Healing Hearts: Reflections of love, loss, and light

Today, on National Rainbow Baby Day, I find myself reflecting on the complex and emotional journey that has brought me to this moment. This day holds a deep significance for me, as it’s a time to honor both the children I’ve lost and the ones who came after, bringing light into my life. It’s a journey marked by profound grief and unexpected joy, and it’s one that I carry with me every single day. There was a time when my world was enveloped in darkness, a time when the pain of loss seemed too great to bear. Losing a child is a grief that defies description. It’s the kind of pain that lingers in the background, always present, always heavy. I remember the emptiness that followed, how each day felt like an endless struggle to simply keep going. The weight of that loss was overwhelming, and I often wondered if I would ever find joy again. Zoe Every day was a reminder of what could have been. The moments that should have been filled with laughter were instead filled with silence. The dream

I can hardly believe it—Grayson is 11 today. How did we get here so fast? It feels like just yesterday we were welcoming him into our lives, our first boy, full of excitement and a little bit of uncertainty about what this new chapter woul d bring. Raising Grayson has been an adventure, to say the least. From the moment he came into the world, he’s kept us on our toes. Whether it’s his endless questions, his quirky sense of humor, or his knack for finding new ways to push our buttons, Grayson has always had a way of making life interesting. But beneath all that energy and those occasional challenges is a boy with a heart of gold. Grayson has this incredible ability to see the best in people and a kindness that goes beyond his years. He’s the kid who will notice when someone’s feeling down and go out of his way to cheer them up. It’s these moments that remind me how lucky we are to have him in our lives. Of course, it’s not always easy. There are days when he tests our patience, days wh

Six years ago today, my dad died. The memory of that day is still so vivid. It started with a phone call bearing news that he wasn’t doing well. I remember the worry gnawing at me, but there was still hope. Then came the final call. And there I was, standing in my kitchen, doing the dishes, feeling like the ground had shifted beneath me. Suddenly, I was in a world without my dad. The numbness was overwhelming. I went through the motions that night, but it’s all a blur. Grief does that—it fogs your mind, leaving you disoriented and lost. This date, every year, brings a rush of emotions, both old and new. I always think I'll be more prepared, that somehow the passage of time will soften the blow. But grief doesn’t work on a schedule. Today, I feel a weight on my chest, a heaviness that’s hard to shake. The pain is sharp, and the uncertainty is unsettling. Part of me wants to shove it all aside, to ignore it and carry on. But I’ve learned that ignoring grief doesn’t make it go away. I