This scene should feel like pure peace a quiet morning, a sleeping baby in my arms. And yet, for a mother who has lost a child, it’s terrifying.
I notice she’s been sleeping for a while, and suddenly, I see just how still she is. Silent. Perfectly still. In those fleeting seconds, my mind begins to wander down dark paths.
This is all too good to be true, I think.
The thoughts creep in: See? Why did you have another baby? Life can’t really be good again, can it?
And worse, the whispers of fear twist into shame. If something happens to her, everyone will know what an awful mother you are.
The words aren’t spoken aloud, but they sting nonetheless. I recognize them as lies—the invisible enemy, trying to sneak into my life, doing what it does best: trying to steal, kill, and destroy.
Logic alone isn’t enough to fight these thoughts. I know too well that nightmares can come true. I’ve been there before, to the darkest depths a parent can face.
Those first days after losing my son felt like gasping for air. Simple tasks—a shower, a meal, even a single hour of sleep—felt impossible. I longed to escape the grief, to sleep it away, but even that was denied me.
It became clear that the only way forward was to truly live through it—to cry whenever the tears came, to share my heart with those I trusted, and to seek whatever words or books could soothe it. Not looking too far ahead, but simply focusing on the very next step.
Slowly, day by day, I discovered I wasn’t alone. Others had walked this path before me, living through pain and grief and emerging more compassionate, more tender-hearted. And I realized that was what I wanted too—not to bury myself under my sorrow, but to honor my son by living a fuller, better life because he had lived.
Nearly two years later, with a new baby in my arms, I work hard to keep fear at bay. I try not to obsess over keeping his little sister safe, or what her future might hold, or all the things beyond my control. Instead, I remind myself that I can’t control tomorrow, but I can embrace today.
Sometimes that means letting her wear a sleep monitor to ease my worries. Sometimes it means snapping a thousand photos, soaking in every snuggle, every tiny hand holding mine, knowing how precious these moments are.
Living without my son feels like learning to live without an arm. It changes everything.
At first, the shock and sadness are overwhelming—you can’t imagine that life will ever look different. But slowly, painfully, you learn to navigate the world without what you’ve lost. You balance, adapt, improvise. Others might even think you’re thriving, but your missing piece never comes back.
That’s how it is with losing a child. I’ll never stop missing him, because I’ll never stop loving him. And maybe I don’t want the ache to ever fade entirely.
Grief places you at a crossroads: Will you let it make you bitter, or will it make you better? Will you focus on regrets, or will you take each new day with gratitude? On questions without answers, or a life of faith?
Every day, I choose to see the goodness. To believe that this isn’t random, and that my son’s life, though brief, had a purpose.
Choosing faith doesn’t erase the pain, but it shows me the beauty that still exists. It’s in the fiery colors of a sunrise. In my boys’ laughter. In my daughter’s big blue eyes. It’s everywhere—if I just pause long enough to notice.
Even after loss, goodness remains. And that is enough.
