Once, I was a mother with a baby, and then I became a mother grieving the loss of my son. There are gentler phrases to describe it; he was stillborn, he didn’t make it, I experienced a pregnancy loss. Yet, regardless of the terminology, the reality remains unchanged — I exist, and he does not.
Life has a way of splitting you into two versions of yourself. I used to be someone who had not faced the unimaginable grief of losing a child, and then everything changed. Before that moment and after it, my life took an unexpected turn. I chose a path I never wanted to walk, and it transformed everything.
It took me six long years to find the courage to write about my son. Words, which usually bring me comfort, abandoned me during those early days. There were no phrases that could articulate what it meant to endure the unendurable. I didn’t just feel sorrow; I felt like a ghost, a remnant of who I had been. Life as I knew it felt impossible to continue.
Yet, somehow, it did.
The paradox of grief is that while your world may come to a standstill, the world outside moves on. Time is relentless, a cruel reminder that life continues even when you feel shattered. As humans, we possess an incredible ability to persevere through adversity, finding our way through the darkest of times, sometimes crawling when we can’t walk. We navigate wrong turns and retrace steps, gradually discovering new paths.
My son, Ethan, was stillborn on Christmas Eve in 2010. His passing sent me spiraling into uncharted territories of grief. Initially, all I could do was survive; even taking a breath felt monumental.
Eventually, I began to reshape my grief into something that could make me a better person. I reassessed my life and moved away from people and situations that didn’t contribute positively. I began supporting other families facing similar losses, sharing my feelings of both despair and hope. While I understood that I could never make sense of the senseless, I could honor the space in my heart where Ethan resides, transforming it from a void into a sacred place.
I had always believed that losing a child was something I couldn’t endure. In a way, I was right; the person I once was has vanished, replaced by someone new. I felt like a changeling, a term my grandmother used to describe a being swapped for another, fundamentally altered. I was the changeling, forever changed, and there was no going back.
Gradually, I found a way to merge the two versions of myself — part woman, part changeling. I reached for my living children, who were so small yet resilient, navigating their own grief while witnessing their mother’s struggle. They became my guiding stars; when I couldn’t find a reason to live for myself, I lived for them.
My supportive husband, grappling with his own heartache, reached out to me, and together we stumbled through our pain. We sought solace in the company of others who had walked similar paths, taking hesitant steps forward. Sometimes, I lagged behind, but he waited. Other times, I tried to escape the journey, not realizing that it was one I would always walk, albeit with time, it would become more manageable and even beautiful.
As I continued this journey, I encountered another challenge — a new pregnancy. I thought surely I had faced enough. But at five weeks, I began to bleed, and another hope slipped away. Undeterred, we pressed on, our steps more cautious, aware of how easily the ground could shift beneath us. Finally, we welcomed a healthy baby, a boy we named Leo, who would always carry the memory of his brother who couldn’t stay.
With Leo came a mix of relief, guilt, joy, fear, and hope. He healed a part of me I thought would remain an open wound. Now, it’s a scar — prominent yet no longer raw. It serves as a daily reminder that I am a survivor.
People have long speculated about life after death, pondering the existence of souls and what lies beyond. I don’t have the answers, but I hold proof of life after loss. My evidence includes my vibrant son who came after Ethan and helped mend my heart. I find validation in the kindnesses we carry out in Ethan’s name. My witnesses are my children, who, despite their young age, remember him. I see proof in the families I’ve comforted in hospitals and mortuaries. My testimony is waking each day, even when it feels impossible. Because love transcends death.
I wished for Ethan to make a difference in the world, and though he never took a breath, he has indeed made an impact. I am his mother. I once carried him, and I carry him still. Death cannot erase that bond. I will always be his life after loss.
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In summary, facing the loss of a child transforms us in unimaginable ways, but it also teaches us about resilience, love, and the enduring impact of those we have lost.
Keyphrase: Life after loss
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