Remembrance Day..

There are some things you can never truly explain unless you have lived them.

Stillbirth is one of them.

I carried Malaki, for 38 weeks and 6 days. I felt him move. I talked to him. I dreamed about him. I imagined bringing him home, watching him grow, hearing his laugh, watching him become his own little person.

I had already been his mom for almost 9 months. And then suddenly, I had to become his mom in a completely different way. I had to give birth to my son knowing I would never hear him cry. I had to hold him knowing I would eventually have to let him go. I had to memorize his face, his hands, his tiny features, knowing I would spend the rest of my life wishing I could see them again.

And then I had to leave the hospital without my baby. There are no words for that kind of heartbreak. People sometimes think that because time passes, the pain must get easier. But how do you “get over” your child? You don’t. You learn to carry them.

I carry Malaki with me every single day. I carry his name, his memory, his story, and the love I will always have for him. Some days I can talk about him and smile. Other days, I still feel that same ache in my chest. I still wonder who he would be. What he would look like. What his voice would sound like. What he would be doing right now.

I still wish I could have brought him home. And, I always will. But if there is one thing, I want another loss mom or dad to know, it’s this:

You are not alone. I know the emptiness. I know the silence. I know what it feels like to walk past the things you bought for your baby and realize they will never be used. I know what it feels like to see another baby and be genuinely happy for them while simultaneously feeling your own heart break all over again. I know what it feels like to love your baby more than words could ever explain, even though you never got the chance to watch them grow.

Your baby mattered.

Malaki mattered.

And your baby deserves to be remembered, talked about, celebrated, and loved for the rest of your life.

So say their name. Tell their story. Cry when you need to. Laugh when you can. Remember the tiny details. And never let anyone make you feel like you should be “over it.”

These babies aren’t chapters we close. They are part of who we are.

From one loss mom to another, if you are reading this with a broken heart, I see you. I see your baby. I know this road is unbelievably hard. And even on the days when it feels like nobody understands, you are not walking it alone.

I will always be Malaki’s mom.
And I will always carry my boy with me.