My baby died.

My baby died.

I have talked about this so matter-of-factly for so long that, honestly – sometimes I forget how truly heartbreaking it is.

By *somewhat “sugarcoating” my story for public dissemination, I have also **somewhat stopped feeling the sting.

* because the death of a baby will never make for comfortable conversation

** because as the mama of that baby I will always feel the pain of it, even if I don’t acknowledge it in the moment

But this week a wave of grief engulfed me. Or maybe it was more like rip currant – harder to see coming but with a force more powerful than meets the eye. 

As I was rocking my little man to sleep a few nights ago, my attention started wondering to the night Emmy died. The memories replayed in my mind like scenes from a familiar movie – but a movie I was watching rather than feeling, you know? I pictured the conversation we had with the doctor who told us they’d done everything they could do — It was no longer if…but when. I thought of the moment I leaned into my dad hoping I could absorb some of the sadness I saw in him as he tried to comprehend the news. With less detail, I can remember my mom walking me back to my hospital room where I put on the dress that I would wear to hold my baby as she took her last breath.

I pictured watching our family get to meet our sweet girl – one by one saying goodbye before we spent some time with her alone. I remembered reading the prayer my dad had printed off for her, because grief had stolen his ability to speak. A mother’s strength – even in the depths of sorrow – is incomprehensible. I proved that to myself that night.

I recalled rocking my sick little girl and her perfectly healthy twin sister side-by-side while their daddy read them a book for the first and last time together on this earth. I thought of the nurses who surrounded us…and while I can’t remember their names or their even their faces, I can remember their presence. Gosh, nurses are magic like that aren’t they?

I pictured putting our baby girl’s tiny footprints in our Bibles – an idea I got from fellow angel mama @MrsAaronWatson (thank you, Kim). I remembered the most painful moments that dragged on as we waited for her little heart to fully stop beating so the nurse(s) could officially call her time of death. 

It is still almost tangible how unreal all of it felt in the moment. Like I was watching it – but not living it. Like there was no way that could possibly be me – be my life. 

I can recall so much of that night. But you guys — I can’t remember my last moments with her. I can’t picture the last kiss. Or truly saying goodbye. Or telling her how much I loved her for the millionth time. I don’t remember the last moment that I looked at her perfect little face. And maybe that’s just God being good, isn’t it? Maybe that memory…that specific moment in time…maybe it’s just too much for my mama heart to handle. Maybe He has spared me the heartache of remembering the exact moment I had to let my baby go. But man, I wish I could.

My story is heartbreaking. It is bawling your eyes out, screaming in agony & anger, thinking you can’t breathe from the pain of it kind of sorrow. It is the greatest grief the human heart can endure – losing a child. 

I thought this all came out of nowhere – which sometimes it does. But then I remembered…just the day before these memories started engulfing my heart, I saw the story of a college friend’s baby who was born still at nearly 19 weeks. And without realizing it in the moment, the visible waves of her grief were becoming the invisible rip tide of mine. It didn’t happen right away. The waves had to get stronger and build up their power before pulling me in. I didn’t even feel it happening, but friends – the body keeps the score. Whether I want it to be or not – just as the whitecaps are a part of the current – this pain is a part of me. 

I often talk about my story matter-of-factly because I think it’s important to normalize talking about hard things. I think wading into the depths of those murky waters matters – even at the risk of being pulled under. And if sharing my hard things in a way that’s more tolerable to the average human heart makes that possible – I will. 

I will do it so the next woman knows that she can wade into the waters. 

I will do it so my kids know that when respected and honored, the water is safe – even when it feels scary. 

I will do it to remind myself that even though the current is powerful – it will not overpower me.

I will do it to honor the waves, and the baby who brought them into my life. 

I will do it so that when others see me drowning in the deep, untamed waters – they can also witness my Savior pulling me out. Because “He calmed the storm to a whisper, and the waves of the sea were hushed.” (Psalm 107:29)

I’m sharing this today because October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, and it seemed an “appropriate” time to share this piece of my story. 

But here’s the thing – our hard things are all going to look a little different. Your hard thing could be your marriage while your friends is a special needs child. Your neighbor’s hard thing might be a debilitating chronic illness while your coworker is struggling to be the caretaker for her ailing parents. Your pastor’s hard thing might be undiagnosed depression while that stranger might be battling a life-altering addiction. Terminal diagnosis. Financial devastation. Religious persecution. Discrimination. The list could go on and on and on.

And it’s not a matter of sharing our hard things because misery loves company – NO! It’s sharing our hard things to offer one another powerful perspective. To renew each other’s hope. To encourage and empower those around us. To pour out prayer and give grace. To point each other back to the one Who does not promise a life of comfort – but does comfort with a life of promise.

Thank you to everyone who has waded into my hard waters – and to all those who have allowed me to dive into theirs.