I stumbled across this song today, and it felt like it was written for me, for this pain I carry. 'I used to shine bright like gold, now I’m all indigo.' That line hit a place in my heart I’ve struggled to put into words. Life doesn’t feel the same anymore. It’s quieter, heavier, painted in shades I never noticed before.

Losing you changed everything. The warmth I once felt, the light that made me feel whole—it’s dimmed. And yet, I still hold onto you in the quiet moments, in the memories that refuse to fade. The love we shared hasn’t disappeared; it’s just harder to carry now. Even in the darkest moments, I remind myself that love doesn’t leave, and somewhere, your light is still shining.

December arrives softly, a season of reflection and remembrance. This year, I carry the weight of five years without Finnegan and the ache of my first Christmas without Orion. Though grief has changed the way I see the world, it has not dimmed the love that remains. In the quiet of winter’s silence, I honor both of my sons—the love we shared, the memories we created, and the light they continue to bring into my life. Even in their absence, I know their love endures, and this holiday season, I carry them with me, always.

Four months without you, and it feels like a lifetime. The world keeps turning, but my heart remains frozen in the moment you left. The absence of your presence is a weight I carry every day, yet somehow, I’ve learned to navigate through it. I still ache for the warmth of holding you, feeling the soft weight of you in my arms. And yet, in the silence of that loss, I’ve found something unexpected—love that doesn’t fade. It stays, quietly guiding me through the emptiness.

Grief has taught me that love is not just an emotion; it’s a reflection of how deeply we are connected. The ache of missing you is a reminder of how fiercely I loved you, how much I still do, and how much I always will. Even as the days pass, the love we shared continues to shape me, filling the spaces where you once were, and lighting the way as I move forward.

Thanksgiving passed in the midst of my sorrow, and I did my best to find gratitude, though it didn’t come easily. How do you give thanks when the one thing you’re most grateful for is gone? But there it was, hidden deep within the grief—a quiet, tender gratitude for everything you were. For the joy you brought, for the lessons you taught me in your short time here, and for the unbreakable bond that will never be severed.

In the days following Orion’s passing, my husband and I made a choice that became our quiet tribute to him: to continue pumping. What began as a way to keep him close has become a journey of love and remembrance. Every ounce we donate is filled with my longing, my love, and a piece of Orion’s light that now nourishes other little ones. This isn’t just milk; it’s my way of mothering him, of carrying forward his memory.

In this journey as a bereaved milk donor, I face the quiet, often invisible struggles—standing alone in the baby aisle, washing and assembling pump parts, and finding the courage to ask for help. And yet, there is a deep, bittersweet comfort in every donation. Each drop honors Orion, allowing his love to reach other lives, a gift that means the world to me. For as long as I’m able, I will continue, knowing that through each ounce, his light lives on. This is Love. This is Healing. This is Grief.

Three months have passed since my sweet Orion left this world, yet the ache of his absence cuts even deeper. The pain lingers, raw and unrelenting, like a wound that refuses to heal. Grief isn’t just a feeling; it’s a weight on my bones, an exhaustion that seeps into my soul. Every day brings fresh reminders of his absence—a presence I can no longer hold, yet feel in every heartbeat and breath.

In these moments of deep sorrow, I am drawn to the image of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, bearing the weight of an unimaginable path. He, too, cried out in vulnerability, asking if the cup of suffering could pass, yet surrendering with, “Not as I will, but as You will.” His plea echoes in my heart, reminding me that my own journey, though fraught with loss, is one I do not walk alone. Jesus shared in our grief, weeping for Lazarus even as He knew the resurrection to come—a reminder that our suffering is seen, our sorrow shared.

This journey through grief may be filled with shadows, but within it lies the quiet promise of reunion, a hope that sustains me. One day, I will hold Orion again, in a place untouched by sorrow. Until then, I carry him within me, his memory woven into every step, as I look forward to the light that will make us whole again.

In the aftermath of loss, the world outside my window became a reflection of my heart, a storm raging with untold sadness. As I stepped into the downpour, each raindrop felt like a piece of my sorrow ricocheting against my skin, a release for the silent anguish I carried inside. The thunder rolled like the echo of my unfulfilled cries, while flashes of lightning illuminated the darkness of my grief. It was in the fury of that storm that I felt closer to you, my precious Orion, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for our lost moments together. In the chaos, I discovered a connection to your spirit, a reminder that even in the fiercest storms, beauty and love endure.

Today is my birthday, and the weight of your absence feels heavier than ever, Orion. Your birth was a supernatural moment, a healing balm for the heartache we had endured. I remember believing you would be the best gift, igniting a fire within me, a renewed strength as I anticipated holding you close. I long for what could have been—our special dinner, you nestled against me in the rocking chair, the glow of a pumpkin candle illuminating our time together. I envisioned our first trip to the pumpkin patch and the joy of celebrating your birthday with flickering candles, your eyes shining with wonder.

But now, I grapple with the guilt of wanting to celebrate while feeling the heaviness of loss. I question how to express my grief, fearing that dressing up might signal I’m done mourning. I wear a brave face, hoping to honor the memories while allowing others to create new ones. October has always been special, but this year feels particularly heavy as we recognize National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

Today, as I navigate this bittersweetness, I carry you with me. The love I have for you, Orion, is woven into my very being. You may not be here physically, but you are and always will be my greatest gift.

In our quest to name our son, we wanted our daughter to feel included. She innocently suggested “Seas” as a middle name. We loved the thought, but it didn’t quite flow with Orion. Ultimately, we chose “Kai,” and the day after his birth, when looking up the meaning, it hit me like a wave that it translates to “sea” in Japanese—a beautiful sign that this name was truly meant for him.

Reflecting on this journey, I realize that God has been guiding us all along, bringing us to the perfect name. The name Orion, meaning “Heaven’s light,” alongside Kai, which beautifully translates to “sea,” created an unbreakable link that felt written in the stars.

After Orrie’s passing, I found comfort in the sight of otters, especially as stuffed animals that seemed to appear everywhere. Each time I encountered one, it felt like a sweet nudge from him, a reminder of the love that still surrounds me. Inspired by this, I created “Orrie the Otter,” embodying the precious moments we had together. Otters are known for their adorable habit of holding hands as they drift, symbolizing the love and connection I will always share with my son.

Grief ebbs and flows like the sea; some days, I float peacefully on the memories we created together, while other days, the waves threaten to pull me under. In those overwhelming moments, there’s a quiet comfort in knowing that Orrie’s light still shines, helping me find my way through.

Two months today, and the pain is just as raw as the moment you left us, my sweet Orrie. Grief lingers in the spaces between breaths, heavy and suffocating. Each day is a battle against the ache that refuses to fade. I wish I could sleep the day away, buried under blankets, hoping to dream of you, even if just for a moment.

This day looms like a shadow, a cruel reminder that another month has passed without you. I am forced to relive the loss, the heartbreak, and the emptiness that deepens with every ticking moment. Letting go of the hurt feels like letting go of you, and that’s a sacrifice I’m not ready to make. Time may move forward for the world, but for me, time stopped the moment you left.

Yet, despite the heaviness, I carry on. I cling to the hope that through this journey, I will find a way to keep your memory alive while learning to navigate a world that feels so incomplete without you.

Today is National Sons Appreciation Day, a time when many parents celebrate their sons with cherished memories and photos. But for me, this day carries a different significance. I pause to honor the boys I hold in my heart—Finnegan, Rowan, and Orion—whose lives, though brief, were filled with immense love.

As I reflect on my journey of grief, I've learned that acknowledging their stories is essential, not just for me, but for all who have loved and lost. Each of my sons has shaped who I am today, and I embrace the transformation that grief brings.

Today, I invite you to remember with me. Speak their names, share your stories, and know that in the silence of loss, love endures, shining brightly through the darkness. Together, let's create a sacred space for honoring the memories of our beloved sons.

In my journey of grief following the loss of my son, Orion Kai, I’ve decided to share my story through this blog. This space is not just for healing but also for challenging the silence surrounding child loss. As I navigate my emotions, I hope to honor Orion’s memory and connect with others who may be on a similar path.

Recently, while sorting through laundry, I stumbled upon Orion's first onesie—the one I bought with a mix of hope and fear. Holding it brought a flood of memories and emotions, reminding me that love and grief coexist. As I navigate this journey, I invite you to walk alongside me, sharing in the reflections, healing, and moments of honoring our little ones.