September is a beautiful time of the year. Summer is exhaling its last breathes into the air. Autumn has already begun to delicately dust the trees with nature’s palette. The seasons are humbly shifting and for a little while you’re suspended between the warmth of summer and the promise of fall. September resides in the eye of the storm. It’s the calm amongst the extremities that surround it. A peaceful place in an ever changing vortex.

Five years ago, my eye of the storm, calm September’s were hijacked by an invasive melancholy. Five September’s ago, I underwent life saving emergency surgery losing a very desired pregnancy as well as my future fertility.

The crispness of September mornings no longer greeted me with the rejuvenation and optimism of fresh beginnings. The looming excitement of autumn as summer quietly departs only filled my heart with more darkness and despair. Bees humming by carrying the promise of a fruitful spring only left me buzzing with grief and emptiness. Even pumpkin coffee and apple treats failed to deliver or entice the usual happiness and excitement they typically would. The world carried on around me in peace, as I battled the storm inside of me. The storm called September.

The ways in which a traumatic event will infiltrate your life are unexpected. Your life gets split into two seasons, before your trauma and after. Often times, you’ll mourn the loss of the person you were before your life got flipped upside down. You’ll crave the nativity and innocence of a version of you that hadn’t yet understood pain. You’ll look back at pictures of yourself and barely recognize the person smiling back at you with joy in their eyes. You’ll punish yourself for not enjoying that part of you more. Why couldn’t you have basked in the simplicity of that life just a little bit longer?

You eventually conform to this new person you’ve become. You begin to accept that your grief will never go away. It’s almost as if you’ve grown another limb. You realize that you can either learn to live with it or it will live with you.

As you learn to live with the darkness that is tethered to you, you grow and evolve in ways beyond your comprehension. There is a magic in the universe that only becomes available to you after you’ve been stripped down to the most vulnerable version of yourself. You begin to experience life through a different lense.

Suddenly, it’s all beautiful again. Everything becomes more vibrant and lush then it ever has before. Because the grief you are carrying around, reminds you of the delicacy of life. And it becomes impossible to forget.

Five September’s later.

September sunrises crest the horizon with hope and the promise of a new day. The deep hues of color in the sky remind me of the daughter I lost, but also assure me that she is always here. The whisper of the trees as a gentle wind weaves between them, fill my heart with peace and solitude. Birds singing and insects buzzing unite as nature’s melody harmonizing with my soul.

I feel so connected to September.

As dark clouds build in the distance, I no longer fear the storm. I’ve found the beauty and purpose in my pain. I’ve reinvented its role in my life. My grief will no longer hold me back or rob me of my peace and happiness. Instead, it instills a profound measure of gratitude and appreciation for this beautiful life I get to live. It shines a light on all that I do have rather than what I lack. It reminds me of my strength and resilience. I wear it like a badge of honor.

It’s no longer stormy in September. The storm has passed and the sun is shining.

Every year, I bring a different version of you back to school shopping. It amazes me how quickly the supply lists have evolved from play dough and wet naps to sharpened number 2 pencils and spiral bound notebooks. You don’t care as much about those things as you do what color pencil box you’ll get and of course the type of backpack.

You insisted on getting the dinosaur one with the matching lunchbox and I reluctantly agreed. Part of me wondered if dinosaurs were still cool in 2nd grade. I worried that somehow you would present as childish if you were carrying a backpack with shiny sharp toothed monsters all over it. I wondered why you weren’t begging me for a “cool” Nike or Under Armor backpack like a lot of your friends seem to have. Surely, a neutral backpack like that would last a few more years, as I anticipate you will grow out of your nearly 5 year dinosaur phase at any minute. I almost tried to talk you out of it, until I looked across the way and saw versions of us 10 years into the future.

It was a mother and a son. They were burrowed deep in the college essentials aisle. They appeared to be comparing sheet sizes and their cart was overflowing with towels, cleaning supplies and dorm furniture. My heart sunk at the realization that that could be us in another decade. How quickly we evolve from character backpacks to neutral twin sized jersey sheets. What once was crayola crayons and glue sticks in the shopping cart, soon becomes lysol wipes and an industrial sized pack of shaving razors.

As you sat there proudly presenting your choice of dinosaur backpack, I caught a glimpse from that mom from across the way and I could feel a ping in her heart urging me to say yes. It was as if she were to say, “it doesn’t last long and it goes by way faster than you can imagine.” She had a look in her eyes as if she were longing for just one more year with her son in his dinosaur phase.

It was that moment that I realized how lucky I am to have a little boy that not only loves dinosaurs, but is proud of it as well. How sweet is it to be in this season of life where a special backpack makes school magical. How cool are you to defy what’s “hip” or in your words “skibidi”. I love that you can wear the backpack that serves as an extension of your identity and no one else’s. I admire that the world hasn’t peer pressured you into making choices solely based off of what everyone else is doing.

How special is it to be the mother of a little boy that is still very much her little boy. Thank you for always being true to yourself and for staying little while you still can, because one day we will be the that mother and son looking across the way at that little boy begging for a dinosaur backpack.

I always imagined my son’s first broken bone being due to baseball or climbing a tree. Because that’s what boys do; they break bones. Boys are wild and crazy. Boys will keep you on your toes. I never anticipated my son’s first broken bone being the result of a car accident. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare. It’s the very thing we hope and pray will never happen to us.

When he was first born, we drove him home from the hospital going 35 miles an hour on the highway with our hazards on. I sat in the backseat staring at his innocent little face as it peered out of his car seat feeling the weight and responsibility of loving something this much. It felt like we were coasting down the road with a ticking time bomb. It was at that moment that I truly understood the delicacy of life.

I was reminded of that feeling yet again as I sat on the side of a winding back road with my now 6 year old son tucked timidly under my arm as as blue and red flashing lights reflected off of the heavily damaged front end of my Honda Pilot.

A lot of it was a blur. The air bags hit me in the face and my head went through the dashboard. I surely had a concussion although I refused medical treatment because it was apparent that my son needed to be transported to the emergency room. I felt out of control, but in the calmest way possible. I was in a daze from the accident, but I also felt my maternal instincts gripping their way to the surface.

We hit a rock, or we came to a halt because of the rock. I’m not lost on the irony, because I’m not sure a better scenario could depict being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I remember navigating my car around a corner and suddenly losing control. The next thing I know I’m sitting in the front seat of a lifeless car with an air bag deflating dutifully in my face.

I don’t remember getting my son out of the car. This was one of the questions that plagued me. I remember sitting on the side of the road with him. The leaves were crisply crunching beneath our legs. We were wrapped up in a blanket because the people who lived at the home we crashed in front of were kind enough to not only call 911, but they offered warmth and comfort in more ways than I can express.

I recognized the couple. Not only have I known their family for years, but we are practically neighbors. I crashed less than 1 mile from home. It’s true what they say.

They were crucial in not only helping my son and I on the scene of the accident, but after as well. I spoke with them a few days later and they were able to answer a lot of my questions to help me better understand and process what happened.

They assured me that I was the one who got my child out of his seat. We were both out of the car and making our way to safety on the side of the road. This brought me a lot of clarity and peace as it was scary not being able to remember such a significant detail.

I remember sitting there starring into nothing, mutely taking note of everything unfolding around me. I could hear my child aching beside me, but it was muffled. I could see the flashing lights of various first responders, but they were dull. People were speaking to me, but my brain was answering almost in voice mail. I could recite birth dates and spellings of names but I couldn’t feel anything. My senses were paralyzed. I was in shock.

The couple who were first on the scene said that I was very calm, almost too calm. Part of me believes this is because of the concussion, but I also wonder if it’s a maternal instinct. I had to be strong and stable, so my baby could be vulnerable. I had to numb myself to the devastation until my son was taken care of. Adrenaline, it’s imperative to our survival.

I’ve been thriving off of adrenaline the last 5 years, which could also be why I was numb in those moments of uncertainty and fear. It almost feels all too familiar these days.

I’ve been slowly stitching together bits and pieces from that night. I believe that there is always a message and a lesson to be learned. At least it’s a coping mechanism that I’ve developed through out the hardships in my life. There is always something better and brighter waiting on the other side. I can confirm that to be true, but it doesn’t make the process any less exhausting. Can’t I just have the sunshine without all of the pain?

There is a detail that sticks out profoundly for me on the night of the accident. My son was handed a teddy bear by one of the paramedics. When asked what my son was going to name the bear, he immediately declared it to be “Timmy.” A typical name made up by him would be “Fart Face” or “Rock Dirt.” Timmy flew off his lips so organically and with ease. It was a moment that sat with me. It was the first time I felt anything on the scene of that accident.

It was presumed that my son broke his arm. My father in law was the first family member on the scene and he was able to transport us to the emergency room. I had burns and abrasions from the air bags defiling my face and a blooming black eye. I remember the receptionist asking me again if I was sure I wouldn’t be seeking medical treatment. In that moment I was still in a state of shock. I felt entirely okay besides the splattered blood on my pants and superficial scrape on the palm of my hand, I felt unscathed.

We settled in a little room with beeping monitors and a stiff arm chair. I remember my husband appearing from behind the curtain after rushing an hour away from work. We locked eyes and I felt a wave of safety and relief flash over me. It felt as though I could finally put some of the weight down. I could finally tune back into my senses. This is when the whiplash settled in, and it’s not in the way you think.

I remember the first thing I felt was guilt. I became crushed with the sinking realization that my son and I were in a car accident. I was driving that car. I put my child’s life in danger in a way that I never could have ever imagined. Accidents happen and some things are out of our control, but that’s still not enough to contend with the remorse of feeling responsible for your child’s pain. The doctor peered behind the curtain and reported that our son’s arm was broken. I physically sunk onto the floor right next to the stiff arm chair and the feelings I had been numb to erupted into tears. This is when the guilt truly poured over me. I suffocated in my own sorrow for long enough to allow the second emotion to radiate warmth throughout my entire body. This is when I felt gratitude. Thank goodness, he only broke his arm. Thank goodness we are leaving this hospital in a sling and not on a stretcher. How lucky are we that although we are battered and bruised, we will get to sleep in our own beds tonight. What a blessing it is to be alive. What a gift it is to see the light no matter dark it gets.

The days following the accident were a continued blur. I was starting to process the accident but my head was very much still in a fog. I was occupied on the phone with the insurance company and scheduling doctor’s appointments. There would be abrupt moments of tears and followed by mundane chores like emptying the dishwasher, and sometimes I would just have my mental breakdowns while doing chores. I would find moments of peace and then sink into a spiral of anguish. Family members visited with us and offered love and support in the form of kit kats, starbucks and happy meals. I will never forget who was there during those first few days.

The orthopedic surgeon at the Children’s hospital informed us that although the break in my son’s arm was in an ideal spot, if there were any, it would still take a solid 6 weeks for him to heal completely. The guilt lurked back in and I started to punish myself for all of the things that son would miss out on due to his injury. Baseball season was beginning that week and the doctor reluctantly suggested that he sit sit this season out. After another episode of self deprecation, I crawled out of my pity party and told my husband that we should get him involved in some other activity, like maybe music or art. I figured it would be a perfect distraction from what he was missing out on. Not to mention, he is a kid who expresses himself through creativity.

A few days after the accident I was walking the dogs along our normal route. We were approaching the road that I crashed on and I could feel my chest getting heavy. I consciously reminded myself to breathe and I braced myself for another breakdown. As I was turning around to head home, the woman whose house we crashed in front of pulled up along side me. This was the first time I had spoken with her since that night. We chatted for nearly a half an hour on the side of the road. It felt like it was the first time I truly let my guard down as I poured my heart out to this woman who had already seen me at my most vulnerable the night of the accident. I found a lot of peace and solace in talking with her. As we ended our conversation, I promised to add her on facebook and stay in touch.

I got home and added her on facebook. I was guided to her business page as well and this is how I discovered that she is an art teacher who teaches art classes to kids. This felt like a sign as her and I had just discussed how sometimes life leads us down paths for a greater purpose. The universe typically delivers synchronicities to me, but this felt special. It is exactly what my heart was seeking for both my son and me.

As I navigated her page it displayed a write up on the history of her beautiful nearly 300 year old home. This is the place in which she conducts her art classes, the place where my son and I crashed in the car . The name of the house is the “Timothy Lester Homestead.” The warmth of gratitude started to radiate through me again, but this time it’s because I am once again reminded of how profoundly connected and special my son is. Suddenly, another piece of the story connects. I’m brought back to that moment at the scene of the accident where I felt this sense of inner knowing and peace. It’s when my son named his teddy bear “Timmy.”

He hasn’t put the bear down. He has been dragging it along with his usual caravan of stuffed animals and oversized blankets. He speaks to it about the accident because that bear was a witness to something pretty traumatic in my son’s life. It connects the whirlwind of that night to the reality that is now. It has brought my son a level of peace and comfort that I never could have in those moments of fight or flight survival.

My son’s connection to that bear as its name connects to the house is a significant display of the magic that is always happening around us. Even in our darkest moments, when all of our senses are incapacitated, there is always light at work.

Everyday I begin making more connections. Everyday it becomes clearer to me why we were made to go through this. The ways in which it has already enriched our lives is immeasurable. There is a profound sense of gratitude that can only be understood after you’ve faced something like this. Gratitude is what is healing my son and I. We are choosing the light. Sometimes I really believe, there is no such thing as an accident.

Us parents. We’re so busy raising our kids that we kind of lose ourselves in parenthood. We forget that we’re also a daughter, a son, a sister, an aunt. Our identity solely revolves around our kids.

Our days are dictated by nap times and divided between school drop off and pick up. We’ve made shopping lists from the bleachers at the tball field and have perfected shaping ham and cheese sandwiches delicately into hearts.

We’re magic makers and mess cleaners. We have a bandaid that could heal any boo boo when sealed with a kiss and we have just the concoction to contend with even the most aggressive of grass stains.

We’re a little person’s safe space where they can indulge in the comfort of our unyielding love. We’re the keepers of the best bed time stories and nearly always the winner at tickle fights.

This season of our life is fleeting. Before we know it, we’re no longer packing dinosaur lunch boxes and scraping play doh out of the floorboards. Our kids have grown independent of us and suddenly we feel as though we have lost ourselves.

In time, we begin to connect with who we are again. We begin to remember who we were before we had kids. We slowly settle into this new version of ourselves as we navigate our lives as a parent with grown children.

We linger in this period of time for a little while before suddenly our identity shifts again. It feels a lot like parenthood in the way that we are loving and caring for the most important people in our lives, but this time it is our parents.

Suddenly, our lives have become centered around doctor’s appointments and physical therapy. We’re doing christmas shopping from the armchair of a lonely hospital room and the melodies of children’s toys have been replaced by the haunting sound of a heart monitor.

We’re still drawing hearts on paper bag lunches and making meals with the same love and attention that we would for our kids, but this time, we’re abiding by dietary restrictions and other limitations. And we find ourselves relishing in that familiar sense of accomplishment when they finish their entire meal.

We become magic makers and mess cleaners again. We begin to understand the capacity of our healing powers, just by spending time with them. We clean messes dutifully and with grace. We used to sort legos and organize matchbox cars and now we’re filling pill containers and changing bed pans.

We remember how overjoyed we were when our kids took their first steps as we guide our parents to relearn how to walk. We realize that our kid’s ABC learning walker wasn’t much different than the sterile hospital grade one that our parents are now tethered to.

It is at this moment that we feel our two identities collide. We are a dad and a mom, but we are also a son and daughter. We raise our kids to become independent of us in just enough time to take care of our parents. It is a cycle of life characterized by profound parallels. We learn of the delicacy of then and now.

We sit in this period of time, grasping desperately for the silver linings and plus sides. But the truth is, the only plus side to watching your parents get older, is watching them get older. You acknowledge that it’s a privilege, but it doesn’t negate the pain of watching Age slowly strip your parents away.

Eventually, we find peace with this indisputable aspect of life. We accept that this is a part of life with the knowing that the cycle continues with our own kids.

Life can change in a matter of seconds, or in my case, it was centimeters. That was the difference between life and death as my baby implanted just centimeters outside of my uterus in my left fallopian tube. A life that would have held such promise had it not been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My baby and my fallopian were removed 4 years ago on this day. They were ripped out of me and replaced with a void that would harbor a deep melancholy. A body that once carried the hope and promise of life was reduced to a vessel for my grief.

Throughout the years, I have healed. Sunny days and tender moments have embedded themselves into my heart, slowly dissolving the pain residing there. I have become deeply connected to my spirituality and I truly believe that there is magic in the universe you only gain access to after your life has been flipped upside down. I see the world from a different lense. I see it through the eyes of someone who knows how delicate life is. I have intimately experienced life and death all within centimeters of myself. The tragic loss of my baby instills gratitude for the child I have earthside. The scars on my lower abdomen are a course reminder of my missing fallopian tube and consequently also my remaining one. It’s all checks and balances, give and take. I have evolved significantly in the last 4 years and I believe that trauma of my ectopic pregnancy has led me to be the person I was always meant to be.

Shortly after the ectopic, dragonflies had quickly become a symbol of hope for me. In my heart, I knew that they represented the baby I had lost as well as my journey to peace and healing. They have been a source of encouragement and comfort throughout the last 4 years.

A few months ago, I was sitting outside and a dragonfly persistently kept landing on me. It would linger for moments at a time before flying away only to land on me again. It was a special interaction although not the first time something like this has occurred. It wasn’t until I was looking back at the photos I took, that I noticed how truly magical this encounter was. The dragonfly’s left back wing was broken, nearly missing. I am certain that this was meant to be a representation of myself, as I am missing my left fallopian tube. I believe that I was meant to experience this dragonfly in all of its beauty, flying around with grace and optimism, as a reminder that my missing pieces don’t define me and they will never hold me back from achieving my full potential. I can do hard things, despite the obstacles and challenges put in my way. I am beautifully broken.

4 years ago my life was changed forever by a matter of centimeters. Sometimes the smallest things make the biggest impact.

I just dropped Beau off for his first day of first grade. There is an erie stillness permeating throughout the house. There are no lego pieces scattered across the living room rug, the couch cushions remain prominently placed in a row and there are no minecraft sound effects bellowing from the tv. There isn’t a half eaten yogurt abandoned on the counter or a stool precariously positioned in front of the fridge to aid in retrieving the gallon of milk. I have craved a moment of peace like this all summer.

I have contended with unwarranted nerf gun bullets and WWE wrestling matches on my coffee table. The play room has expanded well beyond the boundaries of its four walls and the amount of times I have had to shut off all of the lights in our home has me seriously considering those ugly solar panels.

I have been tethered to the air fryer and can make chicken nuggets with my eyes closed. Closing my eyes has been my only means of privacy as solo bathroom trips are prohibited and what better time to ask mom to wipe your own butt? Freezer pops have been deemed currency and grocery shopping trip melt downs have been evaded by the thin line of a nerd rope.

I have yelled ridiculous requests like to please get your toothbrush away from the dog’s butthole and do not use my decorative hand towels as toilet paper. I have persistently wiped pee off of toilet seats and scrapped dry play dough out of the crevices of our floor boards. There are days I could feel my sanity succumbing to the chaos residing in this house.

But as I sit in here in the quiet and calm, I find myself suffocated by the silence. I can hear the soft echo of dinosaur roars coming from the playroom, but I know it’s just my imagination. There is a dribble of chocolate milk on the counter, reminding me of my son’s presence and consequently also his absence. There are action figures positioned ready for war, but suspended in time. A row of matchbox box cars borders the outline of our living room rug with the promise of continued play. I keep anticipating the nudge of a little voice requesting strawberries or chicken nuggets with ketchup. I instinctively peek in his room to check on him and reality delicately reminds me that he is not here.

His absence is as prominent as his presence. His absence reminds me that he is growing up. Everyday, I feel as though my purpose as a mother is being compromised as he becomes less dependent of me. This is the hardest part about motherhood. It’s not the messes and the meltdowns. It’s not the crazy and chaos. It’s the absence. It’s the reality that our job as a parent is to raise our children to be independent of us.

It’s the difficulty of falling in love with a version of your child that you’ll only know for a short time. It’s the fleeting moments and tender memories. It’s the fistfuls of dandelions that won’t always sit proudly on your kitchen counter. It’s the crooked “ I love you’s” and stick figure family portraits hung on the fridge. It’s the innocence and purity that only exists in childhood. It’s feeling your identity get turned inside out as your purpose as a mother constantly evolves and changes.

It’s why I will remind myself to let him jump on the couch cushions. I’ll forgive the invasion of dinosaurs taking over my dining room table and the monster truck on the stairs that I stub my toe on every morning. I’ll embrace the crazy and the chaos that is my son’s childhood because it’s temporary, all of it.

Congratulations on the purchase of your new home. I can imagine the initial unfamiliarity of residing in a house where strangers once lived. There inevitably will be remnants of those who occupied this space before you.

On the surface, you’ll likely come across fragments of dog hair and maybe a stray lego that got wedged underneath the baseboard. You might notice a small dent in the wall of the 2nd bedroom from where the rocking chair would hit. I swear it got a little deeper with each sleepless night I spent in there. Where family pictures were once proudly hung, remain shadows of rectangles and squares. My magic eraser contended with most of the drawings that my son colored on the wall, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you notice the delicate outline of a smiley face here and there.

This house is a vessel of some of my most cherished memories. My husband and I shared our first kiss in this house. It was on the living room floor. He was a bachelor living here alone and didn’t have much furniture. The walls were adorned with beer posters and he had a two seater outdoor patio set as a dining room table. A year after we started dating, I moved in and the decor became less saturated in Miller High Life and classic cars and a little more warm and fuzzy.

6 months after moving in together, we brought a golden retriever puppy home. The fenced in yard provided a perfect oasis for Max to run and explore. He spent many sunny days digging holes and rainy ones rolling in mud. We planted 3 peach trees along the boundary line, but no evidence of that exists as Max intently ripped out each and every one of them. There is a small hole in the fence where he would poke his nose through to spy on the neighbors. We’ve patched up many parts of that fence throughout the years, but always left that perfectly snout shaped gap. Max was the source of a lot of impromptu home improvements. He liked to chew things and test his boundaries. He undoubtedly conditioned us for parenthood.

We had our first child in December of 2018. Our hearts had grown, but suddenly our house felt small. Our living room was inundated with all kinds of infant sleeping contraptions and apparatuses. I felt imprisoned by high chairs and baby gates. We soon adjusted to the new demands compromising the space in our home and I found myself appreciating the close proximity. I could hear Brandon in the nursery reading Dr. Seuss while I folded laundry in the other room. I could cook dinner and almost always feel immersed in the world of my son’s imaginary play as this 900 square feet had confined us in a way that our world’s would always overlap. I felt in tune and connected with the people in this house at all times.

There is a warmth that generates organically throughout this house. I believe that the charming features and unique characteristics could be attributed to its welcoming energy as well as the love and life that has inhabited its walls for over 10 years. Some of our happiest moments have occurred under this roof. Brandon proposed to me in our bedroom. He was in his underwear. I always anticipated this moment to include a flash mob and a fire works display but some how his intimate version of a proposal was even more sentimental and special. We brought our first born son home from the hospital to this house and sent him off to kindergarten from the very same threshold. We’ve experienced milestone birthdays and the magic of christmas amongst these walls. We’ve slow danced in the kitchen followed by nerf gun wars in the living room. We’ve enjoyed countless meals from filet mignon to bowls of cheerios on the couch. We’ve built memories out of blanket forts and lego towers. We have laughed and we have lived. The happiness and love that resides in this house has sustained us through some of our darkest times.

We always knew we would outgrow the house. And we tried for many years to do so. I got pregnant with our second child and it ended tragically. I ended up having an ectopic pregnancy which resulted in the loss of our baby as well as my fallopian tube. Our grief persisted as our loss was followed by infertility. I can’t tell you how many negative pregnancy tests I have stared at from the toilet of that bathroom. Or how many times I’ve gotten in that shower to muffle the sound of my violent tears. That bathroom is a sacred space and the keeper of some of my most vulnerable moments.

Our home remained a safe space as we navigated these trying times. It kept us grounded. It kept us strong and our love close. The way the sun radiates through the picture window casting golden hues across the living room instills a sense of peace and safety embracing you in warmth. Laughter permeates through the nooks and crannies of the house and imbeds itself in the voids of your heart. Super market flowers stand on the kitchen counter with dignity and can contend with any bad day.

Our little house kept us accountable. It defied the silent treatment and personal space. It forced us to have the tough conversations and to hug it out. It required us to operate as a unit. Sometimes this even meant scheduling bathroom time and compromising over closet space. This house has encouraged us to be resourceful and creative. It has dictated the way in which we function as family.

Moving out of our house will mark the end of an era for us. We will be occupying a brand new space that will eventually evolve into our home just as this space will for you. We are moving all of our furniture and things out of the house but we hope that the love that we have fostered here will always reside among these walls. We hope that the many blessings and abundance we have experienced here will impart good fortune and wellness into your life. We hope that you can bring color to the flower beds in the front because I never had a green thumb. We hope that blueberry bush continues to render hundreds of ripe fat blueberries and that the backyard will recover from all of the holes our dogs have dug. We hope that the neighbors will wave to you as they drive by and that the mailman will quickly get to know you by first name. We hope that this house remembers our hope and perseverance more than our pain. We hope that your hard times are alleviated by the warmth and comfort of this space. We hope that this house serves you as honorably as it has us. We hope this assists your transition into this foreign area. We are strangers, but there is something deeply intimate about transferring this sacred space to you. We wish you nothing but happiness on this new and exciting endeavor.

Welcome home.

My little boy will be starting kindergarten. I know that this is a significant milestone for him and I, but I also recognize that it marks the end of an era for you.

You have spent the last five years caring for Beau and your commitment to us has been invaluable. It’s hard for me to convey the depths of my gratitude and appreciation for everything you have done.

Shortly after Beau was born, you graciously volunteered to provide child care. As an anxious and unknowing new mom, your offer rendered a peace of mind beyond compare. I’m not sure if I ever fully divulged how severe my postpartum anxiety was, but I truly don’t think I would have been able to navigate going back to work without you. You instilled a peace and calm in the chaos that was my hormonal postpartum brain. You assured me that my son would be safe and cared for while I returned to work.

You warmed bottles of breast milk while stepping over dogs with a crying baby delicately draped over your shoulder. You hummed nursery rhymes with an unmatched tenacity and never once showed signs of frustration no matter how fussy Beau could be. You changed diapers that could peel the paint off a wall and cleaned messes that were never your responsibility.

I don’t know how many times you read, “Go Dog Go” or “No David” but I’m pretty sure you could recite them by memory. It never mattered how cramped your toes were that morning or how defeated Parkinson’s had you feeling that day, you seldom denied an offer to get down on the floor to play legos. You could probably name the make and model of each of Beau’s matchbox cars, likely because you purchased the majority of them and I think it’s safe to assume that you even have a favorite dinosaur to play with.

There are days I knew you were tired and wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. I knew you were aching from the day before from bending over to color with chalk. I knew there were times you just wanted do your crosswords in peace, but Beau’s demands for chocolate milk and strawberries never failed to interrupt. I knew there were days you were exhausted and couldn’t wait to go home and take a nap. Despite it all, your care and attention to Beau remained unwavering. He knew nothing but unconditional love from you, no matter what kind of day you were having.

Beau never had to navigate the trials of babysitters and day care, because you provided him with the sanctuary of home. Most days he didn’t even have to put pants on. He never had to conform to my schedule or be hurried out of the house in the morning because you came to us. Most days you were the first person Beau would see upon waking up. You kissed boo boos and wiped tears in a way that only a grandmother could. You filled our home with warmth and tender I love you’s. You gave my baby a safe space to grow and be nurtured. You saved us thousands of dollars on child care but the gift of your time and love is truly invaluable.

We have gotten to know each other more intimately in these last five years. You’ve seen me in my most vulnerable state, most likely with a boob hanging out of my nursing bra and a mortifying stack of dishes in the sink. You’ve not only wiped Beau’s tears, but many of my own as well. There were days where your car would pull in front of our house like a chariot carrying my knight in shining armor. I can’t tell you how many times your presence has offered me peace and salvation. You have been a lifeline to me as I navigate the ebbs and flows of motherhood. I’ll never take for granted our daily chats and vent sessions which mostly entailed me pouring my heart out to you. I can’t thank you enough for never making me feel judged or looked down upon no matter how messy the house was or completely erratic I was feeling. You’ve always made me feel validated, loved and supported as if I were your own. I am so lucky to know what it feels to be loved by you.

I’ve tried my best to express my love and appreciation for all that you have done for us, but I think it’s impossible to adequately convey. You have given us the gift of a lifetime and I will continue trying to show you how much that really means to me. You are a one of a kind person who loves with your whole heart. You are fiercely loyal and dedicated to your family. My only hope for you and me is that I can give you more grand babies to bask in the beauty of your love.

Thank you Mom ❤️

It was a girl. It was never confirmed, but I just knew it was a girl. My symptoms were vastly different from my pregnancy with Beau and I could sense that my body was carrying someone different, someone special. I craved Mcdonald’s french fries with an unmatched intensity. I pictured all of the little trips we would take to get french fries when I would remind her that this was all I wanted to eat while she was growing inside of me. The headaches were relentless and I assured myself that this was just the beginning of what it would feel like to raise a daughter. The fatigue was draining me and I imagined my daughter growing more beautiful and strong with each mid afternoon nap I spent slumped on the couch. The brevity of our time together was insignificant to the eternal bond that was conceived the moment I got two faint lines on a pregnancy test.

Even though my daughter is gone, she still lives inside of me. She introduced me to a completely different version of myself. There was me before her and me after her. As much as I miss the old care free me, this new me has a profound understanding of life. I have discovered truths about myself that I never would of obtained had I not been reduced to my most vulnerable state.

I have established a devout connection to the spiritual world which is a gift in itself. Not only do I connect with the baby I lost, but I’ve also connected with my future baby who I believe is a boy. I have found peace in the trenches of my grief. My daughter has reminded me that the turmoil of my life after loss was not a punishment but a lesson to be learned. I’ve been instructed to focus not on what my daughter took away from me, but what she gave me in return.

My gratitude for the child I do have on this earth has only been magnified by the loss of our daughter. The support groups I’ve been led into due to our unfortunate circumstances have taught me that I am not the worst off. There are so many women who do not have any children on this earth and have been desperately trying for years. There are women who are missing both of their fallopian tubes and have no chance of conception other than undergoing invasive IVF. There are women who have no trouble conceiving, but for some reason cannot carry a baby to term. This world of infertility and pregnancy loss that I have begrudgingly been invited to has shown me how truly blessed I really am. I feel lucky to be able to look at it from the inside out.

My daughter taught me to listen to my body and follow my intuition . She implanted in my fallopian tube and as much as she desired to continue growing she knew that her and I would have no chance of survival if she stayed. She didn’t trigger a physical response as I hardly had any of the tell tale warning signs, but she did engage my intuitiveness. Despite my desire to carry out a normal pregnancy and to be pretend like everything was okay, I was constantly distracted by this nagging premonition. I became convinced that something was wrong despite every medical professional telling me that I was okay. My persistence and intuition is what saved my life. My daughter threatened my life just as soon as she saved it.

May 7 used to be the due date and now it has quickly become the birth date. Tomorrow my daughter would be 1 years old. It’s going to be a rainy day, I know that would of throughly pissed me off if I had a party planned. It always rains when you have a party. There would of been bouquets of pink balloons and rows of streamers cast throughout. It would of been a princess party. I probably would of rented a castle bounce house. This is special because Beau has a winter birthday and we’ve never had the opportunity to do something like that. I would probably hire someone to come dressed up as her favorite princess and everyone would be sent home with goody bags filled with glitter. She would be toddling around in a little tutu with a crown hanging out of her mouth that should really be on her head. I imagine her with little blonde pig tails with the elastics surrendering to the softness of her hair as they fall out. I picture a majestic birthday cake with soft pink frosting and chocolate as rich as my daughter’s brown eyes. I can see Beau attempting to help his sister blow out her birthday candle and a sibling quarrel ensuing shortly after. I picture us all surrounding her high chair leaning in for a family picture. I picture us so happy, so complete.

Happy Birthday to the little girl that I know so well, yet, I never got to meet. Thank you for the lessons and the truths you have instilled in me. I am a better person because of you. I used to think that you took life away from me, but you have really given life back to me.

Until we meet again.

From the broken version of your mom.

I’m sorry.

I haven’t been the best mom. Because my trauma not only took something away from me, but it also took me away from you. After our loss, I became a shell of myself threatening to crumble beneath the weight of each day. You didn’t realize this because I was physically present, but my body was really just a vessel harboring an invasive melancholy. There were so many moments during those first few months that I was there, but I wasn’t really there. And I’m sorry for my absence.

I’m sorry for all the times you proudly presented a block tower to me and I was too consumed in the trenches of my grief to give you the praise you were seeking. I’m sorry for all of the happy moments that I let pass me by because I felt like I wasn’t entitled to joy. There were sunsets and car rides and tender good night kisses that felt like moments I should cherish, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to.

Thank you for continuing to pursue my praise and affection in the form of play-doh sculptures that look like “turds” and matchbox cars arranged in careful rows. These small expressions of yourself are what generated some of my first smiles after our loss. Your actions were purely driven by your desire for my approval. You wanted nothing more than to see me smile and you were willing to do whatever it took. Thank you for reminding me that I was worthy of being happy.

I’m sorry for ignoring you. I’m sorry for hiding behind my phone and seeking comfort from strangers online rather than leaning into you for love and support. It just felt like no one could possibly understand my pain more than the people who have gone through it themselves. So I immersed myself into all of the support groups and forums just hoping that somehow this virtual community held the key to putting me back together again. I’m sorry for all of the bedtime stories that were read half heartedly and all of the movies that you were left to laugh at alone. I’m sorry for all of the pictures that were colored hastily and games that were broken up by periods of being absorbed into my phone.

Thank you extracting me from the depths of online support groups and google rabbit holes. Your demand for my attention was all that could rescue me from the vortex that is the internet. Thank you for telling me to put down my phone and play with the green dinosaur. Nothing could give me a reality check quite like hearing the pure and innocence in your little voice pleading with me to spend time with you. Thank you for saving me from myself.

I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you. There was so much anger festering inside of me; a cocktail of hormones and anguish. The baby that was taken out of me along with my fallopian tube was replaced by a dark void. That void quickly erupted with rage. You were never the source of my anger, but a lot of times you ended up on the receiving end. I’m not proud of the times I lost my temper over mild defiances such as splashing water out of the tub or refusing to get dressed. It’s these moments where the guilt dwells. I’ll never forgive myself for misplacing my emotions so erratically. You probably won’t remember my outbursts and episodes of rage, but I will. And I’m sorry, because you were never the cause of my pain.

Thank you for all of the tender “I love you”’s and unwarranted hugs. It doesn’t seem possible that a child your age could possess the emotional aptitude to understand that I needed love the most when I deserved it the least. Your sweet gestures of affection were always offered in the most meaningful way. It’s almost as if you could sense when my heart was aching. Your little hands warmly wrapped around my arm and wet kisses planted on my nose are medicinal. You sustained me through one of hardest periods of my life.

I’m sorry for wishing my life away. I’m sorry for allowing intrusive thoughts to take over my brain and feed me lies. I’m sorry for ever considering that your life would be better without me in it. It’s embarrassing to admit that I ever entertained such grotesque concepts. I’m sorry that I ever contemplated leaving you without a mother.

Thank you for reminding me of how very loved and needed I am. Thank you for constantly fulfilling my purpose as a mother. On my darkest days you pulled me into the light and assured me that I belong here. You reinforced my worth as well as my place in this world. Thank you.

I’m sorry for my longing of another child. I bear guilt because my desire to grow our family feels as if it negates the perfect family I have right in front of me. It feels like I’ve put my life on hold for a child that isn’t even here. From canceled vacations to major lifestyle changes, everything I do seems to revolve around having another baby. I’m sorry for looking in the rear view of our 3 row SUV and feeling disdain for the fact that it doesn’t have more car seats in it. I’m sorry for feeling emptiness on occasions that should bring joy because I’m distracted by the fact that someone is missing. I’m sorry for dismissing your questions about babies and hiding the dolls that you got for christmas because my heart can’t stand to see you so affectionate and loving on them. It’s been a battle navigating between my grief of the child we lost and the struggle of trying to conceive another. It’s been pain on top of pain and I’m so very fragile. I’m sorry that my triggers have dictated how we live our life.

Thank you for making me a mother. Thank you for being the only thing that could possibly make our hardships a little more bearable. Our loss and the struggle that ensued has deepened my love and appreciation for you beyond measurement. I believe that those who know loss find a profound gratitude in life that is only attained through their unimaginable pain. Your presence is truly a gift and a miracle that I will never take for granted. The toys that inundate the living room and the small muddy footprints that track through our kitchen are reminders of how lucky I am to have a little one who inhabits our home and our lives. Thank you for being here.

I never could of anticipated the anguish injected into my life by an ectopic pregnancy. It reduced me to the most vulnerable version of myself. I didn’t recognize who I was, but you still did. You saw through the trauma that painted me into a stranger. You could see my smile beneath the layers of pain and you knew just how to turn the corners of my mouth up like the turn of a key. You forgave me for my unwarranted outbursts of anger and almost always reciprocated my ugly behavior with underserved affection. Your patience and grace are so well beyond your years that I’m certain you’ve experienced a million lifetimes. Thank you for never giving up on me and for loving me unconditionally as I put myself back together. I wouldn’t be who I am without you.

Thank you.