Honoring Her on the Anniversary of Our Goodbye
The Day My World Shattered
August 30, 2023 was the worst day of my life. My daughter, Baby Girl, died when I was 20 weeks pregnant. It was a stillbirth—something I never imagined would be part of my story. I was far enough along that I thought we were safe—but that sense of safety was shattered. That loss forever changed me.
The Weight of Grief
Recently, I found myself overcome with heavy emotions. For some reason, I felt drawn to smell the candle I received in a parent loss grief box. Its scent of sage and lavender brings me a quiet comfort. It takes me back to those early days after her passing when the candle was one of the few things that calmed me. As I smelled it, I realized I was just a week away from the anniversary of my Baby Girl’s death. I suppose it’s true—our bodies never forget.
The truth is, I sometimes want to run from my grief. Especially this past month, when I was already battling a thyroid flare and not feeling well. The temptation to avoid it is strong. But then I remember—Baby Girl deserves more. To be acknowledged. To have her life carry a special meaning—one that continues to shape me, guide me, and remind me of the depth of love I hold for her.
Mothering Through Loss
Some days, it’s challenging to be both a mother to my 13-month-old daughter, Samantha, and to hold space for my first daughter. It feels like there isn’t enough room for grief, but I know I must allow it space—so I can heal for myself, and for the daughter who still needs me here on earth.
Two years have passed, yet some days the grief feels just as heavy as it did in the beginning. I find myself asking “Why me?” and sometimes wondering if an earlier miscarriage might have been less painful than a stillbirth—losing her so far into my pregnancy, when we already had plans and dreams for her. I was forced to deliver her, and she looked like a baby. Then came the unimaginable task of finding a funeral home for our little girl.
Finding Strength in Baby Girl
But even through the pain, I feel Baby Girl’s presence. Losing her forced me to find a strength I didn’t know I had. That strength helps me show up for Samantha—to love her deeply, to cherish every moment, and to have patience even in the hard moments. My Baby Girl is my light when the world feels dark, and my inner compass when I feel lost. I promised her that her life would have meaning, and I will keep that promise.
Today, as I move through this time of grief and the anniversary of losing her, I choose gentleness. I choose patience with myself. I release the pressure to do it all and give myself permission to slow down. I allow myself time to meditate and sit in moments of quiet. I turn to God for comfort. I cry, I pray, I share my story—because that is how I honor her. I sit in my truth, holding both love and grief for her. I count my blessings, even as I mourn at the same time.
The Journey With Samantha
Motherhood after loss is bittersweet. I miss Baby Girl with every piece of my heart, yet I am also grateful beyond measure for Samantha. She was born with a medical condition that required surgeries in her first year, and after the first she needed a blood transfusion. I was terrified I might lose her too. Sitting in that hospital, I remember pleading with God, begging that if someone had to die, it would be me and not her. That’s what grief does—it shakes you to the core, leaving you constantly balancing love with fear and struggling to fully trust life again.
So I am doing my very best to let all of these experiences live together—the grief, the fear, the gratitude, and the love. I want to be the kind of mother who shows Samantha what it means to sit with pain and still move forward with love and faith. Over time, I’ve started to feel a little more secure. Each day with Samantha reminds me that she is the daughter God meant for me to keep. Her name means “God has heard.” And I truly believe He heard my cries and entrusted her to me.
The Ache of What Could Have Been
Still, grief lingers. I mourn not only Baby Girl, but the future I imagined with her. I pictured her playing, giggling, and creating childhood memories. I saw myself feeling so proud as I watched her at school events, dance recitals, or milestones that would have been hers. I imagined enrolling her in dance classes, watching her in a tiny tutu, twirling with joy. I dreamed of family trips where she would run in the sand, laugh on rides, and soak up the simple joys of childhood.
Now, I get to do those things with Samantha—and I feel such deep joy watching her grow, explore, and experience life. But alongside that joy, there is always an ache, a quiet awareness that Baby Girl is missing from those moments.
It’s the strange reality of loss—to live in a space where joy and grief coexist. I laugh with Samantha, I delight in her milestones, and yet my heart grieves at the same time. Every experience we share as a family carries a shadow of what could have been, and a reminder of the daughter who will never get to experience them.
The Blue Butterfly
I often feel Baby Girl’s presence in small, sacred ways. For me, it’s the blue butterfly. After she died, I prayed to see one so I would know she was still with me. Moments later, I looked up at the TV—and there it was, a blue butterfly. That Christmas, my husband gave me a butterfly necklace in her memory, and I wore it during Samantha’s surgeries. I wear it whenever I need strength or courage, or when I really miss her and want to feel her with us during family time. Since then, every time I see a blue butterfly, I think of her. It feels like her way of reminding me she’s still near and forever a part of my story.
Honoring Her Memory
One day, Samantha will ask about her sister in heaven. She’ll ask with innocent curiosity, not knowing the depth of what we lived through. My hope is that we can honor Baby Girl openly—with honesty and love. I want Samantha to grow up knowing she is cherished, and that her sister is forever a part of our family.
As I sit here, writing this with my candle and tears falling, I feel both the weight of grief and the beauty of love. Baby Girl will always be one of the greatest loves of my life. I long for the day I can hold her again. Until then, I will carry her in my heart, love her fiercely, and honor her through the way I live—especially in how I mother her sister, Samantha. And when I see a butterfly, I’m reminded that love connects us still, and that she will always be near.
A mother’s love never dies. Until we meet again, my love.
Mama loves you, Baby Girl.
If you’d like to read more about Baby Girl’s full story, I shared it here: Motherhood After Loss: My Stillbirth Story, Faith Journey, and Rainbow Baby.
To any mama reading this who has experienced pregnancy or infant loss—please know you are not alone. Your grief matters, your baby matters, and your story deserves to be told, too. If you’re looking for gentle support, I’ve gathered helpful tools and comfort here: Resources for Healing After Loss and Motherhood.
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