Last week a friend of mine sent me a picture of her 16-year-old son’s grave. She finds comfort in visiting and what struck me was the dirt.
By Kathy Glow. I know about too late, and it guts you.
By Jessica Watson. Since losing our daughter, I don't have it in me to manage the craziness of big parties and the hustle and bustle of all the holiday happenings that made up our life before.
Your baby, that baby that you see right there with the beating heart and the perfect tiny hands and feet, is going to die and no amount of wishing me dead or mute or skipping your appointment or begging for a do-over is going to change that. Off you go now, the dog needs to be let out. There are dishes in the sink. You can’t leave the kids with your friend forever.
Loss changed me. It broke me. But it built me up in the most beautiful way. Scott's death gave me a new perspective on life. It showed me what's important.
The death of a child is unimaginable. Your heart breaks into a million pieces as you ponder what their life would be like.
I have sat with a daughter with no life left.
My monster, you see, is the lingering doubt that if I had made a single decision differently at four in the morning on a Monday almost six years ago, my daughter Hudson might still be alive today.
I didn’t want to love him. Five months into my pregnancy, I stared at the shadowy image that appeared on the ultrasound screen—a tiny baby boy who my obstetrician predicted would …
What I understand now is that accepting how little control I have means leaving my heart wide open at all times.