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Allowing Myself to Feel Whatever I Need. 

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I’ve been staring at a blank screen for an hour. There’s so much to say, but the words can never accurately describe the madness inside. Sometimes I wish I could let this pain consume me from the inside out, that it would eventually take over and be in charge for good. 

It’s been six weeks. 

Instead of wanting to drink my sorrow away, I should have a happy sixteen week baby bump. I wouldn’t know he was a boy yet, but I would be happy to find out soon. I looked in the mirror this morning, thinking of the grey shirt that’s hanging in my closet. The one I used to document his short ten weeks. If things went differently, I’d be wearing it today wondering if my anatomy scan would go more smoothly this time around. 

This isn’t fair. Six weeks ago, I still had hope everything was going to be alright with Huxley. He had his big brother watching from above. 

Miscarriage hurts. 

Damn it, it’s more than hurt. I’m drowning over here in what could have been. My longing for Jensen is even more intensified, I’ve never squeezed his Molly Bear more than I have since I miscarried. I’m literally gasping for air and it feels like my head is continually being pushed under. 

I’m supposed to be ‘strong.’

I should just get pregnant again to mask the pain. 

At least I’ve already went through the worst part of my life. Miscarriage should be so much easier after having Jensen. 

Focus on the good in your life, not the pain. 

It’ll get easier. 

I don’t want to be strong. I don’t want to feel anything but how I’m feeling right now. Another pregnancy does not take away that they lived and they matter. You’re right, I have lived through the tragedy of having my full term child die before he was born. I’ve cried everyday for him and it hasn’t gotten easier without him. 

Why does our society diminish pregnancy and infant loss of any gestation or age? It’s not easy and I know grief and death is uncomfortable, but this is my life. 

I should have a sixteen month old baby boy and be sixteen weeks pregnant today and because they’re not, I’m allowed to feel whatever I need to get by to the next moment. 

My Collection of Drawings. 

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Tonight is a bad night. 

My heart feels so heavy and all I want is just one more moment with him. Maybe just one picture I haven’t ever seen of him. I want Jensen here with me. 

It might be the influx of rainy days we’ve had here or the anticipation of the beginning of my Jensen anniversaries, but it’s hitting me hard. The silence feel more real than usual and the sound of rain drops are coaxing my tears. I just want to sleep and never wake up again. Dreaming is the only time I get to see him moving. 

When I’m having moments like this, right now, it’s hard to see how far in my grief journey they I’ve actually come. I take for granted the things I can do now that I wasn’t able to just last year. Heck, just in the last six months. While looking through my Jensen album on my phone, I came across this picture that I just added a few days ago. 


My cousins daughter drew this for me, to put on my fridge of course. It’s of her (with the hair), me underneath her, then under me is her little sister. To the right of her is Jensen with his hat and her spelling of his name. When I see her, she asks me to spell Jensen’s name for her so she can write it down and I have a little collection of her Jensen drawings. 

It warms my heart to get her drawings of her and Jensen. I know she’s and all of my family think of him, but this is tangible for me to hold in my hands. On the other hand, it breaks my heart. She drew on picture of Jensen crying and said he was crying because he missed his mama. Then she says she misses Jensen. 

All I can say is I do too, then think of how it all should be different. 

Back to where I was going before. Last year, I could barely be around her and her siblings. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to be around them, it’s that I was sad for me. He was missing from the picture and it was too much (sometimes it still can be). Yet, I can play with them and talk about him now. 

If I hadn’t have got this far into my healing, I would never have my collection of Jensen drawings, nor would I have had the light moment tonight in the midst of this dark grief. 

Just when I needed to see something new of him, I did in the imagination of another missing him. 

How I’ll be Celebrating Jensen’s Twenty-First Birthday. 

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This past weekend, my parents took my brother and I to Tennessee. It’s always bittersweet to go on family vacations or getaways; I constantly see the missing piece. Of course we find ways to incorporate Jensen when we go somewhere. At the beach we write his name or I’m taking pictures of his footprint. When we knew we were going to Nashville and Lynchburg, I was weary of how to make a new memory with him that was unlike I had before. 

In Nashville, we didn’t really have to opportunity to do anything besides walk around and eat (and drink). I was determined to do something special for him the next day in Lynchburg. When we first got there, I was so amazed by the Jack Daniels’ distillery. There was so much to look at and learn more about. Within the first twenty minutes, I found this huge visitor registration book. 

It was a perfect way to put Jensen’s name in the book and in their database. Other people could see and read his name. I scribbled our information down and was happy to leave his mark there. 


We began our tour shortly after signing this book. The grounds there were so beautiful. It was way bigger than I imagined and I had butterflies following me throughout the entire time. Everywhere I looked, they would be floating by my head. Jensen and Hux telling me hello, we’re always here with you. 

After our tour and tasting ended, a bunch of us went to their bottle shop. When I learned they could engrave on the bottle I wanted, I had an idea. This is another way I could incorporate Jensen, now and in the years to come. I picked out my favorite tasting whiskey and what I wanted engraved on the bottle. 


I bought my son his first bottle of whiskey at fifteen months old. That would sound like something a horrible parent would say, but knowing our story it makes sense. His bottle is to be open and drank on his twenty-first birthday. Not a drop until then either. Which seems like a long time from now, but this is how I can parent and keep his memory going. 

Honestly, it’s crazy to think I’ll be grieving for that long. That on his twenty-first birthday he won’t be here, or any until then. One year without him felt like a slap in the face. Missing him will be forever, but somehow by planning this one, tiny detail of that day made me feel loved but. 

In these little moments, I can do something for Jensen. They let me bring him alive again. This little bottle of whiskey will give me something to look forward to on his big day, twenty years from now.  

Life after loss has been a dysfunctional mess, but days like these are so much sweeter than I could ever have imagined. 

‘Your Loss Makes Me Uncomfortable’ and Five More Things I’ve Heard.

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Last year I wrote this post about hurtful things I had been told only four months into losing Jensen. It’s been one of my most read post and I think by sharing things that are painful to hear will help others know what they’re saying is hurtful.

Now fifteen months into my loss journey, on top of my miscarriage, there are comments said to me that really sting. Sometimes hearing them is just the tipping point of a complete grief attack. It’s horrible. Deep down I believe a lot of these are just a person trying to help, but it’s a little misguided. Other times it’s just complete cruelty from a person. I’m not sure if that stems from not having any empathy/sympathy for a person or they just don’t care.

With all that being said, here’s part two of my original post. As with any of my posts that could come off distasteful, this isn’t me trying to put anyone down. If you have said any of these things, I’m not calling you out. This is purely just to help break the stigma of child loss and open the conversation of how to treat the bereaved. Of course, every person is different and what bothers me may not effect the next.

Your loss makes me uncomfortable.

Oh, I’m sorry that my child who died makes you uncomfortable, I guess I’ll act like it never happened so you’re okay. HA.

Guess what death and grief is uncomfortable and I live with that every second of the day. Losing a child is hard, sad, and really indescribable. The moments I get to talk about Jensen and the love he brought into my life are the ones I treasure the most. If I’m sharing him with you, that means a lot. Yet, when I hear how uncomfortable you are about my stories and his pictures… it makes me never want to share him.

Of course I keep sharing him because that’s what makes me happy. Babies who have gone so soon shouldn’t be hid away, they should be celebrated.

At least it was an early loss, it doesn’t hurt as bad.

This has made way in the mix of comments since losing Jensen’s little sibling. I was ten weeks, which was a lot less time with that little baby then Jensen. Our time together wasn’t ‘long,’ but it was that child’s whole life. The moment I saw that pregnancy test flash positive, I was over the moon with happiness.

Then he or she died and I tumbled down.

Pregnancy and infant loss, heck any loss, hurts. It doesn’t matter how long with a person you had, they still mattered and made a difference. Honestly, people told me this with Jensen too. That it was a good thing I wasn’t attached to him because he hadn’t taken a breath outside my womb. My question with this comment is how long is long enough time with your child that losing them starts to hurt?

That’s in the past. You need to live in the present.

My eyes roll so far in the back of my head every time I hear this.

Yes, believe me, I know how many weeks and days it’s been since Jensen and his sibling died. Just like I know that I’m in this day right now. This comment usually is said when I’m having a bad day because I don’t have enough strength to look my ‘okayest’ on the outside.

It doesn’t matter how long it has been, my life should be different. My present should not be how it is now. Jensen should be walking around all over the place and I still should be growing his baby sibling inside my belly. When you look at it like that, how could you not understand why the present is so hard? Their death is deafening. Loss parents try their best to keep moving forward, never leaving their children and their memories behind, and continue healing in the best way they know how. We are living in the present we never thought was possible, don’t judge us while we’re trying to figure it out.

You can always have more.

This was on the last list too, but I think it’s important to mention it again.

Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong. I don’t know infertility rates off the top of my head, but I do know there are tons of men and women who are battling to get pregnant. There’s also this little thing called secondary infertility. Just because someone was able to get pregnant before does not always guarantee a future pregnancy.

Let’s take this in another direction, that I’m all too familiar with. What happens if you do get pregnant and that child dies too? Yeah, that’s real talk. The truth a pregnancy doesn’t always result in a living child. Multiple loss happens to so many parents.

My advice on this one, mind your own business. You never know what’s happening behind the scenes.

I couldn’t go on if my child died.

Each time I’ve heard this I’ve wanted to scream.

One, I’m not strong or cold-hearted to have ‘kept going on’ after Jensen’s death. There’s really only two options of what I could do. First, try to make sense and keep moving forward in life after loss. Second, not go on. That was nicely put. When you say you couldn’t go on, you’re implying you would die if you children did. So frankly the other option I would have is to just die and then it would be pity her she couldn’t handle life.

Two, when you say this, it feels like you’re downplaying the love I have for my child and the pain I feel. The truth is you can never predict how you’re going to react after you child dies, but you have the two options I stated above: to keep going on or taking your own life.

So you have NO children.

This is a newly inspired comment to add to my list of horrible things I’ve heard. If you haven’t heard the whole episode of what happened during my post-op appointment, you can read it, here.

I’m going to put this in a perspective anyone could understand. If your mother dies, are you still her child? Is she still your mother? Does death take away the relationship you had with her? If you answered, yes, yes, no. Then you should understand why hearing this would make you livid. Now, let me flip the switch. If you died, right now as you’re reading this, would your mom still be your mother? Or would your death just take that away from her?

She would still be your mom, just like I’ll always be Jensen’s and this little baby’s. Death does not take that time away. It steals your future, of course, but not the unique relationship with that person. SO, how could a person look at a mother who has went survived pregnancy and infant loss and tell her she has no children. It’s cruel and completely untrue.

Again, this post is not written to throw anyone under a bus. It’s meant to help educate to make others aware that child loss is a real tragedy and words really can hurt.

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.

One of the Hardest Posts I’ll Ever Write. 

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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. 

The Rise of a Smile Through Grief.

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During this time last year, I treated every day like it was a gift. I marveled how big Jensen was growing and how his kicks were getting stronger. Sweet lullabies were sung to him as I mindlessly worked or planned his baby shower.

Every morning I woke up with a smile.

It was never a conscious decision. I was genuinely happy knowing he was growing safely inside my belly and I enjoyed looking at my pregnancy app religiously every morning after I told him good morning, I love you. Even with the storm of confusion with finding out about Down syndrome and being shuttled to the constant appointments, I was thankful for everyday. Last year’s February and March were the happiest months in my life.

Of course everything changed when April came.

Those mornings I woke up in tears or just stone faced. I couldn’t make myself feel or do anything. Honestly, it’s hard for me to comprehend how I made it through the first three months. The body and brain do an amazing job of protecting itself through shock. I don’t think anyone could take losing a child without the fog that surrounds you (and that continues to protect me most days). Smiles didn’t come naturally those beginning months. They were all an act, I knew when I was supposed to act a certain way during conversations. Not that I even knew what anyone was saying to me, but I didn’t want to seem weirder than I already had felt.

The first time I truly smiled after Jensen was born, I instantly felt guilt. I’ve talked about this before, but I feel like it needs to be said again. In that moment, I let my guard down and was able to feel something; glimpses happiness are very enticing. BUT, how could I smile? My child is dead. What a slap in the face to his death. I’m supposed to be mourning, not laughing and having a good time. I would never see his smile or hear his laugh, so why do I deserve to do all these things.

I started to choose nothingness.

What’s nothingness you might ask? I didn’t want to make myself frown or to be sad. That was kind of inevitable. On the other hand, I chose not to smile. I would hear things that would spark a good feeling, but I honestly did not think I was worthy of any good. So I chose the middle ground. I succumbed to shock and feeling blah. To be fair, I was too exhausted to want anything else. I was feeling every emotion, every second of the day. It felt like being on a roller coaster that has constant loops.

Everything was bland. Food didn’t taste like anything. Even when I would eat Nutella (my favorite) there was nothing. Sleep and I had a love-hate relationship. There would be days I slept for hours upon hours, then the next I wouldn’t sleep at all. The hours of sleep I did get, didn’t make me any less tired. Nothingness felt right in those early days and I’m thankful it helped me make it to today. I can vividly remember thinking this would be the rest of my life. There wouldn’t be a day where sleep would welcome me, food wouldn’t taste terrible, or I could ever choose to start my day with a smile.

Until, I dreamt of his.

Jensen has a unique way of letting me know what he wants for me; whether that be a physical sign or putting a message in my dreams. In the dreams he’s in his blond hair is always a little too long, his cheeks still chubby, and his eyes always searching for mine. When our eyes meet, it’s always an instant smile. I’m telling you guys, it would light up a whole entire city. Maybe even the world. The first time I saw it in my dreams, he probably was the ten months old. Yes, the age he would be now. It was gummy and his nose scrunched up which made his eyes squint even more. I can remember never wanting to let go of that moment and I wanted it to be real. Maybe in another dimension it is.

That morning, I smiled.

Fast forward to last night. After I settled in bed, I felt grief starting to press down on me. It has been a rough two days anyways, but nothingness was fighting its way back to the top. Sleep kept eluding me and I just prayed that I would fall under its spell so I could have some relief. In my dreams, each part of my mind was at war with one another. It was a fitful night of sleep, but when I awoke I knew what side won.

The nothingness that I was scared of drowning me was gone. There was grief, there’s always grief and a tugging of sadness, but it did take me over. Yet, there wasn’t an immense amount of happiness. I felt peace and could only picture a blond hair boy with chubby cheeks urging me to keep going on.

Today I woke up with a smile.

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Happy forty-four weeks in heaven, my perfect boy. The weeks seem to be getting closer together and it’s getting very close to your first birthday. With each passing day, I feel myself getting more and more nervous. I’m going to try to choose to honor each day (but one) with happiness and peace in your honor. You make me want to do better. I miss you. I love you.

PTSD: Part Three

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In November I started talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and how it effects women who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss. When I started these postings, I really thought I would be able to delve into them during the holidays. They went hand in hand with how I was feeling, but I couldn’t put it in words. I was feeling everything so deeply and at the same time, I was so busy I couldn’t get it all out. Honestly, I had forgotten that I needed to continue these, until last night.

I’d also like to say, I am in no way am I a trained psychologist. I’ve honestly never even taking a psychology class in college. This is just me making a connection with a very real life disorder and sharing my journey with you all. A lot of women who have experiences loss do go through these same symptoms. Not everyone is the same and not everyone goes through this journey just like the next. If you don’t feel like you’ve been through this, you’re not alone. If you do feel like you go through one symptom a day, you’re not alone. Although I’m here to talk about anything with you, this is not by any means a diagnosis.

To refresh your memory and incase you want to go back and read, these are the four symptoms of PTSD and how I have experienced them post loss. I found these symptoms on the Department of Veterans Affairs.

  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.

If you read my post yesterday, I’m definitely feeling some negative energy. I keep telling people that I feel so cynical now. Every day I expect the worst, but then think the worst has already to me. There are times I really don’t believe I’m ever going to feel better. That’s hard to type for you all to read. I want to everyone to believe that I’m going to keep surviving each day and to know when I have good days. Yeah, I smile and laugh more freely now, but I always feel the negative right there.

It was so difficult to experience the holidays with this cloud looming over me. The strange thing is, it’s almost as if the fog or numbness from the loss has worn off and I’m just feeling everything head on. Like I’m playing football without pads or jousting without armor. Although I really just ignored Christmas, the change of the year was definitely negative for me. I didn’t/don’t believe the world around me is magically going to get better. There are times that I don’t really believe what I do to help is actually helping. This is going to sound crazy, I know deep down that I’m helping myself heal, but my body is just producing all this bad energy. That’s truly is only way I know how to explain it.

Like I said in the beginning of this post, I didn’t even really think about continuing this, even though I’ve wanted to, until last night. For those of you that don’t know, I’m an avid reader. Well I was an avid reader before Jensen was born. I read Jensen children’s books every night before bed and read a handful of big chapter books during my pregnancy. Knowledge has always been so powerful for me and escaping to these worlds where I can learn more about different ways fascinates me. Anyways, I put off reading after he was born. The time I knew I should escape, I couldn’t let myself. I was afraid that my love for reading was going to change and it’d cause me nightmares. There was so much negative to an activity I loved to do. Then a book I preordered with Jensen came in the mail and I read it in the span of a week. I felt so much better reading, but hadn’t picked up another book throughout the holidays.

Again, I was being so negative with myself. I hated this world I was stuck in, but no other world had Jensen in it. When I got a notification that one of my favorite books from high school was turning ten years old, I figured I’d purchase that addition and try reading. Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why was one of the first books I read that really talked about the dark and gritty. It’s also the first one I really, really understood the dynamic of loss. Of course I’ve read books before that had characters die, but this one was centralized about Hannah Baker. If you don’t know the story, she commits suicide and tells her thirteen reasons why via cassette tape. Each of her reasons are people and their actions that impacted her decision of taking her own life. Suicide is a serious issue and I know you’re wondering how it connects to me and pregnancy and infant loss.

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Well first, let me tell you how it directly connects to Jensen. In the book, you’re reading the protagonist’s point of view on how he views Hannah, as well as hearing her story. His name happens to be, Clay Jensen. I completely forgot that before ordering the book. My heart skipped a beat reading his name over and over again. All the other words blurred together as my eyes instantly went to the name I constantly say and write. That’s an obvious one, but then, in the last chapter there’s another part that blew me away. Clay’s locker combination is 5-4-23. All random numbers, except, Jensen’s birthday was the 5th of April, which is the fourth month of the year. So this might be pushing it, but this year I turned twenty-three. Kind of crazy, right? What’s more crazy is when I finished my marathon read this time around, I ended at exactly 4:25am. The minute Jensen was born… Just thought I’d take a second to share that with you all.

Now back to all seriousness…

The book is a work of fiction, but I know what it’s like to be in that dark place. To think you are all alone in this world and that when you finally reach for help, you get told to move on. Of course the world is different to me than it would be for a high schooler. There’s more experience and years, but it doesn’t make that loneliness more than the other. But I kept thinking of how PTSD after losing Jensen has brought all these negative feelings and beliefs in my life. I question,” Why Me? Why Jensen?,” over and over sometimes. At times I don’t want to reach out and spread this darkness. But what happens when you keep it all inside?

There’s a lot of statistics and facts I know about losing a child. One I do not know and have not looked up is that suicide rate among grieving mothers. In the book, Hannah contemplates how she wants to kill herself and she mentions running her car off the road. You wouldn’t know this, but I’ve thought those same things. I’m not suicidal by the way, but I wonder what that release of pain and darkness would feel like?

As much as the negative and darkness cloud my life, there’s one big shining light. It’s the light I see when I drink my chocolate milk in the morning and every night as the flame dances on top of his candle. I would do anything to have Jensen back with me, to have him physically light up my world. Unfortunately, I’ll never have that. But I do have him and moments full of blinding light and love. I have hope that I will see him one day, but I’m not going to rush to get there.

Post traumatic stress disorder is real for mom’s who’ve lost their child. I’ve never lied to you guys on this journey and I won’t stop now. A book triggered me last night to think of everyone in the world who can’t stop those negative thoughts or who’ve felt so alone they didn’t know what else to do. These go hand in hand. Or, as Hannah would say, “everything… affects everything.”

Even if you’ve found my page and have not experience the loss of a child, but are still feeling completely alone, please reach out to me. There is hope and one day there will be a light so blinding that you’ll want to share it with the world. It might not feel it in this moment or the next, but I promise you, you are wanted and you are loved. You belong right here and maybe it feels like this suffering will never end, but there are people (like me) that will help you through every step of the way.

Broken, but Still Functional.

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Grief has an interesting way of showing itself.

Admittedly, I have been going back and forth if I’ve wanted to write about this or not. Over and over again I have told you all that I want to be completely honest about everything in my life that grief effects. So here I am with this little story.

To have this little incident makes sense, I have to give you guys a little background. Last month sometime, I signed up to be apart of a remembrance ornament swap. I thought it would help me be creative and keep my mind off the dark clouds surrounding upcoming holidays. It honestly gave me a lot of joy knowing I would be helping another mama out. I poured my heart into the ornament made for a little girl. It had pinks and polka dots on it. Something completely different from I had prepared for with Jensen. While I was creating, I thought of how the person making mine would connect with Jensen in a different way.

It makes me heart warm when I know he’s touched another person’s life.

Anyways, when I went to the post office yesterday, I knew the package in the mail was from the ornament from the swap. I rushed home to open it. There was white tissue paper that surrounded the smaller box inside. I ripped all of it out and proceeded to open the little on. Then came even more tissue paper until I felt it. The sparkly, white, glass bulb had Jensen’s name scripted in red on one side and a beautiful quote was on the other. I was in awe of how much love was put into this ornament. It would fit perfectly on my tree and I knew I had just the right spot.

Carefully I picked it up and crept over to the tree. I adjusted the branch to be in the right position. Just as I was about to put the ribbon over the tree branch, the bulb slipped right out of my hands. It was the longest fall to the floor, but I couldn’t catch it in time. His brand new ornament laid on the ground with the top right completely broken.

At first I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. How is this my luck? It was so carefully delivered and just as I was going to give it a spot on the tree, it crashes on the floor. My thoughts instantly went to getting down on myself. I couldn’t believe that right there was another thing I had broken. It was just another way I had let the person who made the ornament and Jensen down. There was so much guilt and anger raging inside me… until it turned into something else.

I had to start laughing.

This is my life. Sometimes it feels as if everyday has so much uncontrollable chaos that I just have to embrace it. In that moment, that ornament signified me more than anything else had for a while. There was a huge chunk missing from it, but it was just as pretty as it had been just moments before. It was still made with love and Jensen was present. Instead of its outside being smooth, it was jagged and could cut you. It’s insides were shown from the outside. You could see the brokenness at first glance. Broken, but still functional. What better way to describe me in the past eight months than that. Instead of putting it in Jensen’s drawer for safe keeping, I swept up the broken pieces and put it in its rightful spot. The brokenness makes it even more special that I will never hide it, just as I will never hide my grief and pain.

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Thank you so much, Michelle, for this beautiful ornament. Jensen would have loved the glitter and seeing his name in bright red. He would be reaching for it now and wanting to see how the light makes it shine. I am so terribly sorry a big piece of it is missing now. Just know, that it will always have a place on my tree during this time of year and will always remind me of how far I’ve come. Your ornament has touched my heart, but has also taught me even more about my grief. I hope you have the gentlest of holidays.