A Tree for Orrie: Carrying His Light Into the Season
This year, as the holiday season draws near, it brings with it an ache that’s impossible to describe. I had so many hopes for Orrie. His tiny hands reaching for ornaments, his sweet coos filling the room, the joy of his first Christmas morning. I pictured his wonder at the lights, the sparkle in his eyes, and the precious memories we would create together as a family. Instead, I’m left holding the weight of all those hopes and dreams, now scattered like stars in the night sky.
Loss became part of my story when we lost Finnegan so close to Christmas, and it changed the season in ways I never expected. What was once a season of effortless joy became one of bittersweet moments, where every celebration carried the ache of what was missing. Over time, I learned to carry that grief and weave Finnegan’s memory into the season, finding small glimpses of beauty even in the sorrow.
Last Christmas was already so difficult. I was navigating antepartum panic attacks and anxiety, trying to hold on to hope, telling myself that next year would be better. I believed this Christmas would be different, that it would be a season of light, healing, and wonder. I pictured Orrie in my arms, his soft gaze drawn to the glow of the tree, his tiny movements filling the house with the quiet magic only a baby can bring. But now, the ache of his absence feels overwhelming, heavier and more consuming than I ever thought possible. There are moments when I wish I could skip the holidays altogether, just to escape the glaring reminder of all that’s missing.
I keep replaying one moment from last Christmas in my mind. My dad, his eyes lighting up with joy and anticipation, turned to my mom and said, “Just wait until next Christmas, there will be a new baby in our arms.” His words became something I clung to, a source of comfort that helped me cope with the anxiety and uncertainty that weighed so heavily on me that season. I held onto the hope of Orrie being here this year, imagining him gazing at the tree, taking in the lights, and feeling the love that surrounded him. But now, that memory feels heavier—a bittersweet echo of how deeply we loved Orrie before we even met him, and how empty it feels without him here.
In the midst of that emptiness, when it felt like I had nowhere for all of this love to go, I decided to honor Orrie with something special for the season. I chose to call it Orrie’s Angel Tree of Light, a name that felt as gentle and beautiful as the love I carry for him. I picked out a white tree, one that seemed to reflect both the purity of his memory and the brightness of his light. Setting it up became a way to weave his memory into the season and into our home, a place where we could all see it, feel it, and keep him close. This tree doesn’t just hold space for Orrie, it carries the love and light of all my babies gone too soon, along with my friends’ babies and every angel baby whose memory deserves to be honored. It stands as a reminder of their place in our hearts and the ache of their absence.
The white branches feel sacred, as if they were meant to hold both the weight of sorrow and the glow of love. Each light I string reminds me of the glimmer in Orrie’s beautiful eyes, a quiet reflection of the brightness he brought into my life. Every ornament I place feels like a whisper of love, hung with the ache of all the moments we never got to share.
The holidays will never be the same. Every tradition feels incomplete, every joyful moment carries the ache of what could have been. My arms ache to hold him, my heart longs to feel his warmth, and yet, the love I carry for him remains steadfast. Orrie’s Angel Tree of Light isn’t just a way to grieve, it’s a way to honor. It’s a way to say, “You are still here with me, in every light, every memory, every part of this season.”
To anyone grieving this holiday season, I hope you know you’re not alone. May this season hold moments of comfort, no matter how fleeting, and may you feel the love of your child wrapped around you like the softest glow of light. This tree, Orrie’s Angel Tree of Light, reminds me that while grief changes everything, love remains. It grows. It endures. And in that love, the lights of Orrie, my other babies, my friends’ babies, and all angel babies will continue to shine. They are forever a part of us.
This is Love. This is Healing. This is Grief.
