We are the lucky ones. I remind myself of this whenever I feel upset thinking of our losses, the beautiful little souls we will not meet on this earth. We are the lucky ones. We have two, perfectly imperfect, happy, healthy, little rainbows babies that fill our hearts with so much joy (and chaos, and stress, just as they should). We are the lucky ones. While I am well aware of this, and it has taken me quite a long time to come to terms with this next realization, we are still entitled to feel and to mourn our losses. The agony we, as parents, have felt, especially in saying goodbye to our daughter, Faith, does not take away from the immense love and gratitude we feel for our two angel babies here on earth. I think there is a misconception sometimes that if you have children after your losses, it somehow erases those losses, or perhaps as parents we just feel our own guilt in feeling the weight of the loss(es) when we know what a gift we have received with a new baby/babies.

As this year’s Pregnancy, Infant, and Child Loss Awareness Week approaches, and I am filled with love as I type away while my two, beautiful miracles giggle two rooms over (as they pretend to be napping in preparation for a late afternoon play date) I am also filled with a heaviness as a remember my babies’ lives cut before they could experience this earth. I especially think of our daughter, Faith, whom I carried for 20 weeks, and I recall how much I struggled after our daughter was born to balance the relief and gratitude in a healthy baby, but the pain in the loss I was still mourning. Specifically within that first month post-partum, adjusting to a new norm, a newborn schedule again (I hadn’t had one in 3 years), and regulating hormones, I found myself torn, my heart overjoyed with love and contentment of this remarkable little girl in front of me, but also coupled with sadness, wondering why it is sometimes that we receive certain babies, but not others. These were questions that then filled my heart with guilt rather than simply accepting that this is my reality, and that my heart definitely has enough love to grieve and give, and that if I allow myself to grieve, it will actually help me to better give to my children and loved ones on earth. This next year will mark five years since we lost our daughter, and it is still a ball of feelings that may often hit me without warning. Sometimes, in the highest points of joy for one of my miracle children, I feel an equal pang of guilt or sadness that she will not experience these moments. I could lie and say that it “gets easier over time,” but I think that we simply grow stronger, around our grief, allowing it to make us softer. That is at least, how I hope to use my grief, so that others feel less alone.

This is your reminder to be easy with yourselves. This entire month of October is dedicated to raising awareness regarding pregnancy, infant, and child loss, and opening up a dialogue so that people feel less alone, and oftentimes, less ashamed, because while there is NO shame in this burden, I have found that many women I speak to feel a deep sense of shame, somehow blaming themselves for what has happened. Treat yourselves with gentleness. Mourn the way you need to mourn. Celebrate the time you got with your baby if that is what best suits you. Allow yourself to change your mind in how you cope, recognizing that there is no right way to cope with such a tragedy (excluding causing harm to yourself or others of course). For me, I find different seasons to bring various challenges and I still battle some of those feelings of guilt, so I have to remind myself how lucky I am, but also to give my heart and my mind a break and allow them to feel what they need to feel. To all the families who have lost, to all the families waiting patiently, to all the families who cling to their miracles but still relive the losses, my heart is with you. This week, when we light our remembrance candle (made by a dear friend for our daughter) we also light for all the pregnancies, infants, and children lost here on earth.