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Trigger Warning: Child Loss
I donated my deceased daughter’s clothes yesterday. It’s a stark and direct statement, I realize. I’ve attempted to soften it, to make it less jagged for those who read it, but there’s no way to cushion such a truth. It’s been nearly seven years since Lily passed away, and even now, when I utter the phrase “my deceased child,” people’s eyes widen in discomfort, and the atmosphere becomes thick with unease. I’ve lost friends over this, all because I refuse to conceal the rawness of this reality just to make others feel more comfortable.
The thought that children can die is unsettling. The existence of boxes and urns for babies feels surreal. The notion that death certificates are issued for such tiny lives defies everything we instinctively understand. That the time of birth and death can be intertwined as one moment, as it was for Lily, is painfully tragic. It’s absurd if you really think about it—and I do, often.
When I returned home without Lily, parting with her belongings felt impossible. Logically, I knew these items were never truly hers; she never wore them or played with them. Yet, I vividly remember selecting them, my pregnant belly full from a food court cinnamon roll, feeling delighted as I imagined her in each piece. I was intentional in my choices, often opting for blues and Roxy clothing to fit the surfer girl nursery theme I envisioned for her. It’s a grim irony that she would have been born with those sun-kissed curls, but the sun would never shine on them. This realization tends to make people squirm when I voice it out loud.
For almost seven years, her things have been tucked away in bins in my closet. I still refer to them as Lily’s things, as if we’re merely waiting for her to return home to claim them, as if they were ever really hers.
Yesterday, while organizing my closet, I came across the bins labeled “Lily’s Things.” They sat there, collecting dust, a solemn reminder of the child I welcomed and lost on the same day nearly seven years ago. For the first time, I felt that perhaps these clothes, chosen with love, could be of use to another mother. I imagined another little girl wearing them, growing up and playing in them, basking in the sunshine—a stark contrast to the sadness that enveloped my memories.
I felt a sense of readiness, a peace I hadn’t anticipated. A friend suggested I touch each item and see how it felt in my hands. So, I did just that, bidding farewell to each piece as I transferred it from the bin to a donation box. I spent an hour unfolding and folding, saying goodbye to tiny jeggings and sparkly tops. I experienced a healing sadness during that time.
I kept one onesie—a blue, pink, and green piece embroidered with the words “Little Sister.” My hands wouldn’t let it go; I remembered how my son had gleefully chosen it, announcing he would be a big brother. I still picture his smile, the Hawaiian shirt he wore that day, and that Pizza Hut breadstick in his little hand. I held it tightly and cried, ultimately placing it beside the only photographs I have of Lily, and continued my task.
My journey into motherhood has been anything but straightforward—a winding road filled with obstacles and heartbreak. It’s one of starts and stops, punctuated by moments of despair. Yet, I’ve come to accept my truth and appreciate it for the perspective it gives me—a tool against the self-doubt that often accompanies motherhood.
Later that day, I met a woman whose own path to motherhood I recognized. I knew too well the anguish of the news she received—news that no mother wishes to hear—and how the initial shock is often more painful than what follows. I offered her the clothes, and she accepted, promising to cherish them with the same love with which I had chosen them. They would belong to a little girl who would embody hope and joy, shining light on the darkness that had only just begun to lift.
Yesterday, I donated my deceased daughter’s clothing and took another step on an ongoing journey of grief that will accompany me throughout my life. I recalled the early days when well-meaning friends urged me to give everything away, as if that would erase the memory of each tiny outfit. I knew that one day I would feel ready and would find the right mother to pass them on to. I believe that from the ashes of my loss, hope would bloom once more, and this new little girl would be dressed in the clothing that was once chosen with love by a mother who needed that hope just as much.
If you’re interested in more stories related to this topic, check out this blog post on home insemination. For those looking to learn about home insemination, Make a Mom provides excellent resources. You can also find valuable information about pregnancy at WHO.
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Summary:
This heartfelt piece recounts the experience of a mother donating her deceased daughter’s clothes nearly seven years after her loss. Through the process, she reflects on her grief, the significance of each item, and the hope of passing them on to another mother. The act becomes a step toward healing, symbolizing the intertwining of love, loss, and the enduring journey of motherhood.
Keyphrase: Donated deceased daughter’s clothes
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]