Tag Archives: life after loss

Learning How to Swim, Again.

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Yesterday, as I floated alone in my parent’s pool, I was fueled by anger. In my head I was screaming so loud, but my exterior just seemed like I was uncomfortable. I tried to calm myself by watching the clouds, feeling the sun’s warmth, and letting the cool water extinguish the flames of madness inside me.

How is this my life?

Let me back this up a little bit. Since my D&C, I’ve had this horrible cough. I can’t sleep at night due to it and nothing seems to ease my coughing fits. In trying to figure out why I am lacking in sleep, I realized it was from the breathing tube they had to put in my throat for surgery. The lasting, physical evidence from this pregnancy. The combination from the lack of sleep and headaches from constantly coughing and drinking hot tea has me on edge: emotionally and physically.

Knowing all of this, I wanted to try my best to relax yesterday since I had the pool to myself. Right before I plugged my iPhone in to blast music, I scrolled through Instagram like I normally do. Now, I follow lots of loss moms, motivational accounts, and profiles that have journal prompts. If you didn’t know, I write a lot for myself, that no one ever reads. Sometimes it’s nice to be guided in writing. One of my favorite accounts, @rusticojournal, posted a seemingly fun and innocent prompt yesterday…

@rusticojournal


The mix of no sleep and my emotional battle twisted this nice, light prompt into a soul crushing reality that is my life.

Dramatic? Probably, but that was the spark that lit the fire in my mind. Since I felt so emotional after reading the prompt (and spewing while floating) I decided to write a response and wanted to share it with you.

I learned how to swim in this new life after loss because I was pushed off the highest mountain into an ocean that’s undercurrents pulled me down to the bottom. During the fall, I forgot how to swim or even which way the surface was to swim. I succumbed to the ocean of grief and let it twist me around. It would have been easy to just stay there in the darkness, for I was afraid of what would happen when I came back up. The world had defied me and how could I trust it ever again?

Something inside me made me want to begin swimming, to try to heal from the loss of my son. Stroke by stroke, I became stronger and reached the surface. There were waves so tall and big that knocked me back under, but I refused to sink. Each time I was plummeted down, it took me less time to swim back up. When I resurfaced I saw different beautifies that didn’t exist before. Yes, the world had looked different, but I couldn’t go back to how it was before. I didn’t want to go back to a world without Jensen, so I had to accept these pains and joys.

For a year, I learned how to swim in the ocean of grief. I was actually getting quite good at maneuvering and predicted the waves. Then it changed when I got pregnant again. There were still huge obstacles ahead and it didn’t take away all those I had overcome, but something new had come into play, hope.

My short pregnancy after loss experience was smooth, until the hurricane came and I had to learn how to swim again.

I hate comparing this loss to losing Jensen. They’re so different in many ways, but the pain I feel… it’s still heartbreaking. My hope for the future was extinguished and the flames of anger and the intense grief is back. Yes, I’m still in the ocean of grief, I’ve never left. I was pulled down to the bottom again and am still swimming up.

This time though, I’m not afraid of getting back to the surface. I know what’s there now. Learning how to swim this time is easier than what it was when Jensen died. My muscle memory is guiding me in how to grieve, even though it is different from before. The movements and waves are tricky, but I want to be on top. I want to see where I am in this sea and how far this hurricane threw me. There’s no way I can go back to where I was before this miscarriage. It’s a new terrain for me that created completely different situations and experiences.

Loss has altered me and the world around me, but it hasn’t taken away my ability to learn how to swim.

Usually it helps getting all the built up words out on paper, but this wasn’t the case yesterday. My cough kept me up again last night and since I released some of my pent-up emotions, they just wanted to spill out. I questioned God why He had to take Jensen, when he’s all I want, or why He had to take his little sibling away, when he or she gave me so much hope for the future.

If I could share anything from my experience in learning how to swim again (navigate life after loss), is that no matter the loss, it hurts like hell. There is no reasons babies should die and parents to be subjected in this pain and grief. No words can take away that pain, no future living children can erase what has happened, and no matter how much time has passed, a parent can feel how deeply their child’s loss impacted their life. All we can do is help each other swim.

Post-Op Appointment Update.

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I woke up yesterday with so much anxiety just sitting on my chest. It’s going to be the day I found out what I did wrong; why Jensen’s little sibling died. There has to be something wrong with my body or maybe I had been in the wrong while pregnant. My brain is starving for some sort of answers and steps for if I would have another child in the future.

As usual, I put off getting ready for my appointment till the last-minute. Somehow I think if I just act like I don’t have to do something, it’ll magically become reality. Then all I knew I was in my mom’s car and we were talking about… I forget what. My thoughts were consumed. I should be out of the first trimester and getting excited to find out the sex of my child. Not this. Going up to another post-death appointment for one of my children. My nails, that I’ve tried so hard not biting lately, were bitten down so much. All while my mom kept talking. I feel so bad, I should have paid more attention to what she was saying.

When we got to the office, I swear every pregnant person my doctor sees was there.

A few weeks after New Years, I stopped really paying attention to those big pregnant bellies. Sometimes they’re just unavoidable. Well, after my miscarriage, I just want to not see pregnant people. Also, why isn’t there such a thing in the doctor’s office as a designated loss mom appointment day or maybe a little side waiting room. No, the mental torture I was already in just magnified. I probably looked like a complete bitch sitting there not making eye contact with these joyous women and the off-chance I did, I didn’t smile back.

My name finally got called twenty minutes after my appointment time. I didn’t mind the wait time, I get it. Everyone waits, I just wasn’t in the best of moods. The nurse asks, almost too peppy, how I was feeling and just smiles back at me. Again, remember my heavy anxiety and overall hellish weeks and months I’ve had. Coldly, I told her I could be doing much better and stared back. I thought that’d be it, no more dumb questions or statements, but that’s not my luck.

Now I don’t know what’s on my medical charts, but I’m guessing the nurse knew I was there because of a D&C due to a miscarriage. I’m also guessing, that my past history, you know my son dying at thirty-eight weeks in my womb, would also be in there. Thankfully she took my blood pressure when we first got in the room because it skyrocketed soon after.

I’m Jensen’s and this baby’s voice and I will never deny them as my children. They died, but they lived too. I am theirs and they are mine.

This nurse, doing her job I understand, looks me straight in my eyes and says, ‘you have no children, right?’ My loss mama heart fired up and said, ‘yes, my son was stillborn last year. Last April.’

Then it was like a slap in my face.

‘And you just had a miscarriage, but you don’t have any children.’

I felt all the blood in my whole body boil. Then I repeated, ‘I have a son. Unfortunately, he died, but he is my child. So I don’t have any living children, but I do have children.’ Somehow I didn’t scream it at her, maybe that’s because I was trying to keep the tears that were filling up my eyes from falling down my face.

She just nodded and gave me this look of pity. It was so demeaning, like she thought I was just grasping at these straws to be a mom. Then she left.

There have been many times in just the past two weeks where I’ve felt so low and down. Even in this state, I never questioned my motherhood or my value. But in that room, I felt stripped down and worthless. This invisible motherhood felt taken away from me, like the time I had with Jensen and all that I do to mother him now didn’t matter. How can you devalue someone in such a vulnerable state and place.

So many emotions and thoughts flew around before the knock at the door halted them all. The time was here where he was going to tell me I was broken and that my womb was a death-ground for my babies.

I physically felt my fingers tighten the seat underneath me. Then everything happened all at once.

‘Don’t try again for two months.’

‘Keep taking your prenatal vitamins.’

‘Baby’s results won’t be here till Monday, call us then.’

‘There should be no problem during future pregnancies.’

‘Call us as soon as you get pregnant again.’

My head was still in a whirlwind from getting all that information in a matter of five seconds. Just as they started walking out, my mom started asking questions because none of mine were coming out.

Not to get into the entirety of their conversation, I’ll give you the quick details. Pretty much, all my blood work and testing has come back completely normal, again. I did extensive testing after Jensen was born. They didn’t find anything abnormal with me. There was no answers as to why this happened other than it just happened. I should be able to have healthy, living children in the future. Of course I’ll get extra monitoring in future pregnancies. But there’s nothing else I could’ve done to prevent this miscarriage or Jensen’s death for that matter.

I should be ‘happy’ to get that information. I know it.

There’s so many women who definitely cannot have children naturally. It happens to so many and it’s heartbreaking. That desire to grow a baby in your belly is such a natural one. I get that and I can’t imagine getting that news for myself.

With that being said, I was angry walking out of the doctor’s office today. Why is there no answers that loss struck me again? What more could I have done? Isn’t there any explanation as to why I do have a death-ground womb? I have so many questions that are just left unanswered, just to try again and do monitoring. My brain cannot accept that is the only half answer I’m getting; but that’s what I’ve gotten from three different doctors.

To say the day was anything but stressful would be a complete understatement.

I don’t really know what the future has to hold for me right now. There’s some options that I have been considering, but I’m going to see how I feel in two cycles and go from there. When I first lost Jensen, I didn’t want another baby. It took me a while to be ‘okay’ with giving him a sibling. Right now, I don’t know. Yes, I want a living child in my arms SO bad, but I’m not strong enough to keep experiencing loss. It’s just a question that will only be answered with time and a lot of thought.

Anyways, I just wanted to keep you all in the loop with what happened. I appreciate all the positive thoughts, vibes, and prayers you all sent my way.

Fifteen Months. 

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Another month is here without him. One more that I never thought I would survive, yet here I am trying to be strong. The anticipation of each month change has not gotten easier since the very first one. I feel its weight in my bones trying to make me crumble. 

This past month has been one of the hardest. Two weeks ago my second child’s lifeless body was taken straight from my womb. The grief of losing him or her ontop of what I feel for Jensen and his loss has been complex. Most of the time I don’t know how to describe what’s going on in my brain. Maybe this extra weight has made this month change so much worse. 

I went into his room today. Sometimes I have this strong pulling to just sit in there, more than my everyday look. 

Every time I step in there, it’s like I’m transported to another reality. I see his room what it would be like if he was here. Not at infancy, but right now running and testing his limits three months after his birthday. Toys are scattered along his rug and there’s clothes to be put away. There are projects we have done on the wall and all his books are on the shelves. I see this scene and him in there. Somehow I wish I could describe it better than just being transported to another reality, it’s literally like I step through another veil and there he sits. That’s how I picture Jensen and I’s heaven.

After snapping out of the world I want to be living in, I saw things I hadn’t paid attention to in awhile. The little details that I love that wouldn’t be exactly there if he was here. On his changing table lies a little racecar and my favorite sign I bought before he was born. ‘Just be awesome.’ There wasn’t any pressure on him to be something, just as long as he was happy and growing up to be a good boy. Then there’s the books I actually have in his room. Stuffed away with a lot of his things is his whole library, many of those books from the book drive we did during the baby shower. The ones in his room are my favorite though. Sometimes I pull them out on special days and read out loud for him to hear. I know he’s listening and sometimes Leo comes to listen too. 


Yes, I accidentally bought two of the same J’s…. oops. 


Fifteen months have gone by since I last physically felt Jensen. In that time I’ve picked up most of the pieces, dropped them multiple times again, and kept trying to place them back to a new normal. I’ve felt the biggest heartbreak, twice, but I’ve also learned how to love so deeply. 

To feel everything so deeply. 

I wish this wasn’t my reality, but I’m surviving and doing my best to thrive. Even if I knew what was going to happen, I’d still choose my little, blond hair boy born fifteen months ago.

A Little Light in the Darkness. 

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Every month I try to do an outlook of what I have planned or what’s going on. Just four short weeks ago, I announced ‘June’s Name Project‘ and how I had a surprise for you all. Of course that surprise was the little baby inside of me and unfortunately I told you all, just not in the way I had planned. It’s cause the outlook for July to be a little different. 

Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on right now with me. It’s been less than two weeks since my surgery and I’m in am emotionally chaotic state, understandably. My doctor appointment this week will give me a better perspective of what’s going on with my actual body and hopefully brings me some sort of peace with the upheaval of losing this baby. On the other hand, I’m terrified of the possibility that there’s something more wrong with me. Something unfixable and that I actually hurt Jensen and his siblings. Maybe a mid-month update will be better this month when I have some more information, but only time will tell. 

I’m going off track of what I originally wanted to say…

A couple months back, Still Standing Magazine called out for writers to apply to be on their writing team. Since I backed out of Still Mothers due to my pregnancy, I really wanted to continue writing for a huge and incredibly helpful source for grieving parents. The timing was perfect and I knew I had to at least apply. 

For weeks I was so nervous. I’ve fought with anxiety since Jensen has been born and this was no different. Everyday I checked my email hoping to get good news. There were new writers being added to the writing team and I truthfully thought I was out. 

On the morning of my miscarriage, I received an answer. I was in. Although I didn’t know what was going on with me and my pregnancy when I read that message, I was so happy and excited to be able to share about my little family and more importantly to try and help others through their grief journey. My response was haulted with the tragedy I found myself in, but I finally was able to accept and today my bio went up. 


I’m truly honored to be writing for Still Standing Magazine. Being able to write about my grief has helped me heal in so many ways. My other hope in writing is to be ab to let someone know they’re not alone in their journey of loss and love.

Five Unexpected Experiences I Faced During My Miscarriage. 

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I woke up before the sun rose this morning. As I watched the light creep up the sky a harrowing reality entered my mind, I’ve been in my post loss world for almost fifteen months.

Jensen was born at thirty-eight weeks and two days. With his birth and death, I learned so many things about my loss and so many other people’s losses. For all those months, I focused on stillbirth and how each situation was different.

I knew about miscarriages through talking to others about their experiences and journeys, but I didn’t understand this type of loss. That, unfortunately, all changed with losing Jensen’s little sibling this month. In this past week and a half, I’ve been immersed in thought and physical changes that I didn’t know went along with this loss.

This post is long, raw and in your face. Writing and being able to authentically share my experience helps me and my healing process. I hope it will be able to help someone else in knowing they’re not alone. This is my experience and every situation is as individual as the person.

Fear of miscarrying naturally.

When I first found out that my second child’s heart had stopped beating at ten weeks, I didn’t want to have a D&C. I wanted to miscarry naturally and give this child this labor of love. It felt like I needed to feel all this pain and let my body do its job.

That all changed when genetic testing on the baby and information about infection was presented to me.

I had to wait from Saturday to Wednesday to get my D&C. It was so stressful. I was terrified to go to the bathroom and see my baby right there. Every pain or pressure I felt in those few days made my heart drop. Although I wish I was able to give this baby a natural birth, I needed the closure to see what was wrong or what happened. I never knew this fear of not wanting the baby to come. Honestly, I was also afraid of that ‘what if’ I did miscarry. Expectations can warp your mind.

Before this loss, I didn’t even think of how it would be to wait to miscarry naturally. That sounds crazy coming from me, but with Jensen I had an idea of what was supposed to happen. My body took over my mind during birth and I was able to give birth. With this loss, my mind was so present and terrified of what I would see or feel. Those thoughts turned into pure fear that I didn’t know would happen.

Physical trauma.

There is a difference between having a stillborn baby and a miscarriage on your body. With Jensen, I have PTSD. Losing him and those two days were traumatic. I completely blocked them out still to this day. When I learned this baby’s heart had stopped beating, I didn’t know the extent of trauma it was going to do to my body.

The doctors tell you, it’s like a heavy period. I disagree. For me, when I started bleeding it was more than a heavy period. It was days of knowing my child had passed inside me and slowly seeing discharge getting heavier. Seeing that bright, red blood made my stomach drop, even knowing there was no heartbeat. There were literal days of feeling that way and experiencing my body trying to miscarry, then came the D&C.

When I say I had surgery, it sounds so passive. One, surgery is hard on you no matter what you go through, but knowing you’re going under with a baby in your belly and waking up feeling empty… it’s anything but passive. I can remember moving on the operating table and having my arms strapped down. The lights above me were so bright and I was just so defeated. It was really happening. This was trauma and I keep replaying that scene and what happened when I woke up.

The thing is although it’s a different trauma to stillbirth, a miscarriage is just as traumatic.

Anger.

This might be a mix of my miscarriage and experiencing multiple loss.

I don’t like to swear, but I’m pissed. There’s constantly a scream in the back of my throat knowing that Jensen and this child have died. Death is hard. It’s so hard when it’s your child and you can’t do anything about it. You feel hopeless and like a failure. That angers me.

Truthfully, I hate that I keep comparing losses, but this one has to be compared. With Jensen, I knew so much about him. Of course there’s so much I will never know, but I can imagine with him. I saw him so many times on the ultrasound screen and felt him grow. That time was gold. With this baby, I didn’t get that time. I don’t know who this little person was and he or she is my baby. That makes me so mad. It is unfair and like another loss mom friend of mine said, insulting. I didn’t think of it that way until she said it and it’s so true.

This anger… it’s not something I expected to be this strong.

Welcoming the feeling of isolation.

As I said in the beginning, each loss and how a person grieves is so unique.

When I got home from the emergency room Saturday, I texted a few people who I knew had miscarriages and wanted to hear their experience. After that, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be alone and wrap my mind around how this was happening again. With Jensen I was afraid to be alone, but this loss every encouraging phrase or really any words to me felt like a slap in the face. Hence why I didn’t get on social media or read any texts. I’m sure this mixes in with the anger, but they feel so separate in my mind.

I wanted to be isolated.

I wanted to feel what I needed without any other words coming my way.

I didn’t/don’t want to hear how strong I was/am or how I’d get through it because frankly it sucks. This shouldn’t happen to anyone. Going with that, I’ve been keeping everything to myself because I don’t want to show the pain or have others feel it. It’s like I have to soak up every feeling before I begin processing then to talking about my miscarriage.

Me wanting to be isolated for this past week was unexpected and new to my grief, but I’m adapting and figuring out as each day passes.

My body returning back to ‘normal.’

Throughout this pregnancy I ate extremely healthy and walked every night. I did this because I wanted the best for my baby and my body too. This routine was great for me. My body felt good and my brain was clear. I didn’t realize how bloated my belly (my whole body) was from the pregnancy until the day I went to schedule my D&C.

The days prior, I felt like my body was normal. It had to be too early to start showing or so I thought. I put on a pair of denim shorts that had been a little tight the past few weeks and magically they were almost falling off. No lie. It was crazy how big these shorts and all the shirts I tried on. When my mom came over she kept looking at me and asked if I had looked in the mirror. She kept telling me my face and legs looked like they shrunk.

I couldn’t believe how much my body had changed with my baby still inside me. After surgery, my body has continued to go down, quickly. This has a whole entire different level of grief. Physically seeing my body just go back to normal, like I hadn’t just been growing a baby, is hard to see in the mirror.

With Jensen, it took my body a while to get back to a somewhat normal, pre-pregnancy weight. With this miscarriage, I don’t have my body showing what I did. It’s disheartening and I didn’t expect my body to react in this way.

Again, this is just my experience with my miscarriage that happened not even two weeks ago. Everyone experiences loss differently, but these are somethings I didn’t expect to feel or happen.

Miscarriage is a hope-sucking tragedy that shouldn’t happen. Just as any loss. I try not to compare how I’m feeling like I did with Jensen, but it’s hard because that’s my only experience with having a child. No matter how angry I am or in shock of what has happened, this child is loved and missed. Just like my sweet Jensen is love and missed.

A Week of Tears, Silence, and Heartbreak. 

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My world changed again, even when I thought it’d be impossible to do so. In the blink of an eye my optimistic dreams of the future, for the little life inside me changed to despair and disbelief. Once again I came tumbling down the rabbit hole of grief and empty arms.

The hope draining out of me is as painful as an animal who is left to bleed out; lonely and slowly turning cold. I feel like I’m hanging here upside down, the world is making sure all the hope is out of me before it turns me right-side up again. This is how I felt after Jensen was born, but with this loss there isn’t a cloud of grief numbing me. The sting of the cut is so fresh and right through the wound of where I was originally cut with Jensen.

This past (little over a) week, I found out Jensen’s sibling has died, had to wait in fear of miscarrying naturally so the doctor wouldn’t be able to get a tissue sample, and had to undergo a surgery. Somehow just saying surgery or a D&C doesn’t give the justification of what it actually felt like, but maybe I’ll get to that another day. I’ve slept, a lot, trying to escape my reality. In my dreams I’m able to see Jensen and to forget that this heartbreak actually happened.

I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone, maybe besides my mom, dad, and brother. There are unread messages and emails on my phone that I don’t know when I’ll get to read. Just seeing people say ‘I’m sorry’ is so triggering right now. I’m sorry for myself. Sorry that I couldn’t help bring another child in my arms.

My motherhood feels like a failure.

When I went to the hospital last Wednesday, I walked in the room and saw this beautiful gift bag from my sweet friend, Jessica at Lettered Hope. I remember not being able to go through anything before I went into surgery, it hurt too much. The only thing I read was the prayer she wrote. Those words repeated in my mind before I went under. I kept thinking of Jensen and his little sibling too.

It’s moments like those where I realize I’m not a failure and neither is my motherhood. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen; no one would ever ask for pregnancy loss. Yet in her words of letting me know I’m not alone, God is with me, and thinking of how Jensen is always with me calmed me. The calmness stayed with me until they doctor put the anesthesia into my IV.

I dreamt of Jensen when I was under. We were on the beach and playing in the sand. In that dream I was so aware of what was happening, he was right there in front of my smiling and laughing. I was happy and the weight of anxiety and grief vanished.

When I woke up, I was sobbing. Tears flooded my face and I couldn’t catch my breath. The nurses probably thought I was crazy. I kept saying Jensen’s name wishing I could go back to my dream or wishing that was somehow my reality. That sobbing and feeling of emptiness has stayed with me and I’m not sure when it’ll go away.

The only thing that has helped hold me together was the contents in Jessica’s gift to me, Jensen bear, and my family including Leo and Poe. Seeing the immense support I’ve gotten online from the loss community has been so helpful. Even when I feel lonely, I know there’s other people who are cheering me on and sending me positive vibes. There have been times this past week I have felt so selfish for not responding, but I really don’t know what to say. I’m not okay, but I’m trying my best to pick up the pieces.

The ‘Best Mother Ever!’ mug with tea has helped calm me and helps with my throat after it being irritated during surgery. Of course Jensen bear has been close to me, mostly in my lap.

Flowers my mom brought me before surgery.

I don’t know what’s going to be happening with me in the immediate future. Obviously I’m focusing on my body’s recovery and trying to get a handle on my grief. My next appointment will hopefully give me some answers as to what happened or if there’s anything wrong with me. With Jensen I had a ton of testing on me and there was nothing that popped up. I’m really just at a loss mentally as to what happened, even though I know sometimes babies just die.

For now, I just want to say thank you again for all your support. There’s a few things I want to blog about with this experience, but I wanted to update with how I’m doing first. If there’s anything I could tell someone though is miscarriage, stillbirth, and loss in general sucks. It hurts and no matter what.

Fourteen Months and I’m Not ‘Better.’

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‘You seem better…’

This statement shocks me every time. What is better? Especially when you’re talking about child loss. Is it being able to get out of the house and do more productive things? It’s definitely not how I feel inside. If anything, I (somehow) long for him more than I did in the beginning. I’ve never seen a progression checklist after losing Jensen, so I’m really out of the ‘getting better’ loop.

With as transparent as I am, concerning my grief journey, there’s a lot I hold back from the world. A lot.

If anyone saw me this weekend, they would have been worried. Maybe even thought I was worse or backtracked in the generic stages of grief. As we all know, those are crap. On Saturday, I had no windows open, the blinds blocked any light from coming in, and there I was, paralyzed by grief on the couch. My eyes were red with deep, dark circles under them. I’m not even sure if my hair was brushed.

I was laying there watching every sad movie I could find on Netflix. My arms ached and my heart felt like it was being squeezed. How could Jensen already be fourteen months old in heaven? Why couldn’t he stay with me? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life without him? These questions went unanswered, but were asked in my mind over and over. I manically laughed through my tears at the fact I’d live a long life. Yes, you read that right. A life full of grief and longing for the person I’ll never be able to get back.

Truthfully, I know I shouldn’t think that and most days I’m thankful for every day I’m alive. Today and the day after and so on are days I get to live for Jensen and myself. The days he’d want me to embrace and keep going.

BUT THIS IS GRIEF.

It is a constant battle and it’s exhausting. Days like Saturday is when I have no strength to keep fighting those thoughts. I succumb to them. It hurts.

You’re probably thinking, why didn’t you call for help? Reach out? Something?

My mother came over after an x amount of texts and phone calls. She came in my front door and saw me. I couldn’t even talk, sobs escaped. What I could muster to her was, I need to be alone. I didn’t want this grief and sadness to attach to her and bring her to this level. My self-worth told me I deserved to feel this way. Deserved to face this life without my son.  I couldn’t put that on my mom and I think it was the first time she’s really seen in the last few months, that I’m not really doing better.

Even at fourteen months post loss. 

When I hear that ‘I seem to be doing better,’ I want to laugh in their faces or at the very least, let them live with me for a few days to see how many tears I produce. I’d like to say better is made up. Have I gotten stronger? Of course. Nothing will make me feel any better. My son is gone. There are things I’ve found joy in after, but it doesn’t even come close to the joy he brought me in his little infinity with me. Maybe that makes me a pessimist. I say it makes me a realist.

Instead of saying all of that, I think I have the perfect answer for the world…

No. I’ve just learned how to fake it better. 

June’s Name Project

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It’s no secret, the statistics about pregnancy and infant loss are incredibly high. Every twenty minutes a baby is stillborn. One in four pregnancies result in loss. One in one-hundred and sixty babies are stillborn. I wish I knew all the statistics, but those are the ones I remember on the top of my head. Either way, that is a lot of babies, a lot of parents, and a lot of families experiencing this tragedy.

Even more outrageous, there are so many people who don’t even know this still happens. I know I didn’t and I feel horrible for not ever recognizing this beautiful community of grieving mothers.

A few days ago, I shared that I wanted to do a name project this month. Usually I like to do name wreathes and in December I wrote names on the beach. Well, the last two times I went to the beach, I wasn’t able to write names. So, I’ve been brainstorming on how I can write baby names creatively around me.

Every June, the community I live in does garage sales. It’s sort of a big event for our small town, but it brings in a ton of people and it’s pretty fun. Usually, everyone walks to each sale and, honestly, it really is just a good way to bring neighbors closer together.

With knowing this event is coming up (next weekend!) and having all the pregnancy and infant loss statistics flying in my head lately, I wanted to incorporate the two. But how am I going to do this? I’ve thought of handouts or writing on rocks, but I didn’t feel right. Then, I thought of writing names in chalk on the ground.I’m hoping it will be a way to provide healing to parents by seeing their child’s name written out AND bring some awareness to others.

Sometimes it’s hard to see so many names… I wish the names would only fill up a small part of the sidewalk, but in reality it could fill up the whole entire street. That’s the reality of loss though. It can happen to anyone.

I’m going to stop taking names on Wednesday night, since the garage sales start on Thursday. The plan is, I’ll write names down and take pictures of each baby name and then send them to their parents. Then I’ll post a big picture of how many names there were written on the sidewalk.

To submit your child’s name, (first and/or middle please) you can comment on where I share this post on Jensen’s Facebook page, on the picture that’s on here on Instagram, or you can comment below on this blog. If you do comment on here, please leave your email address so I can make sure the picture gets to you. Please feel free to share to your loss mom friends. It means the world to me when you all reshare and tag others because it really shows me how tight this community really is.

Thank you all for participating and reading along. I’m excited to be able to do this project to help others and myself on our healing journeys.

May We All Heal | Future

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We’ve made it to the end of this May journey. I can’t believe the month’s already over, it feels like it just started! Another month of loss and love down and a whole lifetime to go.

Today’s prompt is ‘future,’ but I’ll get to that in a little bit. I want to reflect on the May We All Heal Project and talk about what I took from it. It is so beautiful every time there’s an opportunity to come together as a community and share parts of our journeys. We’re able to learn so much more about each other, our different paths of grief and healing, and (my favorite part) about our children.

For me, there were prompts I loved to write about and others I dreaded the day I saw the prompt list. Even though I spill my heart every time I write, there are still parts I’m afraid to talk about. Hmm, I guess afraid would be the wrong word. Sometimes I’m afraid of opening up a part of my grief that I didn’t know was there. Which sounds absolutely ridiculous, but that’s how it is.

There are always talks about triggers.

I find myself battling a wide range of triggers every day. It was no different this month. Coming off Jensen’s birthday and all the emotions that came with his day, May was hard. I’m exhausted by the grief and really making myself think hard about each prompt helped, but it was draining. In truth, I keep comparing this to Capture Your Grief in October. I loved that project, but I remember right around halfway, I was beat. So many emotions going into the holiday season and being at the sixth month mark, it was hard. For some reason I thought May We All Heal would be easier on me?

Altogether, I think this experience was helpful to me. I was able to connect with different moms than before, which was nice. It’s always heartbreaking to me to know there’s another mom that is in pain, but I’m glad we’re all here to help each other.

That’s kind of my take away for this month.

Now to the future…

As always, I like to plan for the upcoming month. It helps me keep track of where I am. I have a name project I want to do this next month, which will be fun for me. That’ll be here in a few days, so keep your eyes out. Father’s Day is this month, which is different for me since Jensen’s dad and I don’t really talk anymore. BUT I have my family and my dad to celebrate and I know Jensen would want to be there for his grandpa.

There’s also a big surprise I have for you all. I’m not sure when I’ll be filling you guys in on it, but maybe this next month? Very nervous about it, but I hope it’ll turn out well.

As always, I’ll be writing (not everyday) and sharing on Jensen’s page (everyday). No matter what happens in life, I’ll always share this journey with you guys. Jensen is the biggest part of me and I want to continue sharing him with the world. Everyday I live my life for him. I’ll continue taking the steps he’ll never take and that’s how it is.

He is mine and I am his, forever and always.

May We All Heal | Quiet & Light

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Quiet and light… Two completely opposite words that are used to describe my life after loss.

I hate the quiet. It reminds me of the fullness and nothingness in the room after Jensen was born. The same quiet plagued me in the following weeks and even now of not having my child in my arms. A house that holds a one year old should never be quiet and yet mine is silent at times. I could get lost in the quietness of absence. It almost reminds me of darkness and how alone I actually am.

When I got home from vacation last night, I sat down in my bed with Jensen bear and Jensen’s urn. Everything was silent. I thought I had gotten to a point where the quiet didn’t bother me. Usually, it allows me to think or at least organize my thoughts. Yet, last night was so different. The familiar feeling of dread blanketed me. My thoughts, instead of organized, were flying through my mind, chaotic and without any order what-so-ever.

Then the tears fell… and they kept falling.

This life after loss, it’s not for the fainthearted. There are times where all you want to do is scream, why me? Why is my house so quiet and not full of Jensen’s giggles and footsteps? This isn’t fair.

That’s how most of the night went. When I realized I wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon, I went and got my candle-lighter. Jensen’s flame came alive and lit up the room. I saw the flame dancing and a calmness filled the room. The light tore through the quiet, through the darkness.

In my loss world, light and quiet are on two different ends of the spectrum…

The quietness feels a lot like those early days and reminds me the emptiness that’s in my house. 

The light, it leads me. It represents the love Jensen and I have for each other. I search for it when the quiet and darkness wrap me up. 

Light and quiet. Love and loss. Good and bad.