Healing Hearts: Reflections of love, loss, and light

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 mome...

I knew this move was going to be hard. Even when you know you’re making the right decision for your family, even when the opportunity is good, even when you choose the change—leaving behind a life you spent 12 years building is never easy. Pittsburgh wasn’t just where we lived. It was home. It’s where Nathan and I built our family, where we watched our babies grow, where we built friendships that felt more like family. It’s where we had our routines—the same grocery store, the same neighbors waving as we walked Willa, the same coffee shop where they knew my order before I even said it. It’s where we felt known. Leaving all of that behind was heartbreaking. It wasn’t just packing up a house. It was leaving behind years of memories, a community we loved, and a life that felt safe and familiar. But even in the midst of the grief, I knew this move wasn’t just about leaving. It was about stepping into something new. Helping the Kids Through the Transition I think one of the hardest parts o...

As the first morning of 2025 greets me, I find myself in that reflective space the New Year always brings. There’s a quiet stillness in this moment, a chance to look back on 2024 and honor all the ways it shaped me—both the hard days that stretched my heart and the moments of connection that filled it. A Year of Healing and Sharing When I think of 2024, my mind immediately goes to Healing Hearts Podcast . It was a year of growth for the podcast, not just in episodes or listeners but in depth and purpose. This season brought stories that were raw, brave, and deeply personal. Each guest allowed us to step into their journey—stories of love, unimaginable loss, resilience, and hope. There were moments behind the mic this year that left a deep mark on my heart—Rachel’s story of navigating pregnancy after loss, Irma’s passion for teaching children about grief, and Lolo’s dedication to creating healing spaces for women all spoke to the resilience of the human spirit. Tori’s story of losing...

As the holiday season approaches, many of us are swept up in the familiar hustle and bustle. But for those grieving, this season can be one of the most challenging times of the year. It’s a time when losses feel heightened, the empty chairs at the table more glaring, and the absence of loved ones more painful.  After a chaotic few months filled with transitions and the constant focus on my family, I feel the weight of the approaching holidays. And, truthfully, the holidays can be tough for anyone who’s grieving. After Alivia passed, the first Christmas felt unbearable. It should have been spent celebrating with our sweet 5-month-old baby girl, but instead, I was questioning the point of celebrating anything at all. My heart was heavy with anger and sadness, and I wanted nothing more than to avoid the season entirely. Watching family and friends delight in holiday music, gift-giving, and festive gatherings, I felt like the world was moving forward without me, leaving me trapped in s...

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...