THE DAZIE DIARIES

Tag: foster care grief

  • The House Was Quiet Again

    The House Was Quiet Again

    ← Return to The Mother I Thought I’d Be Series

    One day my house held two babies. The next day, it was quiet again.

    There is a kind of silence that feels peaceful.

    And then there is the kind that reminds you someone is missing.

    After the twins left, my house didn’t just feel quiet.

    It felt empty.

    For a little over five months, my days had been filled with bottles and diapers, bath time and bouncy seats, crying and laughter, stroller rides and lullabies.

    Someone always needed something.

    Someone needed to be fed.

    Someone needed to be changed.

    Someone needed to be held.

    Someone needed me.

    And then, suddenly, they were gone.

    I knew from the beginning that foster care could end this way. I knew loving children in foster care meant loving them without knowing how long they would stay.

    What I didn’t know was what came afterward.

    No one had prepared me for how to grieve children who were still alive, how to walk through a house that still held their memories, or how to decide whether my heart could ever do it again.

    That’s the part of foster care I want to talk about here.

    When the Routine Disappears

    One of the strangest things about losing my daily role in their lives was that my heart didn’t immediately understand what had happened.

    For months, my life had followed their rhythm.

    Bottles.

    Baths.

    Naps.

    Bedtime.

    The double stroller that had carried the boys on our little adventures sat empty.

    There were no sleepy babies to rock at night.

    No songs to sing as they drifted off.

    All of those ordinary things I’d once dreamed about—and then finally got to experience—were suddenly memories.

    For years, I had wondered what it would feel like to be needed by a child.

    Now I knew.

    What I didn’t know was what to do with all that love when the children I’d been giving it to were no longer there.

    How Do You Grieve Someone Who Is Still Alive?

    This may be one of the hardest parts to explain.

    The boys didn’t die.

    They went to live with members of their family.

    And I am grateful they had family who could welcome them.

    I hope they’re safe.

    I hope they’re happy.

    I hope they’re deeply loved.

    I hope they’re growing and laughing and discovering the world.

    I want good things for them.

    And I miss them.

    Those truths have had to learn how to live together inside me.

    Foster care grief can be difficult to explain because the child is still alive.

    Reunification or placement with family may be exactly what is supposed to happen.

    You can understand that with your head.

    Your heart may still break.

    How do you explain:

    I’m glad they’re with family, and I still wish they were here.

    I’ve learned that I don’t have to choose between those feelings.

    Both can be true.

    The World Kept Moving

    That’s one of the cruel little realities of grief.

    Your world changes completely.

    But Tuesday still becomes Wednesday.

    The mail still arrives.

    The laundry still needs to be done.

    People still go to work.

    Stores still open.

    Everyone else’s lives keep moving.

    And eventually, you’re expected to move with them.

    But part of me was still standing at my front door, watching that van drive away.

    I had imagined a future with those boys.

    I had allowed myself to wonder whether they might stay.

    I’d pictured them growing up.

    So when they left, I wasn’t only grieving the little boys I missed.

    I was grieving another future that wasn’t going to happen.

    Again.

    That word carries a lot for me.

    Infertility had already taught me what it felt like to grieve a future I’d imagined.

    Foster care had opened another possibility.

    Maybe motherhood wouldn’t happen the way I’d expected.

    Maybe it would find me through a different door.

    For a little while, I thought it had.

    And then that future disappeared too.

    We Kept Trying

    We didn’t stop fostering immediately.

    There were other placements after the twins.

    The children who came afterward were older and had needs very different from the two babies I’d cared for.

    They deserved patience, stability, understanding, and adults who could meet them where they were.

    I knew that.

    But knowing what children deserved didn’t magically give me the emotional capacity to provide everything they needed.

    I was still grieving.

    I don’t think I fully understood how much at the time.

    Part of me wanted to keep going because stopping felt like giving up.

    Maybe another placement would be different.

    Maybe I’d feel ready.

    Maybe this was still the path I was supposed to follow.

    There’s that word again.

    Maybe.

    For years, maybe had kept me moving.

    Maybe this month.

    Maybe I’ll get pregnant again.

    Maybe foster care is how I’ll become a mother.

    Maybe these babies will stay.

    Maybe the next placement will be different.

    Hope can carry us through incredibly difficult things.

    But eventually I had to ask myself a different question:

    Was continuing to hope also keeping me from admitting how much I was hurting?

    When Love Isn’t the Only Thing a Child Needs

    I had love to give.

    I still do.

    But children in foster care need more than love.

    They may need tremendous patience, consistency, understanding, structure, advocacy, and adults with enough emotional reserves to remain steady when things become difficult.

    The children who came into our home after the twins had their own stories.

    They weren’t there to fill the space the boys had left behind.

    And it wouldn’t have been fair for me to expect them to.

    Eventually, I had to admit something I didn’t want to admit.

    I wasn’t okay.

    I was still carrying grief from the twins, and continuing to foster was becoming too difficult for us.

    That didn’t mean the other children were unlovable.

    It didn’t mean their needs were somehow too much.

    It meant I had reached my own limit.

    Sometimes caring about children also means being honest about whether you’re able to give them what they need.

    At that point in my life, I couldn’t keep pretending I was.

    Closing Another Door

    Eventually, we stopped fostering.

    Even now, that sentence carries weight.

    Because fostering hadn’t simply been something we did.

    For me, it represented possibility.

    After years of infertility, foster care had opened another door.

    Maybe motherhood wouldn’t look the way I’d imagined.

    Maybe it would arrive differently.

    And for a little over five months, it did.

    So when fostering ended, I wasn’t only ending that chapter of our lives.

    I was facing another painful question:

    Was this another door to motherhood closing?

    Pregnancy hadn’t happened.

    The babies hadn’t stayed.

    And now fostering was ending too.

    There are only so many times I can watch a dream change shape before I begin wondering whether it’s time to stop chasing it.

    I didn’t have an answer then.

    Some days, I’m still not sure I do.

    When Everyone Else Has Moved On

    In the beginning, people understand grief.

    They ask how you’re doing.

    They listen.

    They give you space to be sad.

    Then time passes.

    Life moves forward.

    And sometimes the people around you assume your grief has moved forward too.

    There have been times when I’ve felt I should stop talking about the boys.

    As though missing them after enough time has passed means I’m stuck somewhere I shouldn’t be.

    So I’ve often kept it inside.

    But writing this series is teaching me something:

    Silence doesn’t make grief disappear. It only makes grief lonelier.

    I don’t spend every moment thinking about the twins.

    There is still joy in my life.

    But sometimes something brings them rushing back.

    A stroller.

    A baby.

    A song.

    A memory.

    And suddenly, I miss them all over again.

    That doesn’t mean I’ve gone backward.

    It means they mattered to me.

    Maybe Healing Isn’t Moving On

    For a long time, I thought healing meant eventually leaving painful things behind.

    I’m beginning to think healing may be something different.

    Maybe it isn’t about moving on from the people we’ve loved.

    Maybe it’s learning how to carry their place in our story without letting the loss become the entire story.

    The twins aren’t here anymore.

    Foster care isn’t part of my daily life anymore.

    The house is quiet again.

    But the woman who lived those five months is still here.

    She knows what it feels like to hold two sleepy babies.

    She knows the chaos of caring for twins.

    She knows the pride of pushing a double stroller through the world.

    And she knows how deeply she can love.

    Losing the boys didn’t take those things away from me.

    Stopping foster care didn’t erase them either.

    To the Foster Parent Who Still Misses Them

    Maybe there’s a child you still think about.

    Maybe you watched them leave.

    Maybe you’re grateful they were reunited with family and still cried after the door closed.

    Maybe years have passed and something as simple as a song or photograph can bring them back to you.

    You don’t have to choose between being grateful for their reunification and grieving their absence.

    Knowing from the beginning that goodbye is possible doesn’t make the goodbye painless.

    And knowing reunification is the goal doesn’t make the attachment unreal.

    They mattered.

    The time you shared mattered.

    The love mattered.

    I’d Love to Hear From You

    If you’ve fostered a child who later left your home, what is something about the aftermath you wish someone had prepared you for?

    Was it walking back into a quiet house?

    Wondering how they were doing?

    Seeing their belongings after they were gone?

    Trying to decide whether you could open your home—and your heart—again?

    Or was it something completely different?

    If you feel comfortable, tell me about it in the comments below.

    You don’t need to share anything that feels too personal. You can simply tell me what you wish someone had said to you.

    And if you’d rather not share publicly, you’re always welcome to reach out through my contact page.

    There may be another foster parent reading these words who is wondering why they still hurt when reunification was what everyone had hoped for.

    Maybe your story will help them understand something I’ve had to learn myself:

    Being happy for a child’s next chapter doesn’t mean you can’t grieve the ending of yours.

    Both can be true.

    Continue the Journey

    I Don’t Want The Goodbye to Erase The Hello

    The Mother I Thought I’d Be

    Coming Soon

  • I Don’t Want The Goodbye to Erase The Hello

    I Don’t Want The Goodbye to Erase The Hello

    ← Return to The Mother I Thought I’d Be Series

    Sometimes motherhood isn’t measured in years. Sometimes it’s found in bottles, bath time, lullabies, and the ordinary moments you never knew would become memories.

    When I think about the twins, it’s easy for my mind to go straight to the day they left.

    The tears.

    The empty house.

    The double stroller that suddenly had no one to carry.

    But I don’t want their story in my life to be remembered only by how it ended.

    Because before the heartbreak, there was joy.

    So much joy.

    For a little over five months, there were two tiny boys in my home who needed me.

    And for those five months, I got to experience something I had spent years longing for.

    I got to mother them.

    Maybe you’ve had a season like that too—a time in your life that was much too short but changed you forever.

    If you have, I hope you’ll think about that person or that season as you read this.

    Not only how it ended, but how beautiful it was while it was yours.

    Two Tiny Boys Came Home

    The twins came to us after being discharged from the NICU.

    They were so little.

    Suddenly, my days revolved around bottles, diapers, naps, laundry, baths, and figuring out how to meet the needs of two babies who didn’t particularly care that there was only one of me.

    There were two babies to feed. Two babies to change. Two babies who could cry at exactly the same time.

    And somehow, they both seemed to know precisely when I thought I might sit down.

    Life became busy very quickly.

    It was exhausting.

    It was messy.

    And I loved it.

    After spending so many years imagining what it would be like to care for a baby, there I was caring for two.

    Sometimes I’d look at them and almost couldn’t believe they were really there.

    Learning to Mother Two Babies at Once

    Twins taught me very quickly that sometimes you simply figure things out.

    I learned how to hold one baby while feeding the other.

    I learned how to comfort two little boys who sometimes needed me at exactly the same moment.

    And at night, I rocked them and sang to them as they drifted off to sleep.

    Those are some of the memories I hold closest now.

    Two sleepy babies.

    Heavy little eyelids.

    Tiny bodies relaxing as the house grew quiet.

    I don’t know whether they’ll ever remember the songs I sang.

    They probably won’t.

    But I remember.

    I remember looking down at their faces.

    I remember holding them close.

    And I remember knowing that, at least in that moment, they felt safe enough to fall asleep in my arms.

    There’s something beautiful about being someone’s safe place.

    Even when you don’t know how long you’ll get to stay.

    The Little Things I Miss

    They loved bath time.

    Watching those two little boys splash in the water could make an ordinary evening feel special.

    There was baby shampoo, warm towels, little wet feet, and all the maneuvering that comes with trying to bathe two babies.

    Then there were their vibrating bouncy seats.

    They loved those things.

    It’s funny what your heart decides to remember.

    Before they left, I probably never imagined I’d someday miss seeing two bouncy seats sitting in my house.

    Sometimes it’s the most ordinary things that become the memories we miss most.

    But that’s the thing about ordinary life.

    You don’t always realize you’re living a memory while it’s happening.

    A freshly bathed baby wrapped in a towel.

    Bottles lined up for the next feeding.

    Tiny clothes waiting to be folded.

    Two little seats bouncing away.

    At the time, it was simply Tuesday.

    Now I’d give almost anything to have one of those ordinary Tuesdays back.

    That Double Stroller

    For a little while, I wasn’t standing on the outside looking at motherhood. I was simply pushing two little boys through the world.

    And then there was the double stroller.

    I loved taking them places.

    Getting two babies ready to leave the house wasn’t exactly a quick process, but once everybody was settled, off we’d go.

    We went to stores.

    We took walks.

    Sometimes we got out simply because I wanted to take my boys somewhere.

    They weren’t even six months old yet, but I wanted to show them the world.

    People noticed twins.

    They’d stop us and peek into the stroller.

    They’d smile.

    They’d tell me how precious the boys were.

    And I’d smile proudly.

    For those moments, I wasn’t thinking about foster care.

    I wasn’t thinking about caseworkers or what might happen next.

    I wasn’t thinking about infertility or all the years I’d spent wondering whether I’d ever experience motherhood.

    I was simply pushing two little boys through the world.

    And I was happy.

    Really happy.

    The Ordinary Life I’d Wanted

    For years, I thought motherhood would begin with pregnancy.

    I imagined two lines on a pregnancy test.

    A growing belly.

    A hospital room.

    Bringing my baby home.

    But motherhood didn’t find me that way.

    Instead, it arrived unexpectedly through two little boys who needed somewhere safe to land.

    And suddenly, I had pieces of the ordinary life I’d dreamed about.

    Someone needed me in the middle of the night.

    Someone needed a bottle.

    Someone needed clean pajamas.

    Someone needed to be rocked.

    Someone needed comfort when he cried.

    My days weren’t entirely mine anymore.

    And after spending so many years longing to be needed in exactly that way, there was something incredibly precious about it.

    Was I tired?

    Of course.

    Were there probably moments when I wondered whether I’d ever sleep properly again?

    Absolutely.

    But exhaustion isn’t what stayed with me.

    Love did.

    Have you ever noticed that about the seasons of life you miss most?

    Sometimes the things that felt exhausting while we were living them become the very things we’d gladly experience one more time.

    When “Maybe” Crept In

    I knew what foster care was.

    I knew reunification was the goal whenever it could happen safely.

    My head understood that from the beginning.

    My heart was apparently a little slower to get the message.

    Because the longer the boys stayed, the more attached I became.

    How could I not?

    I knew their routines.

    I knew how they liked to be held.

    I was beginning to recognize their different cries.

    I knew what comforted them.

    I watched them grow.

    And somewhere along the way, one little word began creeping into my thoughts.

    Maybe.

    Maybe they’d stay.

    Maybe these two little boys who had unexpectedly entered my life would become part of our family forever.

    Maybe this was how motherhood was supposed to find me after all.

    I tried not to think too far ahead.

    But love has a way of imagining tomorrow.

    Mine certainly did.

    Was I Their Mother?

    I’ve thought about this question many times since they left.

    Was I their mother?

    Biologically, no.

    Legally, no.

    I was their foster mom.

    And I would never want my love for them to erase or diminish the family they belonged to.

    But I’ve also come to understand that motherhood isn’t only something we are.

    Sometimes it’s something we do.

    For a little over five months, I fed them.

    I bathed them.

    I changed them.

    I comforted them.

    I woke up with them.

    I sang to them.

    I rocked them to sleep.

    I worried about them.

    I celebrated them.

    I planned my days around them.

    And I loved them.

    Completely.

    So while I may not have been their mother forever, I mothered them during the time they were entrusted to me.

    I’m learning that I don’t have to make that experience smaller simply because it didn’t last.

    I Don’t Want the Goodbye to Erase the Hello

    The ending hurt.

    It still does.

    There are moments when I miss those boys so much that the grief feels surprisingly fresh.

    But I don’t want to remember only the goodbye.

    I want to remember the hello, too.

    I want to remember the first bottles.

    The baths.

    The bouncy seats.

    The stroller rides.

    The songs sung in the dark.

    The sleepy babies in my arms.

    The strangers who stopped to admire them.

    The ordinary days when my house was full of all the things I’d once dreamed about.

    There was exhaustion.

    There was uncertainty.

    There was hope.

    There was laughter.

    And there was love.

    So much love.

    The goodbye doesn’t get to erase any of that.

    Those Five Months Still Belong to Me

    I don’t know what the boys will remember about those first months of their lives.

    They were so little that they may never consciously remember any of it.

    But sometimes I wonder if love leaves a memory deeper than the kind we can put into words.

    I hope somewhere inside them remains the feeling of being held when they cried.

    Of being warm after a bath.

    Of being safe enough to sleep.

    Of hearing a familiar voice singing in the darkness.

    Most of all, I hope some small part of them remembers what it felt like to be loved completely.

    Because they were.

    For a little over five months, two tiny boys called my house home.

    It wasn’t forever.

    It wasn’t the ending I wanted.

    But it happened.

    They were here.

    I loved them.

    They changed me.

    I’m beginning to understand that something doesn’t have to last forever to matter.

    Some of the most meaningful chapters of our lives are painfully short.

    Their length doesn’t determine their worth.

    For a little over five months, I got to experience bottles and baths, sleepless nights and stroller rides, lullabies and little wet feet.

    I got to be needed.

    I got to love them.

    I got to mother them.

    And no goodbye can take those months away from me.

    I’d Love to Hear About the Love, Too

    So often when we talk about loss, we talk about the ending.

    Today I’d rather ask you about what came before it.

    Who—or what season of your life—do you still remember with love, even though you couldn’t keep it forever?

    If you’ve fostered a child you still carry in your heart, experienced a brief season of motherhood, or loved someone you eventually had to let go, I’d love to hear about them.

    Tell me one happy memory.

    Tell me the funny thing they did.

    Tell me what you miss.

    Tell me what you’re grateful you got to experience.

    You can share in the comments below, or reach out through my contact page if your story feels too tender to share publicly.

    Maybe remembering the love—not only the loss—is part of healing, too.

    Continue the Journey

    When Hope Slowly Turns Into Heartbreak

    The Mother I Thought I’d Be

    Coming Soon

  • When Someone Else’s Joy Reminds Me of What I Lost

    When Someone Else’s Joy Reminds Me of What I Lost

    ← Return to The Mother I Thought I’d Be Series

    I can be happy for her and still hurt for me. I’ve had to learn that both can be true.

    Grief has a strange way of finding you when you aren’t looking for it.

    Sometimes I’m doing perfectly fine. I’m going about my day, thinking about ordinary things, when I see a mother pushing a stroller through a store or a little child reaching up to be held.

    And just like that, something inside me aches.

    It isn’t that I don’t want other women to experience motherhood. I do.

    It isn’t that I can’t celebrate someone else’s pregnancy, new baby, or growing family. I can.

    It’s that sometimes their joy touches the tender place inside me that still remembers the life I wanted for myself.

    I’ve spent years learning that those two feelings can exist together.

    I can be happy for her and still hurt for me.

    I Really Am Happy for You

    Pregnancy announcements haven’t always been easy for me.

    Neither have baby showers, birth announcements, or pictures of smiling families filling my social media feed.

    I’ve celebrated them.

    I’ve bought the gifts.

    I’ve asked about names and due dates.

    I’ve smiled at the pictures.

    And sometimes, afterward, I’ve cried.

    For a long time, that made me feel guilty.

    I wondered if there was something wrong with me for feeling sadness during someone else’s happiness.

    Was I jealous?

    Was I bitter?

    Wasn’t I supposed to simply be happy for them?

    But over time I’ve realized that my sadness isn’t about wanting someone else to have less.

    It’s about remembering how deeply I wanted something too.

    Their happiness didn’t cause my grief.

    It simply brushed against a place that was already tender.

    It’s Usually the Ordinary Moments

    You might think the big milestones would be the hardest.

    Sometimes they are.

    But I’ve discovered that it’s often the most ordinary moments that catch me completely off guard.

    Seeing a sleepy child resting against her mother’s shoulder.

    Watching a mom absentmindedly fix her little girl’s hair.

    Hearing “Mom!” called from another aisle in a store.

    Seeing a mother pushing a stroller while I’m buying groceries.

    Those moments can take me somewhere else for just a second.

    Because I didn’t only dream about pregnancy or holding a newborn.

    I wanted to raise a child.

    I wanted bedtime stories and drawings on the refrigerator.

    I wanted first days of school and scraped knees.

    I wanted homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas mornings.

    I wanted to complain about toys scattered across the floor and then, years later, wish I could see those toys there one more time.

    I wanted someone to need me when they were scared.

    I wanted to watch a little person become whoever they were meant to be.

    I wanted the ordinary parts.

    And I wanted to hear someone call me “Mom.”

    Then, for a Little While, I Had Some of It

    Maybe that’s part of why losing the twins affected me so deeply.

    For a little over five months, some of those ordinary moments weren’t imaginary anymore.

    They were mine.

    I held one baby while feeding the other.

    I gave baths and listened to their little splashes.

    I rocked two sleepy babies at night and sang to them.

    I watched them smile and wiggle in the vibrating bouncy seats they loved.

    I loaded them into the double stroller and proudly took them places.

    People would stop to admire them, and I’d smile.

    For that little stretch of my life, I wasn’t standing on the outside looking at motherhood.

    I was doing the ordinary things I had dreamed about for so long.

    And then they were gone.

    I think that’s why a stroller can still catch my attention.

    Sometimes it isn’t only reminding me of the children I never had.

    It’s reminding me of two little boys I did get to love.

    Sometimes I Look Away

    There are days when I see a baby and smile.

    There are other days when I need to look away.

    I’m learning not to judge myself for knowing the difference.

    For a long time, I thought healing would mean eventually reaching a point where none of this bothered me anymore.

    I don’t believe that now.

    Healing hasn’t meant forgetting what I wanted.

    It hasn’t meant reaching a place where nothing triggers the grief anymore.

    For me, healing is learning what to do when the wave comes.

    Sometimes I let myself feel it.

    Sometimes I cry.

    Sometimes I step away from social media.

    And sometimes I simply admit:

    This hurts today.

    I don’t immediately have to convince myself that I shouldn’t feel that way.

    “Do You Have Kids?”

    It’s such an ordinary question.

    Most people who ask it have absolutely no idea how complicated my answer feels.

    “Do you have kids?”

    Usually, I simply say no.

    Technically, that’s the answer.

    But that one little word doesn’t tell the story.

    It doesn’t contain the miscarriage.

    It doesn’t contain the years of hoping.

    It doesn’t contain all those months when I wondered if this would finally be the month.

    And it certainly doesn’t contain the two tiny boys I fed, bathed, rocked, sang to, pushed in a double stroller, and loved with my whole heart.

    So I’ve learned that I don’t owe everyone my entire story.

    Sometimes “no” is enough.

    Other times, when I’m with someone I trust, I might share a little more.

    Some stories deserve to be told where they’ll be handled gently.

    Mother’s Day Is Complicated

    Mother’s Day brings many of these emotions together.

    I understand what the day celebrates, and mothers deserve that celebration.

    But for women who deeply wanted to become mothers and couldn’t, the day can also feel like a giant spotlight shining on the one thing we spent years hoping to become.

    The flowers.

    The cards.

    The commercials.

    The social media posts.

    Families going out together to celebrate Mom.

    For some women, Mother’s Day is beautiful.

    For some, it’s painful.

    And for some of us, it’s both.

    I’ve learned that I’m allowed to protect my heart on days like that.

    I can stay off social media.

    I can spend the day quietly.

    I can decline something if attending would be too painful.

    Taking care of myself doesn’t diminish anyone else’s celebration.

    Grief and Gratitude Can Live Together

    Sometimes I worry that writing about this part of my life will make people think I’m not grateful for the life I have.

    I am.

    There is joy in my life.

    There is laughter.

    There are people I love.

    There are still things I look forward to and dreams I haven’t dreamed yet.

    But gratitude doesn’t erase grief.

    I can appreciate the life I have while mourning the life I thought I’d have.

    I’m beginning to understand that I don’t have to choose between the two.

    I don’t have to prove I’ve healed by never hurting again.

    And I don’t need to apologize when someone else’s beautiful moment unexpectedly reminds me of something I wanted for myself.

    To the Woman Who Looks Away Too

    Maybe you’ve done it.

    Maybe you’ve muted pregnancy announcements on social media.

    Maybe you’ve cried after a baby shower.

    Maybe you avoid the card aisle around Mother’s Day.

    Maybe you’ve seen a mother with her children in a store and felt that familiar ache rise inside you.

    And then maybe you felt guilty for feeling it.

    I want you to hear what I’m still learning to tell myself:

    You can be happy for her and sad for yourself. Both can be true.

    Your sadness doesn’t make you bitter.

    It doesn’t mean you want someone else to have less.

    It means you loved a dream deeply enough to grieve when it didn’t happen.

    I’m no longer trying to make that part of myself disappear.

    Instead, I’m trying to meet her with compassion when she shows up.

    To let her say:

    I still wish things had been different.

    And then, when I’m ready, to keep living the life that’s still here.

    Because this life matters too.

    Even if it isn’t the one I imagined.

    I’d Love to Hear From You

    Does seeing another woman’s motherhood ever bring your own grief unexpectedly back to the surface?

    If you feel comfortable, I’d love for you to share your experience in the comments. What situations are hardest for you? What have you learned to do when those feelings come?

    And if a public comment feels too personal, you’re always welcome to reach out through my contact page instead.

    Maybe by talking about the things we’re usually afraid to say out loud, we can remind one another that none of us has to carry this kind of grief alone.

    Continue the Journey

    When Hope Slowly Turns Into Heartbreak

    The Mother I Thought I’d Be

    Coming Soon