Healing Hearts: Reflections of love, loss, and light

This Sunday, May 4th, is Bereaved Mother’s Day — a day to remember and honor the mothers who have experienced the pain of losing a child. For many of us, it’s not a day that the world recognizes, but for those who’ve walked this heartbreaking path, it’s a day to pause and reflect on the love and grief we continue to carry. Yesterday, I recorded a panel for the Healing Hearts Podcast with four incredible mothers who also know what it’s like to lose a child. We spoke about the hard stuff — the real questions that so many bereaved mothers ask themselves, even years later. Questions that don’t always have easy answers but are always deeply felt. One question that really stopped me in my tracks was: What part of your loss still haunts you? The answer came to me quickly: The silence. The silence I still feel. The silence of never hearing Alivia cry. I had a healthy pregnancy. Everything seemed fine. I was ready to hold my baby. But when she was born, there was no cry. Just silence. A...

Lately, I’ve found myself revisiting certain moments in my grief—moments that feel like they’ve never really left me. One of those is sitting in the glider in Alivia’s nursery, hands on my belly, dreaming of the life we were about to have together. I think about that girl often—the one who had no idea what was coming. Writing has always helped me process what’s too big to say out loud, and recently I wrote something that felt deeply personal. It came out of a place of stillness, reflection, and love. I wasn’t sure if I’d share it at first, but I know I’m not alone in these kinds of memories. So I’m sharing this for anyone who’s lost a version of themselves they once knew, for anyone who’s sat in a room full of dreams and later had to learn how to breathe in that same space with empty arms. This piece is for her. And maybe, it’s for you, too. If I Could Go Back to That Girl Sitting in the Glider If I could go back to that girl sitting in the glider… The one who sat quietly, with ...

Grief and joy. Love and loss. It’s easy to think of them as opposites—forces that cannot coexist. But the truth is, they don’t cancel each other out. They don’t take turns. Instead, they live side by side. Sometimes, they are present in the same breath. Sometimes, in the same moment. Learning to hold both grief and joy is one of the hardest lessons we face, but it’s also one of the most important. I’ve lived this duality every day since losing my daughter, Alivia. Since losing my parents. Since realizing that grief isn’t something that fades—it’s something that integrates into who we are, something we learn to live with. I think about how I can laugh with my children, soak in their joy, and still feel the ache of the ones who are missing. I think about how a song can bring me comfort and devastation all at once, how a simple, everyday moment—watching a mother and daughter shopping together—can bring me to my knees because I will never have that again. That’s the thing about grief—it...

 One year ago, I sat down, took a deep breath, and hit record. I wasn’t sure what would come of it—if anyone would listen, if my voice would shake, if this space would become what I hoped it could be. But I knew one thing: grief needed a place to exist without apology. I started Healing Hearts Podcast because I know what it feels like to grieve in a world that moves too fast, that doesn’t always know what to do with loss. I know what it’s like to hold a love so big for someone who isn’t here. To feel the weight of an empty space at the table, the ache of unspoken memories, the way time keeps moving forward when your heart is still stuck in a moment that changed everything. I didn’t want to create a podcast full of answers—because the truth is, grief doesn’t have them. I just wanted a space where we could be honest about it. Where we could say their names, share their stories, and admit that healing is messy, non-linear, and sometimes, just really, really hard. And now, a year l...

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...