On August 22, 2018, my husband and I became parents for the first time. Our baby boy, Finn Benton Pope, weighed 7 pounds, 8 ounces perfect in every way. My husband used to say Finn was born with a comb-over; his thick, beautiful hair made him look wiser than his age. We had no idea that under that perfect head of hair, something dangerous was waiting a silent storm that would change everything.
On July 23, 2019, when Finn was 11 months old, he woke up screaming. We tried everything to comfort him, but then he went limp in my arms. What followed was a blur an ambulance, a care flight, and days in the ICU that felt like years. The doctors discovered that Finn had suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. His brain had gone too long without blood. Our beautiful boy was gone.
There are no words for the pain of losing your child. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the world. My husband and I stayed in bed for days, wishing we could just drift away and never wake up. But every morning, we did into the same nightmare, again and again.
Our community lifted us up when we couldn’t stand. Friends organized a softball tournament in Finn’s honor, celebrating his short but powerful life. Just two months later, when I felt certain that joy would never find us again, God gave us a sign of hope I found out I was pregnant. A miracle. A heartbeat in the darkness.
We knew her name right away: Finley Blake.
The pregnancy was healthy, but emotionally, it was so hard. I loved this new baby growing inside me, but part of me felt guilty like loving her meant letting go of Finn. My husband, the most amazing father I’ve ever known, struggled too. He was distant, scared to feel again.
When I found out Finley’s due date was June 6, I just knew she’d come earlier on her dad’s birthday, June 2. And I was right. That morning, we went to the hospital for my induction, but the nurses told me I was already in labor. Finley was ready to meet us.
At 9:42 p.m., on her dad’s birthday, our moon was born. I called her that during my pregnancy my moon because I hoped she’d bring light to our darkness. My husband cried through her delivery, haunted by memories of Finn. It took him days to connect with her. But for me, holding Finley made me feel alive again. Her eyes were just like her brother’s. She needed me but truthfully, I needed her even more.
The fear was overwhelming. For three days straight, I didn’t sleep. I just watched her chest rise and fall, terrified that it might stop. Even though doctors said Finn’s aneurysm wasn’t genetic, we asked for a CT scan for Finley. Waiting for the results was agony, but when the doctor said, “Her brain looks perfect,” I finally exhaled.
At home, my husband and I balanced each other the way we always had. When he was strong, I broke. When I fell apart, he held me up. But coming home with Finley reopened every wound. Her tiny sounds, her warmth they reminded me of all the moments I’d lost with Finn.
One night, during a breakdown, my husband sat beside me and said quietly, “Finley has brought me joy again.” In that moment, I knew we’d survive this.
When Finley was six months old, we moved back to our hometown. Leaving the house where Finn took his last breath was excruciating, but necessary. We made a sunroom in our new home for him our sunshine room a place to honor his memory.
Watching Finley grow past her brother’s forever age was another heartbreak. But on her first birthday, something shifted. The fear that had lived in my chest for so long finally eased. For the first time, I believed we get to keep her.
Recently, we took our first family vacation the beach trip we always dreamed of taking with Finn. On our last morning, we saw a rainbow stretch across the sky. I held up Finn’s photo for a picture, and later, when we looked at it, we saw a faint face in the clouds. His face.
That was my sign he’s still with us.
I’ve learned that joy and pain can live side by side. Some days, the pain wins. But most days, Finley’s light outshines the darkness. She’s our moon, our hope, our reason to keep looking forward.
