Chapter 1 - “The Journey That Led to You
Chapter 1: The Journey That Led to You
There are some kinds of waiting that change you.
Not the kind where time simply passes, but the kind where every month carries hope, every appointment carries quiet prayer, and every disappointment asks you to gather yourself and try again.
This is how I came to you, Jolene.
You were not an accident. You were not a surprise. You were a promise I kept reaching for, even when it hurt. IVF became part of my story the needles, the appointments, the instructions that turned love into science and hope into something measured and monitored. There were days I felt strong, believing this would work. And there were days I felt fragile, wondering if my body would ever do what my heart already knew how to do carry you.
But I never stopped believing in you.
Every step of the process felt like I was walking toward someone I had not met yet, but already loved completely. I imagined you long before I ever saw your name on a screen. I imagined your life, your laugh, the way I would speak your name softly when no one else was listening.
And then, there you were.
A moment so small it could have been missed by anyone else but not by me. A confirmation of a simple lab result. A breath I didn’t realize I had been holding finally released. In that instant, everything I had endured, every tear, every wait, every injection, every prayer it all became you.
Jolene.
You were real.
And from that moment on, I was already yours.
Even before I ever held you, I loved you in a way I didn’t know I was capable of.
But loving you didn’t come without fear.
The next few weeks between eight-ten weeks:
The weeks that followed felt like a storm I couldn’t step out of. Between eight and ten weeks, everything in my life seemed to unravel at once. What should have been a time filled with peace and excitement became heavy with things I never imagined I would be carrying while carrying you.
My marriage was already breaking in ways I didn’t know how to fix. There was distrust, disloyalty, and a kind of pain that sat quietly but deeply. I tried to hold onto hope that maybe you, Jolene, would be something good to come from all of it. Something pure in the middle of everything that felt so broken.
And then I found out you were a girl.
I fell in love with you in a way that felt immediate and undeniable. You weren’t just a baby anymore you were my daughter. My Jolene. I started to picture our life together, even if it meant doing it without your dad. I began preparing myself mentally to be strong enough, to be everything you would need, even if I had to do it alone with your siblings.
I told myself, “I can do this”
But my body had its own story to tell.
Every change, every ache, every unfamiliar feeling made me pause. I paid attention to everything, wondering what was normal and what wasn’t. And then, on Christmas Eve, the fear became real.
Chapter 2 Christmas Eve:
I started bleeding.
It was the first time, and it felt like my world stopped. I remember the panic, the way my heart dropped into my stomach, the immediate thought that I was losing you. The doctors called it a hematoma a word I had never cared to know before but all I could hear was the possibility of miscarriage.
Some said it was normal. Others weren’t so sure.
And I was left in between, holding onto hope while preparing for the worst.
The bleeding didn’t stop. Sometimes it got heavier. There were moments when blood clots would come, and each time it felt like I was losing you all over again. I would cry, terrified that this was it that you were gone, or about to be.
But then I would hear your heartbeat.
Strong. Steady. Still there.
And somehow, you kept holding on.
Even when I felt like everything around me was falling apart my marriage, my emotions, my sense of stability you were still there, fighting quietly inside of me.
And I held onto that with everything I had.
And just when I thought I had learned how to live inside that fear… it didn’t leave.
It followed me into the weeks that came after.
Chapter 3: “You Kept Fighting, So Did I”
Between twelve and sixteen weeks, everything still felt the same. The bleeding never truly stopped. I kept waiting for the moment someone would tell me, “You’re in the clear now.” But that moment never came.
There were nights that didn’t feel like nights at all just moments of panic.
I remember waking up to puddles of blood in the bed, the kind that makes your heart race before your mind can even catch up. Your dad and I would jump up, rushing to the bathroom, rushing to the car, rushing to the hospital, moving fast, but feeling completely powerless. The fear was overwhelming, and sometimes the pain would come with it, taking over my body in ways I couldn’t control.
Your siblings saw it too.
They heard the urgency in our voices, saw the fear in our faces. And that part hurt in a different way—knowing that this wasn’t just something I was carrying alone, but something the whole family was beginning to feel.
And yet, every time we went in, the doctors would say the same thing.
“Everything looks fine.”“She’s growing the way she should.”
You were still there. Still forming. Still fighting.
But fear doesn’t always listen to reassurance.
Your dad and I became so anxious that we started scheduling ultrasounds every other week, just to see you… just to make sure you were still okay. Those moments became everything to me. The quiet rooms, the screen lighting up, and then—there you were again.
Alive. Moving. Strong.
I kept every single ultrasound.
Each one felt like proof that you were real, that you were still with me. And every time, they confirmed it again—you were a girl.
Our girl.
Jolene.
We would sit there and study your face, already memorizing you. You had the most beautiful little nose—something your dad and I would talk about over and over again. It sounds so small, but to us, it was everything. Your features already felt so unique, so perfect. We were already in love with the way you looked, the way you existed.
We couldn’t wait to meet you. To hold you.
By sixteen weeks, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe it was safe to start preparing for you.
Even with the fear still sitting in the back of my mind, I went out and bought you a few things. Tiny outfits. Little socks. Things I imagined you wearing, things I imagined folding and putting away for you.
It felt like hope.
Your dad and I even started planning your baby shower. We picked a date—April 28, 2026. We talked about the theme, smiling at the idea of it all:
A Silly Little Goose is on the Way.
For a moment, it felt real in a different way—not just survival, not just fear… but joy.
We were finally allowing ourselves to dream about you being here.
The next few weeks between 17-19 weeks:
And just when it felt like we could finally breathe… something in me still wouldn’t fully settle.
Weeks seventeen through nineteen came quietly, but they didn’t feel as light as I wanted them to. On the outside, everything still looked like it was moving in the right direction. You were growing. Your ultrasounds had been good. The doctors weren’t raising alarms.
But inside, I carried a different kind of awareness.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t panic like before. It was quieter than that… deeper. A feeling I couldn’t explain, but couldn’t ignore either.
I kept checking in with my body, with you.
Every little movement, every sensation—I paid attention to it all. I wanted reassurance in ways no one else could give me. I had already been through so much fear with the bleeding, with the unknowns, that I didn’t trust “everything is fine” as easily anymore.
I wanted to feel you.
I waited for those moments everyone talks about—the flutters, the kicks, the undeniable signs that you were there, moving, growing, living inside of me. And when I did feel something, I held onto it tightly, replaying it in my mind, convincing myself you were okay.
But the space between those moments felt too long.
And in that space, my thoughts would wander.
I started questioning things I didn’t want to question. Wondering if I was overthinking, or if my body was trying to tell me something. I didn’t always say it out loud, but it lived inside me—that quiet fear that maybe something wasn’t right.
Still, I kept going.
I showed up to my days, to your siblings, to life as it was. I continued planning for you, holding onto the hope we had already built. Your baby shower plans were still there, your little clothes tucked away, your name already woven into everything.
Jolene.
You were still my girl. Still my future. Still everything I had been holding onto.
But somewhere between hope and fear… I felt myself holding my breath again.
As if my heart was trying to prepare for something my mind wasn’t ready to face.
Chapter 4: “The Night I Knew”
I had just turned nineteen weeks when the pain came.
At first, it felt like something I could manage—cramps that I told myself would pass. I tried to rest, tossing and turning for two days, hoping my body would settle, hoping it was nothing more than another moment of fear I had already learned to survive.
But it didn’t go away.
The pain grew stronger, heavier… different.
And still, I felt you move.
Each movement gave me a sense of reassurance I clung to. I told myself, You’re okay. She’s okay. I wanted to believe that more than anything.
But deep down, something didn’t feel right.
On February 4th, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I knew.
I knew I was in labor.
The house was quiet. Your dad was asleep, and your siblings were sound asleep too. I remember standing there for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision in my chest. Something was wrong, but I didn’t want to wake anyone. I didn’t want to bring panic into the house before I even understood what was happening.
So I went alone.
I drove myself to the emergency room, holding onto you, holding onto hope, even as the pain kept coming strong, moments of pulling to the side of the road to count and breath slowly through the pain. Hours passed—waiting, contracting, hurting. The kind of pain that doesn’t let you sit still, the kind that makes time feel slow and unbearable.
I kept asking the nurses what was taking so long, desperate for answers, desperate for someone to tell me what was happening.
Fear kept growing.
But you were still moving.
And I held onto that.
Eventually, they took me in for an ultrasound. I remember looking at the technician through watery eyes, searching her face for something—anything. She told me you looked fine.
Fine.
I asked if I could see you.
I didn’t know why I asked like that, but something inside me needed it. I needed to see you, to know you were still there, to hold onto that image just in case.
But I couldn’t.
And I was sent back to waiting… back to the unknown… back to the fear.
After eight hours, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I left.
On the drive home, the contractions slowed. My body felt different again, like it was trying to calm itself. And you were still moving.
I remember placing my hands over my stomach, rubbing gently, praying out loud.
Please be okay.Hold on, my pretty girl.Be strong for mama.You’re so brave.
And in that moment, it was just me and you.
Still holding on to each other.
Chapter 5: “The Calm Before Goodbye”
It was 6:30 in the morning when I finally arrived home.
I laid beside your dad completely exhausted physically, mentally, emotionally. It felt like my body had been fighting for days, and all I wanted was to close my eyes and believe the worst was over.
But then my phone rang.
It was the emergency room.
They told me my results had finally come back and that my cervix was open and dilated.
I remember instantly feeling the fear rush back into my body. I looked over at your father, terrified and overwhelmed, and we hurried back to the hospital once again.
This time they brought me into labor and delivery.
Everything suddenly felt more serious.
The doctor examined me and told me my cervix still looked thick and that she didn’t immediately see any major red flags, but she wanted to do another ultrasound just to be sure.
Even with those words, I couldn’t relax.
I was still panicked. Still scared. Sitting alone again in another unfamiliar room, listening to your heartbeat echo loudly through the monitor. That sound became my lifeline. Every beat gave me something to hold onto.
You were still here.
When it was finally time for the ultrasound, I asked if I could please see you.
And this time, I could.
There you were.
Moving. Jumping around. Opening and closing your tiny mouth as if you already had so much to say. I stared at the screen completely overwhelmed with relief. Tears filled my eyes as I watched you, so alive, so beautiful.
In that moment, all I wanted was to hold you.
To hug you.To kiss your little face.To keep you safe inside me forever.
The ultrasound technician worked closely with my primary doctor, and together they gave me reassurance that I desperately needed.
“Everything looks great.”“I wouldn’t be worried.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I took a deep breath.
I let myself believe them.
They discharged me from the hospital once again, repeating that everything looked fine and that you were okay.
So I went home.
I remember walking through the door feeling drained in every possible way. My body felt weak from the contractions, from the fear, from the emotional exhaustion of constantly thinking I was about to lose you.
I laid down almost immediately, desperate for rest after all the scares, all the waiting, all the pain.
And still, even through the exhaustion…
I held my stomach before falling asleep.
Just wanting to feel close to you.
Chapter 6: “Where Fear Became Reality”
I woke up to pain unlike anything I had felt before.
Not fear. Not discomfort. Pain.
The kind that takes over your entire body and leaves no room for denial.
Your dad had just left to go pick up your siblings, and around that same time, I got a phone call from my mom. She was on her way to bring me one of the foods you had been craving lately one of those little things that made you feel so real to me. Even your cravings felt personal, like tiny pieces of you already showing yourself to us.
But while I was on the phone with her, the pain started getting worse.
I remember leaning over the kitchen counter, hunched forward, gripping the edge as another contraction hit me. A wave of panic rushed through me immediately. Deep down, I already knew what it was.
Labor.
But I didn’t want to admit it.
I didn’t want to believe it because only hours before, they had told me everything was fine. They told me you were okay. They told me not to worry.
Still… I was a mother already.
Three times before, my body had gone through labor, and this felt the same. My instincts were screaming at me, even while my mind desperately tried to silence them.
By the time your dad and my mom both arrived, I was trying my best to hold myself together. We exchanged quick hellos, and I remember my mom looking at me carefully before telling me I needed to rest.
I agreed.
But the moment she left, everything intensified.
The pain became unbearable.
Each contraction came stronger than the last, pulling sounds out of me I couldn’t control. I’ve always been someone with a high pain tolerance, someone who could stay calm through pain, but this was different. This pain was consuming me.
I tried taking a shower, hoping the water would calm my body the way people always say it does during contractions.
But instead, it got worse.
I started timing them.
One minute apart.
My heart dropped.
I remember yelling for your dad, panic taking over my voice.
“We need to leave now. Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.”
The look on his face changed instantly. Fear. Real fear.
Without hesitation, he loaded everyone into the car as quickly as he could.
The drive to the hospital felt endless.
Every minute brought another contraction crashing through me. I gripped the car handle and dashboard so tightly my hands hurt. I cried. I screamed. I shut my eyes as hard as I could trying to survive each wave of pain.
And between those moments, all I could say was:
“No… no… no…”“Please God, no…”
Your dad kept trying to talk to me, trying to calm me down, but I was somewhere else completely lost inside the pain, the fear, and the growing realization that I might be losing you.
The drive was only twenty minutes.
But it felt like forever.
When we finally arrived at the entrance of labor and delivery, everything became a blur. The security guard looked at me and asked for my ID, but one look at me and he immediately knew.
“I’m in labor,” I managed to say.
And he rushed us through.
I remember standing at the elevator praying silently:
Please don’t let me give birth yet. Please let her hold on a little longer.
By the time I made it to triage, the nurse I had seen earlier looked at me differently this time. Her face shifted immediately concern replacing reassurance.
She knew.
They tried to have me check in, but the contractions were hitting too fast. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t focus. My hands were shaking too badly.
Finally, the nurse stopped trying.
“Forget it,” she said quickly. “She’s in labor. She needs a room now.”
Suddenly, everything sped up.
Nurses moved quickly around me while fear completely took over my body. I was shaking uncontrollably, terrified in a way I had never experienced before.
And as they rushed me down the halls toward my room, deep down, I think a part of me already knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter 7th: “The Slience That Followed”
I finally made it to my room.
Everything was happening so fast.
The nurse helped wheel me in and began trying to get me into a hospital gown. I remember standing up from the wheelchair when suddenly a gush of blood ran down my legs onto the floor.
Instant panic.
I looked at the nurse terrified, and even though I could see the urgency in her eyes, her voice stayed soft and calm.
“It’s okay, mama,” she said gently. “We need to get you onto the bed. I’ll help you from there.”
I tried to move carefully, but the moment I climbed onto the bed, my water broke.
A loud gush splashed onto the floor beneath me.
The room went still for a second.
The nurse and I looked at each other, and immediately I knew.
“No… no… my water broke,” I cried out. “Oh no… please no…”
Fear completely took over my body.
The nurse quickly called for more staff, her tone changing from comforting to urgent as she yelled for a doctor.
“She’s going to have the baby any moment!”
I started shaking uncontrollably. Chills ran through my entire body as panic flooded my chest. All I could think was:
Your dad isn’t here. No one is here. I can’t do this alone.
The nurse came back to my side quickly, trying to steady me.
“Okay, mama,” she said softly but firmly. “We’re going to have this baby. When a contraction comes, I need you to let me know. Is there anyone here with you?”
My voice trembled as I answered.
“No… it’s just me.”
Even saying those words out loud broke something inside me.
But she looked me directly in the eyes and said:
“That’s okay, mama. I’m not leaving your side. We’re going to get through this together.”
A few moments later, the same doctor who had told me earlier that everything looked fine walked into the room.
The same doctor who said I was okay to go home.
She stopped still for just a moment when she saw me.
I could see it on her face immediately—shock, disbelief… maybe even guilt. Then everything moved quickly again. Gloves snapping on. Nurses surrounding the room. Quiet sadness written across every face.
No one needed to say it anymore.
We all knew.
The doctor came beside me and said softly:
“Okay, mama… when the contraction comes, on the count of three, you’re going to push.”
I nodded, crying harder now.
But the truth was… my body was already trying to let you go, even while my heart was begging you to stay.
“All right… one… two… three…”
And as I cried, trying to hold you in just a little longer, my body took over naturally.
Five minutes later, you arrived.
And in the same moment you came into this world…
you left it.
The room became unbearably silent.
No cry.
No movement.
Just silence.
A silence so loud it felt like it swallowed the entire room whole.
Then came the words I never thought I would hear.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”“I’m sorry, mama.”
I heard someone quietly say the time you were born… and the time you passed.
And in that moment, it felt like my soul left my body.
Everything after that became distant.
The nurses were trying to stop the bleeding while I lay there weak and numb, still trying to deliver the placenta. My ears rang loudly, drowning out almost everything around me. It felt like I was floating somewhere outside of myself, unable to fully understand what had just happened.
I couldn’t process that you were gone.
Not after all the ultrasounds. Not after your heartbeat. Not after planning your baby shower. Not after loving you so deeply already.
Then through the ringing in my ears, I heard a nurse speak softly beside me.
“Do you want to hold her, mama?”
Chapter 8: “The Last Night I Held You”
I turned to the nurse through tears and answered immediately.
“Of course… please.”
She asked me softly, “Where would you like to hold her?”
“On my chest,” I whispered. “Please.”
And with so much gentleness, she placed you carefully against my heart.
The room around me faded away.
The nurses continued quietly cleaning and moving around the room, but all I could focus on was you. Your warmth. Your scent. Your tiny body resting against my chest like you belonged there all along.
Your little hands opened softly against my heart.
And I broke.
I cried in a way I never had before deep, uncontrollable cries that came from somewhere beyond words. I tried so hard to hold myself together until the nurses left, but there was no holding together anymore. Pieces of me were falling apart with every second I held you.
Eventually, all the nurses stepped out except my primary nurse.
She gently asked everyone else to leave before sitting beside me. She placed her hand softly on my thigh and looked at me with so much compassion.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked quietly. “Anything at all, mama… please let me know. My number is on the board.”
I nodded through tears, unable to fully speak.
My phone kept ringing over and over.
Family. Friends. Messages.
But I couldn’t answer anyone.
This wasn’t the kind of arrival where you call people with excitement and joy. Every second with you suddenly felt precious, limited… sacred. I didn’t want to waste a single moment looking away from you.
Then your dad walked in.
The moment he saw me holding you, fear and heartbreak filled his face instantly. He came straight to me and held me tightly while we both cried.
Then he held you for the first time.
And watching the tears fall down his face shattered me in another way.
In that moment, grief twisted itself into guilt, and I felt like I had failed somehow as a wife, as a mother… as the person who was supposed to keep you safe.
Even though deep down, I know now there was nothing I could have done.
But grief doesn’t speak logically.
Hours passed while we sat there admiring every part of you. Your tiny face. Your fingers. Your beautiful little nose we had talked about so many times before.
You were perfect.
A nurse eventually came in gently speaking about cremation plans and funeral arrangements, but her words sounded distant and muffled. I could barely process any of it while holding you so tightly against me.
I didn’t want to let you go.
Your dad handled the arrangements because I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough to think about any of those decisions yet.
A little after midnight, your dad left to go be with your siblings.
And suddenly, it was just me and you.
Strangely, I wasn’t upset to be alone.
I wanted those moments with you.
I wanted to study every inch of your face, memorize every detail, soak in every second because somewhere inside me I knew these would be the only hours I would ever get with you.
The room grew quiet.
They had wrapped you in a small white blanket, and I held you close while soft songs played quietly in the background—songs that completely broke me apart hearing them while staring at you.
You looked like you were peacefully sleeping.
That’s what I kept telling myself.
I couldn’t sleep the entire night.
My body still went into “mom mode” no matter how broken I was. Every time I had to use the restroom, I left the door open so I could still see you. I moved your tiny hospital bassinet close beside me. Anytime my eyes started closing, I would suddenly wake up terrified someone had taken you.
I stayed awake almost the entire night watching over you.
At one point, I carefully placed you beside me in the bed just so I could feel close to you while resting my eyes for a moment.
A nurse came in quietly to check on me. She wrapped me in a tight hug and apologized again through tears of her own. Then she gently asked if I wanted a photo of us together.
You wrapped in your blanket. Me holding you close.
“Please,” I answered immediately.
Those photos became pieces of time I would later cling to with everything in me.
After she left, the room felt painfully silent again.
I looked around slowly.
At the empty bassinet across the room where healthy babies are usually placed. The diapers tucked inside drawers. The small bottles ready to be filled with formula for mothers taking their babies home.
And reality hit me all over again.
I slid onto the floor weakly, crying so hard I could barely breathe.
When I finally looked back up at the clock, it was almost 4:00 in the morning.
And I knew soon they would come take you.
By then, I could feel your tiny body growing colder in my arms. Your skin slowly changing color.
And something about that moment broke something so deep inside my soul that I still cannot fully explain it.
Because for the first time since holding you…
your body no longer felt like it was holding onto me back.
Chapter 9: “Letting You Go”
By 7:00 that morning, the nurses began changing shifts.
The room that had held so much heartbreak through the night slowly started filling with new faces, soft voices, and the painful reminder that time was still moving even though my world had stopped.
A new nurse walked in gently introducing herself and explaining the plans for the day.
Discharge papers. The process of taking you. Questions about funeral arrangements or cremation.
The moment she said those words, something inside me immediately went into protection mode.
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready to release you. I wasn’t ready to let anyone take you away from me.
You were still my baby. Still my daughter. Still the little girl I had spent nineteen weeks loving, protecting, dreaming about.
The nurse saw the panic and heartbreak all over my face and gently reminded me that I had the right to keep you with me longer if I needed more time.
And I did.
I told her I was waiting for your dad to come back so he could say goodbye to you too.
Your dad arrived around 8:20 that morning.
He held you once more, and together we sat there saying our final goodbyes to the little girl we loved more than words could ever explain. The room felt impossibly heavy. Neither one of us wanted to say the words out loud because saying goodbye somehow made everything feel even more real.
Then there was a soft knock at the door.
It was the ultrasound technician from the night before.
The woman who had looked at me with reassurance in her eyes and told me everything seemed okay.
The moment she walked in and saw you, tears immediately filled her eyes. She came beside my bed, looked over at you, and broke down crying too.
She hugged me tightly and through tears said:
“I swear everything looked fine. I’ve done this for so many years… everything looked fine.”
I could feel how deeply this affected her too.
Then she handed me something I would treasure forever.
Your final ultrasound pictures.
And a video recording of the last moments you were alive inside me—moving, stretching, existing peacefully before everything changed.
Another nurse who had stayed with me throughout the night came in carrying a small teddy bear.
They had made it to match your exact birth weight.
She also brought a frame with your tiny handprints, your name carefully written across it, and your little pink hospital tag.
The same pink tag all newborn babies wear after they’re born.
But your wrists and feet had been too tiny for it to fit properly.
When she placed that pink band in my hands, something inside me shattered all over again.
Because I knew what that band represented.
Life. Arrival. A baby going home with her parents.
And suddenly all I could think about was how this was never how I imagined taking you home.
I was supposed to buckle you into a car seat.I was supposed to hear your cries in the backseat.I was supposed to bring you home to your siblings and lay you in the nursery we dreamed about.
Not carry memorial items in my arms while leaving without you.
After your dad and I said our final goodbyes, another nurse came in quietly to take you.
She held you so gently.
But the moment she walked away with you, I broke in a way I didn’t know was possible.
I felt empty.Detached.Disconnected from my own body.
Every part of me wanted to run after you. To scream. To beg them not to take you away from me.
Because how could a mother just let her baby go?
The nurses tried comforting me while preparing my discharge papers, but everything around me sounded distant again, muffled by grief too heavy to carry.
A little while later, your dad stepped outside to call the cremation center.
They told us they could take you that same day.
And cremate you that same day.
I remember how unreal those words felt.
Hours earlier, you had been inside me.
Alive.
Now we were making arrangements for your ashes.
Later that day, I brought you home.
Just not in the way I had always imagined.
And ever since then…
your mother has never been the same.
I see you everywhere.
I think about you constantly.I dream about you.Sometimes I still swear I can smell you.
And somehow, in the quiet moments, I feel you near me.
Through butterflies that come impossibly close.Songs that randomly begin playing at the exact moment I need them most.Hummingbirds hovering near me without fear, close enough that I could almost touch them.
Those moments stay with me forever.
Because in those moments…
I feel you.
And no matter how much time passes, I think a part of me always will.
Ending: “A Love That Never Left”
People often think grief is something you move on from.
But grief like this does not leave. It changes shape. It becomes part of you.
There was a version of me before you, Jolene. A version that still believed life could be controlled, planned, promised. And then there was the version of me after you—the mother who learned how quickly love and heartbreak can exist in the same breath.
You only lived inside my body for nineteen weeks.
But you lived inside my heart long before that.
You were wanted. Prayed for. Fought for. Loved every single second you existed.
And even though I never heard you cry, never got to watch you grow, never got the chance to bring you home the way I dreamed… you still made me a mother in a way that changed me forever.
Your life mattered.
Not because of how long you were here, but because of how deeply you were loved.
There are still days I break unexpectedly. Days where certain songs, smells, seasons, or tiny pink clothes stop me in my tracks. There are days where the grief feels fresh all over again.
But there are also moments where I feel you in softer ways now.
In butterflies that linger near me longer than they should. In hummingbirds that hover close as if they know me. In songs that play at the exact moment I need comfort most. In quiet nights when I close my eyes and remember the feeling of holding you against my chest.
And maybe some people will say those are coincidences.
But to a grieving mother, love learns how to speak differently after loss.
So I listen.
I listen for you in the quiet. I carry you in every version of myself that exists now. And I continue living with the kind of love that death could never take away.
Because even though I had to let you go…
I never stopped being your mother.
And I never will.
In Loving Memory - Jolene Ivelisse Armas
