I met my husband, Randy, in 2010 at California MetalFest. He was playing guitar in a band, and when I saw him perform, something about him caught my heart right away. It felt like love at first sight. We started talking that day and have spoken every single day since. Within a week, we were dating, and a year later, we were engaged.
We got married in 2012. We had talked about waiting a year before trying for children, but life surprised us. After our honeymoon, we found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but we were thrilled. Our first baby, Cadence, came into our lives and changed everything.
That pregnancy was hard. I had Hyperemesis Gravidarum, a severe kind of morning sickness that made it difficult to eat or even stand at times. Still, I was grateful every day to be pregnant and to feel her move inside me. When she was born, healthy and perfect, we felt like the luckiest people in the world.
In the years that followed, we had three more children, Kairi, Oliver, and Ever. With four kids, we felt our family was complete. But deep down, I had a feeling we weren’t done. I even told Randy that I believed we’d have another baby, a boy, and that he’d be born in December 2020. I didn’t know how close that would turn out to be.
In December 2019, we welcomed our fifth baby, Sterling. He was another surprise, born just fifteen months after our previous baby. My pregnancy with him was the easiest one I ever had. I felt strong, healthy, and calm. We decided not to find out the gender and kept it a surprise.
Around 30 weeks, I had a vivid dream that I gave birth to a baby boy with lots of hair who was sick in the NICU. The dream left me uneasy, but I tried not to worry. The rest of the pregnancy was normal, and everything looked perfect.
Sterling was born at home, in the water, just after midnight on December 5th, 2019. The birth was peaceful and healing after past trauma. He came out crying and healthy, and all my fears disappeared. His Apgar scores were perfect. He was strong, calm, and loved being held tight. Looking back, it feels like he knew our time together would be short.
About a day later, everything changed. Sterling began having trouble breathing. We rushed him to the hospital, where doctors ran test after test. Nothing seemed wrong, yet he got worse. He was moved to the NICU. Soon after, he began having seizures and stopped breathing on his own. His heart stopped and had to be revived. No one could explain what was happening.
Even in the chaos, I noticed something beautiful. When I spoke to him, his heartbeat would rise a little, as if he was telling me he knew I was there.
After five days, doctors finally found high levels of ammonia in his blood. He was transferred to the Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles. On the flight there, I heard the doctors talking about the damage the ammonia had done to his brain. My heart broke before they even said the words.
Sterling was diagnosed with Ornithine Transcarbamylase Deficiency, a rare metabolic disorder that prevents the body from processing protein correctly. The ammonia built up in his blood, damaging his brain and organs. On December 11th, 2019, at 10:12 p.m., our baby boy passed away in our arms.
The pain was indescribable. Watching his little chest stop moving felt like my own heart stopped too. Yet somehow, there was peace, peace knowing he wasn’t suffering anymore. For a long time, I didn’t think I could live without him. I prayed for God to take me too. But slowly, I began to understand that I was still meant to be here.
Grief doesn’t fade or go away. It changes shape. People think it has stages or an end, but it doesn’t. It’s a lifelong journey of learning how to live with a piece of your heart missing. Some days I laugh; other days, I cry until I can’t breathe. You never “get over” losing a child, you just learn to live with it.
Our community helped us through the darkest days. Friends, family, and even strangers brought food, sent cards, helped with bills, and prayed for us. That love carried us when we couldn’t stand on our own. Over time, people moved on, and the support grew quieter, but the ones who stayed became our closest family.
I’ve found comfort in doing good in Sterling’s memory. After he passed, we donated his heart valves, which helped save two other children’s lives. Later, I donated my milk to another mother who needed it for her newborn. Knowing that Sterling helped others gave me a small sense of peace.
We eventually welcomed another baby, our daughter Eisley. She did not replace Sterling no one ever could but she brought light back into our home. Through her, I’ve learned that it’s possible to hold both joy and sorrow in the same heart.
I will never stop missing Sterling, but I’ve learned how to live again. His short life changed us forever. He was only here for six days, but in that short time, he touched more lives than most of us ever will. His story continues to live on through every act of love done in his name.
