I dreamt of a daughter

I dreamt of a daughter with big dark brown eyes like me, and curly hair like her father. She was going to enjoy ballet and baseball, and giggle at her older brother’s bad jokes.

Then our daughter received a life-limiting diagnosis. The first wave of grief.  After much processing, I shifted perspective. I would still get to buy her girly things, braid her hair and watch her smile at her brother making funny faces.

And then one dark, dreary night, the daughter of my dreams died. I had to let go of every vision I ever had for her in an instant. That pink baby, with golden hair took her last breath and I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to breathe without her here. It’s an acceptance no parent should have to accept.

I promised my daughter I wouldn’t let her death break me. Eva means life, and I would live mine fully, even if it meant I’d have to do it without her.

It’s been four years this month since I birthed her precious soul onto this planet. Since I put her in this tiny preemie sleeper that engulfed her, the only time I got to dress her, it said: “Mommy’s girl.”

How do we live without our children? Without our dreams for them? We wake up every morning to a nightmare until the reality sinks in a bit more each day. We breath in and out and choose to keep living because they can’t. We honor them, talk about them, and share their story. Even if no one around us can see them, we know they’re still with us. We reach our hand back to the parents  that come after us, who equally know the deepest devastation a human can understand. 

I am proud to be the mother of Eva. With great heartache is great LOVE. Eva is my game changer. There is who I was before, and who I am after. I love deeper, and care less about the trivial. There truly is a comfort in knowing we are still together, that her soul lives on, that she sends me signs and messages, but I am human and I fiercely miss having her in my arms. 

We were going to make some amazing memories, my love. Or, I guess, we were never supposed to. My dreams were my own and never belonged to you. 

Remembering all the other dreams never fulfilled with my baby loss community for the “Wave of Light” in this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I light my candle today for your baby and for mine. May this glimmer light the darkness.

✨ If you know someone who has endured a miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss, reach out and let them know you see them. Say their baby’s name if they had one. Light a candle today to help them remember. A simple act that means so much. ✨