How Many Children Do You Have?

This simple question has always carried so much weight for me. It’s a question that most parents answer easily, without hesitation. But for those of us who have lost a child, it’s never quite that simple.

The first time I was asked, it was shortly after Alivia was born and died. In that moment, grief and fear collided, and I denied her existence. I told the person asking that I had no children. The second those words left my mouth, my heart shattered. I returned to my car and sobbed, feeling like I had failed my sweet girl. That day, I made a vow—I would never deny Alivia again. She is my daughter. She made me a mother.

Over the years, answering this question has become easier, though I’ve learned to navigate it differently depending on who is asking and the situation I am in. Some people can hold space for grief, while others are unsure how to respond. Sometimes, I share openly. Other times, I keep it brief. There’s no perfect way to answer, just the way that feels right in the moment.

Lately, I haven’t been asked this question much. But with our upcoming move, meeting new people, and building a new community, I know it will come up often. And it did this week.

At a MomCo meeting, in the middle of a casual conversation, a kind mom turned to me and asked, "How many kids do you have?"

I paused. It caught me off guard, simply because I haven’t had to answer it in a while. Then, I answered the way that feels most natural to me now:

"I have four. Three children here, and we lost our firstborn daughter."

There’s always a moment after I say it when I don’t know how the other person will respond. Sometimes there’s silence. Sometimes the conversation shifts to my living children. And sometimes, there is kindness and understanding.

This time, the mom immediately asked if she could hug me. I told her about Alivia, spoke her name, and shared a little piece of her story.

And in that moment, I was reminded again—Alivia is always with me. Her story is always worth telling. And I will always be grateful for the chance to say her name.

Sharing my grief hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve learned that speaking Alivia’s name and telling her story keeps her close. It also opens the door for connection, for understanding, and sometimes even for someone else to feel safe sharing their own grief.

Grief can feel isolating, but when we allow ourselves to be open, to speak our loved ones’ names, and to share our stories, we remind each other that we’re not alone. There is beauty in remembering, in honoring, and in finding those who are willing to hold space for both our love and our loss.

So if you’ve ever hesitated to share your grief, know this—you are not alone. Your love, your loss, and your story matter. And there will always be people willing to listen.