’ve made since Jensen’s been born.

This prompt was inspired by a new show, ‘This Is Us,’ where a couple was pregnant with triplets. Long story short, one of the babies died (either shortly before or during birth) and the doctor was talking to the dad about baby loss and how you have to continue on for your family after this tragedy happens. He spinned the saying, ‘When life give you lemons you make lemonade,’ and added on to it with his own personal story of loss. There was also a line about (along the lines of), even given the sourest lemon you can make something resembling lemonade. I probably should have re-watched before I started typing, but as I said, emotional morning.

When I first saw the video, I thought, yes this is it. This analogy is perfect, everyone should see this. Until it weighed on my heart a little more; maybe I just know how to sour everything. I kept thinking, yes this works for life and can be applied to loss, as it was presented in the show. There’s a point, I think, in the loss journey that you there’s more positive than negative. People are able to see all the good they’ve helped bring into the world in honor of their babies and to help others out. I understand the analogy perfectly and believe one day I’ll even be able embrace it.

Right now, I can’t.

I’m not saying there’s no positives ever in my life after loss, but right now it’s very hard to see. Instead of sticking exactly to this prompt, I’m going to keep the analogy used, but share it in a way that represents the grief journey I’m going through.

To make lemonade, a person needs water, lemons, and sugar. The water is the base of the whole drink, you add in lemons to give the sour punch, and then end off with the sweetness of the sugar. Obviously, right? When we talk about it metaphorically, lemons are always given to us when life isn’t going our way. Jensen’s death has been the biggest, sourest lemon ever given to me. Since we’ve been molded to only see the sour part, we don’t look beyond the lemon. An outside person might believe I can use the lemon and make it ‘somewhat resembling’ lemonade. I’m challenging you to relook at this.

Instead of thinking of me getting the biggest, baddest lemon, think of it like the sugar has been taken away. Before, there was such much sugar that even if I got another lemon, I could just sweeten the rest up. Without sugar in lemonade, it’s just really sour lemon water. I can keep squeezing and making the most out of all the lemons ever given to me, but without that one ingredient, it’ll never be the same.

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