I’ve never been great with consistency, and this blog is no different. While it’s not that I haven’t thought about writing, it’s just that I’m not sure how to share where my head and heart are at these days. What I do know is that how I feel today is not all that different from the way I felt a year ago. These cold, gray months feel like time to sit in the heaviness of my grief. It’s not something I want or enjoy, but where I seem to end up all the same. Today, I am sharing a journal entry from a little less than a year ago… it holds just as much truth today as any original thoughts I could put on this page.

My love, I dreamed of you last night. Or maybe I was awake and just thinking of you you- I’m not sure what the difference is… it all feels the same. I can’t believe it has been another month, or that we’ve entered the final quarter of your first year. I wish I felt more positive, like I have a new lease on life, but mostly I just feel sad and let down. I’m not the same person that I was 9 months ago. I feel raw and vulnerable. I feel like I don’t know how to exist in a life where I have so many feelings. I’m too sensitive to expose myself, my family, to the wide range of hurts. Maybe that’s why your little sister is so hard for me to imagine, to connect with. I can imagine our life with her so much more clearly than I could picture you, but not her. None of it feels right. I know I’m just in a different place, that all of the things I missed out on with you are becoming the things I look forward to with her.

Baby, I wish I could trade the last 9 months and more to hold you again. To study your face and your hair, to look at your arms and legs and memorize every inch of you. I wish I could have fought for you, I wish I had had the chance to fight. I hope you never doubt my love. In all my numbness and denial, in every moment that I’m not crying and I lay here not thinking- that’s all me, just trying not to let it sink in. I cannot handle the enormity of your absence and I’m not sure I ever will.

As I mentioned before, the holidays are HARD. An added layer of stress during the holiday season is living up to the expectations of others and putting on a brave face for living children and family. Often it’s a “sink or swim” feeling, and I know for me personally, it is VERY hard to ask for help. It’s a busy time for EVERYONE so speaking up and saying, “I need…” often feels more vulnerable than just going without. On the flip side, when I am in the thick of a grief “contraction” thinking of anything that may help can also feel impossible. So when people ask, “What can I do?” I’m at a complete loss and don’t know what to say. With all of this in mind, I decided to compile a small list of gift ideas for the grieving parent (or grieving person in general!) in your life that may need some extra love this time of year!

1. A meal

Meal trains are great when loss is fresh and shock is yet to wear off, but what no one tells you is that the exhaustion from grief goes on and on. Sometimes just getting to the end of the day is a battle and making dinner feels like an added burden. With the high intensity of grief during the holiday season on top of a busy schedule , a meal on a random Wednesday could be the ultimate way to make a grieving loved one feel seen and understood.

2. An ornament or small decoration memorializing their loved one

In our home we collect new ornaments for the kids and ourselves each year. Having ornaments to represent ALL family members would be a gift that kept on giving. Each year those ornaments and decorations will provide a way to include children and loved ones that cannot physically be there.

3. Their child or loved one’s name included on your Christmas card

There are a few people in my life that ALWAYS include Grace’s name on their notes to our family. I so rarely get to see all of our names together that it never fails to put a smile on my face and fill me with love.

4. A massage

Or a pedicure, or a facial, or a nap… Grief is PHYSICAL. The amount of energy that it takes to live each day without your child (or anyone you love) is physically taxing. Not to mention the amount of stress, tension, and anxiety you can carry in your body! Being treated to a massage or any type of relaxation is beyond appreciated.

5. A letter letting them know how their loved one has impacted your life this year

Send a quick note, it will be something they can come back to over and over again. I know with the loss of a baby, it often feels like the parents carry the burden of keeping their memory alive. Knowing that Grace has touched the lives of others helps to ease my fear that it’s all up to me to keep her present in this world.

6. Something sweet

Sometimes the only thing that can bring you joy in a hard moment is a treat!

7. Help with decorating

Putting up decorations can be daunting and exhausting, offer to help or just show up!

8. A donation in their honor

I Know that many people do their charitable giving towards the end of the year. Maybe choose an organization inspired by their loved one OR make a donation in their child’s name to your organization of choice.

9. A sincere hug

Whether out and about shopping, at a holiday party, or simply in their home - giving a good hug can let a grieving person know that the difficulty of this season is recognized and they are not alone.

10. Say their name

Just simply mentioning the name of a child or loved one who is gone is appreciated. Whether you have a memory about them to share or just an “I’ve been thinking of _____.” those moments are precious, they help those who are grieving to feel less alone - they have been thinking of them too!

Some of these ideas may seem simple, but the take away here is to let the grieving people in your life know that their loss is recognized and understood. Whether it’s been years or no time at all, this kind of support is necessary and needed to make it through!

As I prepare to leave for our big family Thanksgiving, I find myself disheartened by the lack of holiday spirit that I feel. I was hopeful that with 18 months of grief under my belt the holidays would feel less overwhelming and more exciting, but instead I feel anxiety and sadness mingled together- the sure sign that my grief is bubbling to the surface. Like a contraction building, I want to resist the pain and I clench my jaw in effort to hold it at bay. I am so excited to see family and celebrate, but that excitement is also tinged with the all too familiar feelings of grief and loneliness.

It makes sense that I don’t want to feel the depth of my loss right now, the holidays are a time when we are to focus on joy and the love around us. Christmas is a season that holds great hope and it is reflected in the way we all strive to foster togetherness. But what happens when all the togetherness highlights loss and when sadness overwhelms your ability to access pure joy? It’s lonely and hard when you just want to be present, but your heart is not fully there.

It may not be true for every grieving person, but it is true for me, when my entire family is in one place, it’s hard not to focus on Grace not being there. I wish I had never taken for granted the feeling of being complete - because even in my own living room I get the strongest feeling that “something is missing” when my family does something as simple as watch a movie. The holidays are like this on steroids. Family pictures with Santa, shopping for gifts, gathering around the dinner table… it’s all triggering.

I struggle with this- when I approach something that is meant to be joyful with the weight of grief heavily on my shoulders, I feel like a failure. Why can’t I just be positive and find the good, find the joy? Why do I have to make this so hard? Why can’t I just GET OVER IT? Often I tell myself that everyone wishes I would…

But really, grieving isn’t being negative. Grieving isn’t shutting yourself off from joy. Grieving is loving.

So I encourage you, if you are grieving - give yourself grace. It’s exhausting to wade through the conflicting and often complicated emotions surrounding this time of year. If someone you love is grieving, give them grace. Whether it has been 2 months, 20 years, or anywhere outside of and in between, the expectation that a season that promotes joy, love, and togetherness will not also promote deep longing and sadness is an expectation too high.

I hope that we can all approach one another with great tenderness, care, and love during a really a beautiful season. A season that holds hope and joy, but loneliness and sorrow for many. It’s a special thing to know intimately how closely we can hold all of these things within us at one time, but it’s fragile and vulnerable all the same.

An entry from my personal journal written during Grace’s first birthday month.

I’ve been feeling like a mess lately- physically and emotionally. I’m trying to embrace it, but lack of control has never been my strong suit. For almost an entire year now I’ve held the weight of my world in my neck, shoulder, and jaw… I don’t mean to, I don’t try to, it’s just what comes naturally to me and I’ve been trying not to force myself to do anything that doesn’t feel natural.

The thing is, sometimes you have to force yourself. In the last 6 weeks or so I’ve realized that when the physical tension is eased from my body, when I’m comfortable and safe, the tears come. Without a physical residence for my sadness, I find release- and it feels amazing. All the exhaustion, heartache, and regret pour out of me and I know that I am healing and cleansing… I am making room.

For almost a year now I’ve been resisting- unwilling to let go of what should have been and scared to accept Grace’s physical absence from our family as reality. Accepting and letting go felt like saying it was okay, felt like forgetting. What I didn’t realize was that it didn’t mean I would stop grieving or missing Grace, it just meant I would be more open to having her with me in a different way.

Two weeks ago, in a moment of pure exhaustion and pain, I felt fear and anxiety take over as I was forced to make some decisions for my physical health that felt hard and triggering, I felt Grace with me, urging me to be brave, promising me it would all be okay, assuring me she was with me and her baby sister. A peace washed over me that I haven’t experienced since the days surrounding her birth- a time when I felt so close to her still that her absence didn’t register as real.

It’s all coming together and making sense. In doing the hard work of letting Grace’s physical life go, I am planting seeds for growth. I’m watering them with my tears, nurturing them with release and love. I’m making space for the spiritual life that Grace will have within me and the people who love her. While her life may not exist in the eyes of many, it will live inside of me forever. When I can let her live through me, I know it’s not all in vain.

None of this is to say that the sadness is gone or going away. I will grieve my beautiful daughter until I can be with her again… I’m just realizing that grief isn’t an inactive experience- it is work, and there is a beauty and fullness to be found in it. Grief does not exist without love… so I’m trying my very best to embrace it, this mother’s love is too big and too powerful to hold inside any longer.

I read a *book in the past year that helped to define and create context for my grief in a way that I was unable to find the words for. So many people like to describe grief like the tide, coming in waves. While I understand the analogy, I bucked against the pleasant visual. My grief didn’t feel like being overcome by a wave… it felt like a battle, a constant struggle between my sadness and my inability to surrender. Maybe if I could learn to let go and give up control I could let those waves sweep me up off the shore and drown me, but instead I dig my fingers into the sand and try to hang on. This book instead described grief like labor and the moments of acute pain and sorrow, the contractions. When you have a contraction you don’t know how long it will last, and even if only 30 seconds they can feel like an eternity. If you don’t take the time to catch your breath between, they will cascade like an avalanche on top of you- sending you searching for any way to escape. My grief is like this.

After two beautiful medicated births, I was ready to try something new with Grace. After experiencing more physical pain in pregnancy than my two prior, research took me down the road of unmedicated labor and delivery and I began to prepare like one would for a marathon. Yoga, chiropractic care, meditation, and hypnosis training… I was ready. Although my body was in the early stages of labor when we found out that Grace had died, induction was necessary since her cause of death at that time was unknown and concerns for my health were forefront. Taking a pill that I knew would bring my daughter earthside, where I would have to say goodbye, felt like I was in the Matrix… there was no turning back. When the contractions came stronger, I cried for an epidural, this wasn’t the birth I was planning, this wasn’t what I wanted. But as the anesthesiologist worked to place the spinal block, my body worked faster to bring Grace into my arms. Contractions slammed into me like Mac trucks, one on top of the other. I worked to keep my body still with big deep breaths, relaxing my shoulders under the steady pressure of the nurse’s hands. Before my body had time to go numb, our baby was born.

When I think about my grief I think about those contractions - the way I had to breath and be still to survive, to let go, to give birth. It’s rhythmic in that it comes and goes, some moments more painful than others, but always present. The best thing we can do is take the moments of rest between “contractions” to prepare for the next. To fully embrace the love and joy that our loss has brought into our lives, to take deep and cleansing breaths, to forgive and find peace. I’m not always very good at this. Sometimes the pain lingers just enough for me to feel anxious about when it will swallow me up again. I don’t want to surrender to that pain, it hurts too much. But there isn’t an epidural for this- or at least not one that I’m willing to explore. Acknowledging and sitting with our hurts and our suffering is one of the only ways we can ever find peace. It’s a practice and one that I have the rest of my life to work on… that feels so daunting today. My hope is that it won’t always feel so hard, that I won’t always fight it. My hope is that I fall in love with the “in between” and live my life with so much joy and love that the contractions are welcome moments of growth and connection.

*Bearing the Unbearable

(this is my TOP recommendation to those looking for a book after suffering a loss or supporting someone through a loss)

The following is an entry in my personal journal, written on August 14, 2017.

It’s hard not to feel resentful when I sit here making grocery lists. We are creeping up on 3 months and going on like normal still catches me completely off guard sometimes- how can I stand to feel normal? I spent almost 39 weeks creating, growing a perfect baby and now she’s gone. Never once did that baby cry, or open her eyes to see my face. I never saw her eyes or felt her move in my arms. I got 4 hours of lifeless snuggles, only for my benefit and never for her’s. The absence of life was present from the moment she was born, when she flopped out of me, still and unmoving. There were no cries, no shouts of congratulations, or “it’s a girl!”, just my sobs. Holding onto my husband and crying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” and I was, I still am. Sorry I couldn’t keep her safe, sorry she’s gone, sorry we never got to know her in this world. My baby, my third child… our empty promise. What I wouldn’t give to have her here, to be tired and sleepless- complaining and whining… never knowing just how lucky I am. I feel so far from lucky. I feel doomed. How do horrible things like this happen without warning? Why didn’t I get a warning? She was normal, everything looked “perfect” and then she was gone with no chance to save her. Oh God, why couldn’t you just save her? Not for her but for me? I don’t want to be mad, I just want to feel better, and I don’t so I make grocery lists. I cry over my morning coffee and then I suck it up and push it down and pretend until pretending feels real.

It felt like a bad dream, but I hadn’t even gone to sleep. Despite an exhaustion that had settled into my bones, I felt wired. Less than 12 hours earlier I gave birth to a perfect 9 pound, 22 inch little girl. Her name was Grace, and we had anticipated her arrival for all of the 38 weeks and 5 days that I held her inside of me. The doctors and nurses told me that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it, that I would likely never have a real answer, but her umbilical cord was wound so tightly around her neck that it provided a logical enough explanation for why our precious daughter went lifeless at what should have been the beginning of her journey to a lifetime with us.

I refused to use a wheelchair, both on the way up to our delivery room from triage, and again leaving the hospital. For whatever reason, I needed to know that I could stand on my own two feet. As John went to get the car, my mom and I made our way to the lobby. As we waited, I didn’t think to anticipate the other moms and the other babies who were born, healthy and thriving. But there they were. The front desk staff gushed over the babies, nestled safely into their carseats. I, sat on a bench, with nothing but a sad white box. I crumpled into my mom’s arms and let the tears fall. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t get to leave with my baby.

That sad white box has become a bit of joke. It’s far from funny, but if we cannot find the humor in our tragedy then it’s not survivable. That white box contained everything we had left of our daughter. Plaster molds of her hands, feet, and face, a disk drive full of photos, a dress and hat she wore, a lock of hair… tiny tokens to memorialize a life cut short, but a life that we loved, cherished, and would miss for the rest of our lives. The box also contained a bear, a bear that Grace was photographed with, one of the few possessions she touched. That bear lives in our bedroom now, we hold it, use it as a pillow… it is precious to us, and it is already falling apart.

Grace died almost 17 months ago. It has been the hardest and most eye opening 17 months of our lives. We view the world differently now, open to all of the emotions that life has to offer, knowing we can feel so much of them all at one time. When Grace’s first birthday month rolled around, we longed for signs from her, signs that she was with us. You can chalk it up to spring, but every time we needed her, a bunny would show up, as if to say, “Hi! I’m here!”. So many nights I held that silly stuffed bear and wished it was my baby, especially then, especially May.

I had hopes of doing something in Grace’s honor for her birthday, but grief and exhaustion swept me up and didn’t let go in time. I gave myself grace (Oh, the joy of naming your baby Grace and then learning through her death just how much GRACE you need) and waited for the right time, the right idea. Believe it or not, it was the bunnies, and the bear.

The With Grace Project is an idea, an inspiration, that I hope will grow to mean more than just a REALLY soft stuffed animal being placed in the arms of a broken hearted parent. Every small piece of comfort is priceless to a grieving parent, but that alone is not enough. My hope, my prayer, is that these bunnies form connections and community between loss parents. Maybe then, the loss of Grace won’t feel so hopeless. It may seem small, but it could be the start of something bigger - giving for Grace, giving with grace… keeping our baby alive.