It's been 10 years since Koen was born, and died.  And my heart is still shattered.  I am still sad.  So. Sad.  It won't ever stop being awful.  My arms still ache to hold him, and my eyes long to see his face.  I still see him in everything.  I still miss him.  I still wonder what life would be like with him in it.  

I no longer wake up and start crying, but I still cry.  I am no longer sad every day, but I am still sad.  I no longer find it hard to be around happy, but some days others happiness is too loud.  I no longer live in a surreal state, feeling like I am watching the world go by and I am just watching it, but sometimes I do feel like I am floating again for moment when without warning or knowing.  A moment sweeps be back to that surreal place.  Last night at the boys baseball game, a player on the opposing team was named Koen.  He pitched the first game and his teammates cheered his name often during those innings.  That's all it takes, and in a moment my grief is so heavy, yet I float away.  

I slept awful last night and woke up with a lump in my throat and tightness in my chest.  Yesterday tears came easy.  I easily escape into the wheel of busy, grinding through life, and not slowing down to feel my feelings, but this morning I knew my body was screaming for quiet.  When I took time to slow down, I realized that my body knew what my brain had not yet allowed me to think about.  My body remembers, it knows.  It knows what is coming.  Memorial Day.  May 27th.  It knows that my heart is still broken.  That I need to honor that broken piece of myself.  Honor Koen.  But its painful, because my only memories with him are traumatic and heartbreaking.  And sacred.  And beautiful.  A loss of baby that never lived outside of your womb, is a special kind of grief.  There are no purely happy memories to cling to, they are all laden and mixed heart wrenching ones.  

Today Kevin came home at lunch.  The hardness of life written all over his face.  We are not the same people we were 10 years.  Grief has taken a toll, innocence has been lost.  The love for Koen is never ending, and so the grief has no end either.  Ten years later I am still sad.  So sad.  So I find hope today in lamenting for my baby boy.  My baby boy who would be 10 years old this Saturday.

"The thought of my suffering and homelessness is bitter beyond words.  I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss.  Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this:  The faithfulness of the Lord never ends!  His mercies never cease.  Great is his faithfulness; his mercies being afresh each morning."  Lamentations 3:19-23

Being a mom can be a daunting job, the list of things to be done constantly cycling in my head, the actual work of maintaining a household, the taxi services — but those are the easy parts. The part that weighs heaviest on my soul is that I so desperately want to get it right. I know well what it is like to enter adulthood feeling broken with deep wounds on my spirit and heart. Those wounds put there by those who should have been my safe place and protected me, but in their own brokenness weren't able. I want it to stop with me. I don't want the transfer of pain to keep perpetuating. The enormity of this responsibility is too much to be consciously aware of each day, but I know it is my driving force for so much of what I do and who I am. What an exhausting expectation I have laid out for myself, to somehow get everything right while simultaneously healing.

This week I have been so hard on myself for errors made as a young mom. I read so many books in my 20s, gathering as many resources as I could, gleaning from different perspectives, so I could land on a way to parent that felt comfortable, healthy, loving, and safe for our little family. At the time I was still picking up my own broken pieces, and learning what all the cracks and fractures on my heart meant and how they were caused. How could I get it all right at the beginning? Here I am still healing old worn cracks, expecting myself to never misstep, because mistakes mean I am not safe. In my effort to get it all right, I am getting it wrong. I need to show my boys you can step off the path, without falling off a cliff. You can make mistakes and grow from them. They have watched me try to get it right so desperately, that they hold themselves to the same impossible standard. I have never understood why they have this view of themselves, when our words and actions are so gentle with expectations, never wanting them to have the weight of perfect. But they are watching me, their broken and imperfect mom, demanding myself to be perfect for them. I need to fall more, fail more. I need to not get it right. They need to see that getting it wrong is safe for me, and in turn them. They need to see exploring and adventuring is every bit as safe, and even more beautiful, than marching safely down the path. I have to allow myself to fully experience the things I have hoped to foster for their lives, because they are watching and seeing what I can't even see in myself. They can see the light through my cracks, my broken. I can't try to perfectly cover it up, its what makes me beautiful, that my love can shine through my broken parts. That I can love and be a safe place in spite of my broken, that's what makes me the best mom to them. That is how we will all heal and stop the cycle.

As the school year comes to a close this week, the flood of emotions are upon me. ALL THE FEELS. I can't even seem to make sense or unscramble them all. The excitement and pride of what the boys are becoming, and the joy it brings me to watch their lives unfold is indescribable. I have had a little boy in my house for 15 years straight, just has Hackett was transitioning to a big 2nd grader, Tobin arrived. I got to start it all over, which at the time seemed daunting, but now I see what a gift it was for me. I have had 15 years of sweet snuggles and little boy hands in mine. 15 years of pretend play noises and wanting to be near mom.

Now Tobin has two giant front teeth, and we see him transitioning to this more grown up boy stage right before our eyes. His pretend play still exists, but with his door closed, less animals, and more Star Wars. He now spends hours reading and writing with his imagination. He will be ready for second grade next year, more independence, and all that comes with it. I'm letting go little by little.

And Hackett. One year of high school just days from being done. It's hard to believe he once was little. Now six feet tall with broad shoulders, muscular legs, and deep voice, he could pass for 18. He has come into his own this year. He has overcome trials and celebrated victories and it has been an honor to watch it all from afar.  The texts for rides will end in six months when he gets his license. He is starting to look at colleges, and is asking how to make some of his favorites foods, as he prepares in small ways to leave our home. I'm letting go little by little.

This is what motherhood is, isn't it?  We watch them sleep on our chests and then let them go when we lay them in their cribs.  We watch them toddle while hanging on to our fingers and then we let them go to take steps on their own.  We watch them walk in to school for the first time and then let them go to learn and make new friends.  Our grasp just keeps loosening with each year and each stage.  When we went to the park when the boys were toddlers I would hover, always ready to grab a hand or be ready to catch as they climbed.  They would gain confidence, and I in them, and I would step back.  No longer hoovering and holding, but watching from further and further away.  Little by little.  I'm outside the fence now of Hackett's life, just watching his adventures and confidence grow.  He's leaving the park soon and he will be ready.  I'll let him go and just watch with tears in my eyes, the biggest smile on my face, and pride in my heart.  

Nine years ago today our precious Koen was born.  Last night Kevin and I were talking about Koen, how it felt like it was so long ago and just like yesterday all at the same time.  The years go by without milestones for us to mark the passing time.  No baseball games or field trips or morning snuggles.  I ache for the little simple moments that we never had with him.  But what a gift he was.  I would want to rewrite his story so that he is still here with me, but I never wish that Koen never was, he was a gift.   All three of them are.  What an honor to be their safe place, the one they turn to in their joy and sorrows, where unconditional love flows freely.  I don't take their lives, no matter how short, and my role in them for granted.  They are my greatest gifts.  

I breathed a sigh of relief  today as I drove home from receiving my vaccination.  Anxiety has ebbed and flowed my entire life.  When it is triggered the mental exhaustion of it is so heavy.   Health issues have become my kryptonite since Koen's death.  This year, the weight of my fears has been heavy.  My body has failed our family in the cruelest way.  Koen's cause of death was not because his body was imperfect, but because mine was.  After some digging in therapy I was able to pinpoint that any small issue makes me fear that my body will fail again, with only little warning.  So I am hyperaware of every imperfection and internal feeling trying to cut death off at the pass, for fear of leaving my boys.  I was given the gift of relief today.  Such relief.  

This week, these past few months, this last year, it's been a lot. It seems with every turn it has been constant waves of emotions that we have all had to process, sort through, understand, and grieve, all while attempting to survive and press forward. Our lives seemed to slow down, while simultaneously speeding up in other ways depending on your situation, with new or increased demands. We were forced out of our predictable routines that provide many of us with comfort. The rug was pulled out from under us, and a deck of cards tossed in to the air. We found ourselves lying on the floor trying to make sense of these shuffled cards we have been dealt. Just when we thought we could get the deck in order, more cards were tossed in our face. Over and over. Again and again.

While thinking and praying this week, these thoughts keep being brought to my mind. Sharing for myself, as I need these reminders, and with the hope of sharing these lessons with my boys when the time is right.

​We don't deal well with feeling uncomfortable in our society. We don't deal well with disarray. We don't allow our minds the quiet space they need to sort through our thoughts. We seem to be so uneasy with our own feelings that we fill the quiet with noise, and drown our thoughts in any distraction we can find. We avoid the tears, swallow them down, and stop the necessary process of allowing our minds to work through, to learn, to grow, to get a handle on what we are feeling. We just keep swallowing and pressing onward, but eventually that pile buried in our stomachs turns to anger and frustration. This year I have witnessed the displacement of sadness and ache and fear, as it twists and morphs to the spewing of anger. Rage is tossed like confetti in online forems. Violence from those who feel that is their last resort and only answer.

You have to sit with the grief, sadness, and fear - and there is so much of all those things this year. You have to feel it, experience it, cry it out, journal it, civilly talk through it with those close, and process it. Escaping it is only temporary.

Differences of opinions and experiences is beautiful. Differences is what our country has been shaped by, the balance of it needs to be embraced. We have to be grounded in our own deep feelings to not feel enraged by someone else having a differing opinion or belief. That unstable footing at our core is what so quickly tosses so many in to fight or flight.

I am intimately accainted with grief, it cannot be escaped, it will continue to pop up until you slowly work your way through it. To process it, you need to sit with it. Feel it wash over you. It doesn't even have to be a long period of time all at once, that is exhausting and why we tend to run from it altogether, but allow yourself to make time for it.

I am reminded this week that I am called to love God, and to love people. I don't know what the answers are for this year, but feel like healing can only begin to come when we chose to invite God in and to love people. If we all did that in our homes and communities imagine the restoration we would see. And that healing starts within our own hearts, our own lives.

We need to be like Daniel and continue to trust God and stay the course, even in the fire, and he will be with us. As I was sitting with my grief this morning, I walked down to water and saw this freighter. The enormous ship in the distance was staying the course even in the cold and waves and wind.

I have been a mom for fourteen years now.  You made me a mom.  You opened parts of my heart that I didn't even realize existed.  I fell in love with you with every ounce of my being.  I remember putting you in a shopping cart as a baby barely able to sit up in the seat.  I would walk around the store with you in awe that you were mine and that I was a mom to such an incredible little human being.  You continued to be my shopping buddy, almost every day in California you and I would venture out to all the different stores that we had right out our back door.  I remember at the time thinking that moment would last forever.  That I would forever walk through parking lots with you holding my hand.  Then I blinked and your 13th year of life happened all during a global pandemic.  I watched the world shift and change while watching the same happen with you in my house.  Your voice shifted,  you grew taller, your humor developed, your confidence flourished, and you grew even taller.  You don't put your hand in my hand any more, now you come up beside me while I am making dinner and rest your head on my shoulder.  You verbalize your gratitude for each small thing I do for you.  You are happy to help with chores, quick to swoop in and do the heavy lifting.  You ask about my day and intentional questions about me.  You have grown in so many ways, but this year I see what kind of man you will be and I have never been more proud.  If you love your mom this well, how well will you love your wife some day?  I know my days will soon be numbered as your number one girl, so I will savor it as long as I can.  I am celebrating the sadness of you growing up far faster than I thought possible.   

​Today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. A day to remember those precious babes that were lost far too soon, and the hole and ache in so many parents hearts. Also a day to help end the stigma, and the suffering that so many do in silence, alone. One of the sweet gifts of my own healing in this space was hearing from others, many who ache alone. You are not alone, your loss every bit as significant, and heartbreaking. And I am so incredibly sorry.

Thinking about Koen even more today, and my rainbow that is Tobin. Sometimes guilt mixes in, knowing that without the loss of Koen, there would be no Tobin. And I cannot fathom life without my ray of sunshine rainbow. I opened my bible this morning to Genesis 9, reading the story of God's promise: "When I send clouds over the earth, the rainbow will appear in the clouds" (Gen 9:14). How often I look to the clouds and see a heart and remember Koen. How often my heart is wrapped in the love and joy of my rainbow, my Tobin. As I continued to read, verse 20, made me stop and pause and Jesus revealed a new meaning to me. It states: "After the flood, Noah began to cultivate the ground, and he planted a vineyard." In the middle of grief, in the middle of the storm - the flood, you feel as if life cannot go on. But then it does, and with that comes guilt. And not all of us are given a rainbow baby after the loss of a child. How do you heal your broken heart? How do you continue? After the storm of grief and flood of tears, you bravely step of the boat of grief and you begin to live. You cultivate the ground. You plant a vineyard. And slowly the sun starts to shine, and your vines begin to produce fruit. It doesn't happen overnight. It takes a season, sometimes many for plants to bear fruit. You have to cultivate, and work the ground, and let the sun shine upon you.

"The LORD bless you, and keep you;
​The LORD make His face shine on you,
And be gracious to you;
The LORD lift up His countenance on you,
And give you peace."
​Numbers 6:24-26

May you feel that peace today. All my love.

My rainbow shouting from the top of his lungs the rainbows beauty.
​

My rainbow.

My constant sun, even in the middle of the storm.

May the Lord make his face shine upon you.

Time has helped to heal, writing has helped get my emotions out of my spinning head, Jesus has brought me peace, but my heart will forever ache, and my brain has been impacted. I think I will always feel broken, different, changed. To those that have followed my journey, I have been very transparent about my broken heart, but I am not sure if I have fully expressed in the recent years the impact of the tragedy of loss of a child has had on facets of my life that you may not think about.

I have post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), as I imagine most of my fellow mommas and daddies in loss do, and I am sure it impacts us all in our own unique ways. It haunted me hourly at first, and has slowly over time lessened. I thought with the lessening, the haunting and impacts on my brain would eventually go away. It has not. When it comes in a wave, the water rushes over me, I panic. I try hard to get to the surface, and as soon as I do, I run from the water, wanting to leave it quickly. The sensation of that feeling is so unsettling. For me, it is not just sadness, but often irrational fear. In just the past few weeks I am learning I need to sit with it, grab a floatie, and calmly ride the waves. I need to understand it. I need to process the panic and fear for what it is, instead of retreating. Running from it has not helped to heal my brain patterns. I started counseling again to help me process much of this, and I haven't even dove deep in to these issues yet there, but just the act of getting help has made me more introspective about my feelings.

The week before Koen's death, I didn't feel quite right. I made multiple calls to the on-call doctors that week, and it was just believed that what I was experiencing was typical. But it was not typical for pregnancy, what I was feeling was Koen dying inside of me. The guilt of that. The weight of that. The what if's. If I don't feel well now in my normal life, I panic, and become knowingly irrational. God bless Kevin and my care provider, both of whom are incredibly patient with me. I sat with that panic this month, instead of escaping it as quick as possible. I have finally put together some of the pieces of my brain wiring. My PTSD has me needing to immediately determine the cause of my ailments, delaying that determination, for me, means death. And because my body is no longer a home for a baby, in my brain it means my death. Leaving my boys motherless is more than my panicked brain can bear and it leaves me spiraling.

This feels incredibly raw to share, I think I am more comfortable sharing my broken heart, than my mental broken-ness. But tragic loss not only breaks your heart, but parts of your brain as well. My prayer is that facing this fear head on and having a greater understanding will help me to rewire the paths my brain takes when those waves come roaring at me. I want to stop fighting the waves, and self-talk my way on to a floatie, ride them until they calm and the hope filled rainbow appears.

​(Thanks to my dear friend, B, for sharing this "Waves" meme this week and giving me the visual I needed).