Through the Winter’s Silence: A Heart Remembers
December arrives quietly, draped in the soft embrace of falling snow, each flake a reminder of the passing of time and the wounds that remain unhealed. This month holds the weight of five years without Finnegan, the ache of my first December without Orion, and the bittersweet truth of a mother whose love runs so deep that her heart will forever bear the cracks of that love’s cost. A heart that has never fully healed but continues to break with every new loss.
Finnegan was born into stillness, his tiny body cradled in love but untouched by breath. His silence filled the room, a painful contrast to the dreams I had for him. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that grief doesn’t fade—it settles, carving itself into the very fabric of who I am. His absence does not feel like emptiness, but a space that echoes with the profound love that grew in a moment, deep and unspoken. He remains with me, always, in the quiet places where my heart still holds him close.
Orion entered my life as a gift I never could have imagined, a love I never thought possible. In those six short days, his presence began to heal me in ways I never anticipated. I felt as though, with him, the pieces of me could finally start to come back together. But just as swiftly as he arrived, he left, and the healing shattered, leaving me with a sorrow deeper than I thought possible.
The grief for Finnegan hasn’t faded—it has deepened, now intertwined with the love I carry for Orion. Their memories live side by side, each amplifying the other, both the sorrow and the love that shape me. I move through the quiet spaces they left behind, and even in silence, love persists. It’s constant, unbroken, and ever-present, guiding me through the heaviness of grief and the uncertainty of the future.
Though Orion’s time with me was brief, his love has been woven into the very fabric of who I am. The space he left behind is vast, yet the love that remains is boundless. Through every loss, love endures—a love that is carried in every breath, every step, every tear.
Christmas has changed. Once a season filled with simple joy, it now carries a quiet ache. The lights that once sparkled with wonder now cast shadows in places where warmth should be. The carols, which once comforted, now stir a hollow sorrow, echoing through the stillness of what has been lost. This season has become a delicate balance of beauty and pain, a slow dance of longing. Yet, in the weight of it all, something sacred endures.
I think of Mary, holding her newborn son in her arms, her heart swollen with love so immense it could never be contained, even as the weight of sorrow quietly settled over her. She held him, so fragile and pure, in her arms, knowing the profound sacrifice her love would one day require. There was joy in that moment, but beneath it, a quiet grief—the knowledge that the very love she cradled so tenderly would, in time, become the source of her deepest sorrow. To love so fully, to embrace the raw vulnerability of holding a life so sacred, is to invite the possibility of unthinkable loss. Yet, in Mary’s heart, there was no hesitation, no turning away. She loved him with all of her being, despite the cost, despite the future pain she knew would come. Her story teaches me that love and loss are inextricably woven together, each deepening the other. To love with everything is to risk everything. But even in the face of unspeakable grief, there is something in that love that never fades—something that transcends time, space, and even death. It is a hope, steady and unyielding, that endures through every heartache and sorrow.
This December, I honor Finnegan and Orion. I grieve for the lives they will never live, for the moments I will never witness, and the milestones they will never reach. But as I grieve, I also celebrate the love they gave me—the love that continues to shape me. Even in the quiet spaces where their absence lingers, love remains, steady and fierce. It is the love that sustains me through the grief, that brings me peace in the midst of longing.
As the snow falls, gentle and endless, and the cardinals rest upon branches bare, there is a quiet understanding that our sons’ light remains—unseen, yet always near. Their presence, like the star that guided the way to a humble cradle long ago, shines in ways that words cannot hold. It is in the soft glow of a winter’s evening, in the fleeting beauty of the world, in the stillness where the heart knows that love, though separated by time and space, is never truly lost. The light they carry now is one we will follow, until the day we are once more together, walking beneath the same stars.
This is Love. This is Grief. This is Healing.
